The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 80: The Ghost Of The Past

Six months had passed since the fire in Velinsk.

It was now early summer in the capital. The air was warm, thick with the scent of roses and the sound of celebration. Lanterns glowed across the palace gardens, music played from a quartet near the fountains, and golden light spilled through the ballroom windows.

Inside, nobles gathered, dressed in their finest. The hall shimmered with silk and jewels. Glasses clinked, laughter rang out, and servants moved swiftly between the guests. Perfume lingered in the air. Gowns rustled like soft whispers. A night meant for joy.

It was the Czar’s birthday banquet.

Ivan, now sixteen, stood alone in the palace library, away from the music and the laughter. The large window was open, and he leaned against its edge, staring out at the courtyard below. He had grown taller. His shoulders were broader now. His silver mask—smooth and cold—rested over half his face.

The light of the ballroom didn’t reach him. It hadn’t in years.

His eyes scanned the gardens absentmindedly. A flicker of movement caught his attention.

Someone was there. freēwēbnovel.com

A figure moved through the dark path behind the hedges. Quiet. Careful. Ivan narrowed his eyes. That area was meant to be heavily guarded.

He pushed away from the window and moved quickly. His boots made no sound on the marble floors. As he stepped outside, he noticed something worse—the guards who should have been there were lying still on the ground.

Dead.

His heart pounded. He reached for the small dagger hidden under his coat.

Then he saw him.

A man stepped out from the shadow of a tree.

Tall.

Smiling.

The scars across his face glowed faintly under the moonlight.

"Hello, Prince Ivan," Ruslan said, his voice smooth, almost mocking. "Still not one for parties?"

Ivan froze.

Ruslan’s eyes glittered. "Such a shame. Looks like you’ll be the only one to survive this one."

"What?" Ivan whispered.

But Ruslan was already walking away, vanishing into the dark.

Ivan’s breath caught in his throat. His mind raced.

What did he mean?

And then it hit him.

He ran.

He didn’t try to stop Ruslan. He knew he wouldn’t catch him. There was no time. His feet pounded against the stone as he sprinted through the servants’ corridors toward the royal kitchens.

The smell of something strange met him first. Sharp. Bitter. Familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.

When he burst into the kitchen, it was chaos.

Several kitchen staff were on the ground. They were dead. Ivan’s eyes landed on a shattered bottle on the floor. Its contents spread across the stone, glowing faintly in the torchlight.

Poison.

There were no more questions.

He turned and ran again.

The ballroom.

He had to reach the ballroom.

---

The toast had begun.

Vladimir stood proudly beside the Czar. Olga sat with the other noblewomen, her golden gown glittering, her eyes on the goblet in her hand.

The Czar, old and commanding in his robes, raised his goblet high.

"To peace. To power. And to the empire."

Everyone raised their glasses.

Ivan burst into the hall.

"Stop!"

Heads turned.

He stumbled forward, his breath ragged, his mask glinting in the candlelight.

The music stopped.

The Czar frowned.

"Shall we continue?" he said, ignoring Ivan.

Ivan’s voice cracked through the silence.

"It’s poisoned! Don’t drink!"

Gasps filled the room.

Olga’s eyes widened in horror. She flung her goblet to the ground. It shattered beside her slippers, red wine spreading like blood across the floor.

Many looked confused, some still holding their goblets in the air.

Vladimir lowered his glass slowly. His eyes locked with Ivan’s across the room. He did not speak, but he didn’t drink.

The Czar laughed quietly. "Always dramatic, aren’t you, Ivan?"

But his hand trembled slightly as he brought the goblet to his lips.

"Don’t," Ivan begged.

But the Czar had already taken a sip.

Only a sip.

That was enough.

His face shifted. His smile disappeared. The goblet slipped from his hand and shattered on the marble. He clutched his chest.

Then he collapsed.

---

Screams erupted.

Servants rushed forward. Doctors. Guards. People shouted. Nobles fled the room. Some stared in shock, unable to move.

Ivan stood frozen. He watched as they tried to revive the Czar.

He knew it was too late.

---

The next day, Vladimir was crowned the new Czar.

Ivan was officially named Grand Duke.

But there was no joy.

The palace was filled with mourning.

The kitchen staff were interrogated. Most had died. The one servant who poured the wine was found hanging in the servants’ quarters. The rest were executed.

No answers were found.

No one knew who had done it.

Except Ivan.

He had seen him.

He had spared him.

And now, because of that, the empire had lost its ruler.

Ivan returned to his chambers.

He looked at the silver mask on the table. The one Ruslan had once given him.

He picked it up and placed it on his face.

Not for power.

Not for strength.

But as a reminder.

Never trust anyone. Not again.

---

The cold night air was still, almost suffocating. A quiet mist curled at Ivan’s feet as he stood just behind the old wall of the inn. He had followed the trail exactly, step by step, heart steady but fists tight. He had been expecting a shadow, a stranger. But it wasn’t a stranger.

It was him.

Ruslan.

Now, after eight years, they stood face to face again, beneath the pale moonlight.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

Ivan’s hand rested at his belt, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. His silver mask reflected the faint torchlight as his breath fogged in the cold.

Ruslan didn’t move. His ruined face, half-covered in shadow, showed no surprise. No fear. His eyes met Ivan’s—sharp, knowing, filled with something darker than hatred.

The wind passed quietly between them.

And in that breathless silence, the weight of eight years hung like a sword between their locked eyes.

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