His lips were frozen shut, as though they would not part.

Did that mean his grandfather, when faced with choosing between wife and child, had ultimately decided to cast aside his son? Did it mean that, when weighed on the scale, some human lives were lighter, some heavier?

He could not know what the standard of that choice had been. For a boy only just turned eight, it was not something he could even begin to measure.

But there remained only one bitter realization stuck in his throat: that Grandfather needed Grandmother more, that there was something about her he could not discard. And every night, he endured Grandmother’s frenzied, grief-stricken cries.

“Your family put Maxim in great difficulty. Ever since he brought home that slip of a girl. That marriage—I should have put my foot down then. Tsk... and in the end, even child-rearing has been ruined like this...”

Yet the dictator’s lips were curled into a smile.

“Be smart, Little Solzhenitsyn. Those stormlike eyes of yours came from Maxim. Live like your father and you’ll only become the next sacrifice.”

“......!”

“So tell me—what kind of tea do you want to drink in the future?”

With that cold question, the man turned and walked away. The boy could only sit there, unmoving, staring at his rigid back as it grew distant.

His small white fists trembled. Was it anger at being unable to retort, or fear? He could not tell. But one thing Yuri understood with perfect clarity:

He must never live like his father.

His grandfather had given him his eighth birthday “congratulations” in the form of a warning.

The boy stared endlessly across the vast, windswept lake. The Winter Castle he now entered, after losing his parents, was no longer Grandfather’s house nor a mansion to be proud of.

If a man who had unfeelingly killed his own son—would he hesitate to kill a grandson? His heart, once fluttering, now hardened [N O V E L I G H T] cold.

Then who, he wondered, would protect him?

“......”

All that rose in his mind was the ghastly image of his parents, collapsed in death. His eyes burned, but he forced them wide with clenched teeth.

I will live... I’ll survive to the end...

And I will abandon the Solzhenitsyn name.

But that meant the only blood relative left, Maxim, would be watching him even more keenly.

In order to one day cast it all aside, he would first have to become the perfect Solzhenitsyn—flawless, surviving without blemish. He had to recover his strength, bide his time, wait until the other weakened.

He had stepped onto the cold chessboard of politics, where seasoned politicians lived.

That day, Yuri threw away his beloved skates without regret.

***

“Truly... are you certain there is nothing wrong with the boy?”

Through the crack of the door came the worried voice of Dariya Solzhenitsyn.

At night she screamed herself hoarse like a madwoman, but when her senses returned, she fretted over Yuri’s state. She often hugged his black hair and sometimes, delirious, called him “Ivan.”

She became obsessively strict—inspecting every morsel of food, every drink, every garment her grandson touched.

Yuri wondered whether he should tell her what he had heard at the lakeside. But he kept silent. He feared that revealing the truth would drive her even further into madness.

Even now, whenever she saw Maxim’s face, she flew into rages and seizures. He could not bring himself to provoke her more.

So he granted her every demand, even if it meant a psychiatrist visiting once a week.

The boy sat quietly through sessions, sketching on the test sheets.

“Yuri... he sits at the very table where his parents died, sipping tea as if nothing happened.”

“That is...”

“I still choke just thinking about it, but....”

Dariya’s voice trembled as she gasped for breath. After steadying herself, she went on:

“Yuri was very close to his parents. He was shy, but such an honest and affectionate child. And yet now—he is so composed.”

“......”

“Doctor, he neither laughs nor cries.”

Perched on a chair too tall for his legs to touch the floor, Yuri idly turned a cube in his hands. His face expressionless, he eavesdropped on their conversation. A dull, tedious hour.

“The test results show no problem with the boy. But when a child who shared such attachment with his parents witnesses their deaths firsthand, some part of him is inevitably damaged. Does the young master show no other issues?”

Dariya lowered her voice, as though even speaking it aloud disgusted her.

“Maxim... he takes tea with his grandfather every morning. They converse normally, they look each other in the eye... Even though he saw it with his own eyes, saw exactly who killed his parents...”

Her shoulders hunched as she sobbed softly.

“I fear for Yuri... it’s as if he wears a strange mask.”

From the window, the grounds of the Winter Castle stretched vast. The snowfields were beautiful, birch forests rising beyond. But it felt suffocating all the same.

Whenever he faced Maxim Solzhenitsyn, his body froze. Yet still, he dined and drank tea with the man who had chosen to kill his parents.

Every time he gripped the teacup, his throat constricted and his hands shook. But he steeled his face so none of it showed.

Grandfather’s unfeeling gaze clung to him until the cup touched his lips. It was the gaze of someone watching to see whether a child who had watched his father vomit blood could drink the same black tea without flinching.

If he cried, if he refused, Maxim would discard him without hesitation. So at the very least, he had to look like a Solzhenitsyn. Not Ivan’s son, but Maxim’s heir.

The first mask the boy ever put on was named “Maxim.”

Thus Yuri walked a tightrope with every breath.

“Yuri, you must be a clever boy, just like your grandfather.”

The psychiatrist, left alone with him, knelt to meet his eyes. She was an old friend of his mother’s, someone Yuri had seen before. Her eyes rimmed red, she looked at him with pity.

“Yuri, why do you lie? Did you think you could fool us by dressing up your drawings? In the picture, two people are dancing on the ice—but nowhere is ‘you.’”

“I’m under the ice.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not yet time for me to come out.”

Turning from the window, Yuri looked at her. The pity shining in her eyes struck him as almost ridiculous. So naive, so fearless in this Winter Castle.

“Doctor, behavior is just a technique.”

His gaze was steady, his expression impassive. He made it clear he had no intention of speaking further, turning back to the cube in his hands.

“Yuri, still—you must express your feelings. If they stay bottled up, they will rot inside you.”

“No. That’s useless.”

The boy cut her off firmly.

“If I keep silent, people will be unsettled. My grandmother watches me, my grandfather observes me. For now, that is the only power I have.”

Having completed the cube, Yuri rose first.

To survive in the Winter Castle required delicate skills. He had to live with composure, move with subtlety and moderation. In harsh words, he had to live with his breath held. In other words, he had to cultivate cunning.

Yuri trained himself to hide all traces of emotion, never allowing anyone to tear away his mask. With time, he grew into someone unreadable.

“Grandfather, today tell me about Napoleon, Fouché, and Talleyrand.”

Deception was always the best strategy. Hide intent behind a mask of ease and familiarity.

He smiled at enemies, pretended passion, restrained his anger. He deceived his own feelings, speaking words that contradicted his heart.

The Winter Castle revolved around Maxim, so he had to please that power—and be able to make him laugh. Honesty was for fools.

Our son... may he never become like Russia’s biting wind...

But Father, there is no place in this world without wind.

The boy absorbed all the airs of nobility without a ripple. Outstanding grades, excellent social relations, skilled in riding and fencing—he grew tall.

He was every bit the pride of the Solzhenitsyns. The absence of his parents left not the faintest flaw upon him.

And so he reached the age of fourteen.