Ruslan Bogdanovich Makarov's spoiled, twisted family is desperate to retain their power, but refuse to name him Tsesarevich, the crowned prince or heir apparent, because of his birth gender. Instead, they've welcomed Alexander Vissarionovich Sokolov...
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His stomach lurched, and his blood ran colder than the wind outside...
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be.
No, no, no, no...
He was asleep. In a nightmare.
His feet kept moving forward, but he didn't feel like he was doing it. Wasn't walking of his own volition... The nearer he got to the table, the louder he could hear his own pulse in his ears, drowning out the sound of his aunt—of his mother.
He was aware of Nikolai standing and pulling out a chair, next to Aunt Oksana, motioning for him.
"Here, Darling, come sit. What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"
But Ruslan's eyes were still locked on the form staged on the massive platter in the center of the table, steam rolling off of it and rising into the air like an escaping spirit.
"...W-what is-?" he heard himself say.
Nikolai looked confused, so Ruslan pointed, hand shaking. His eyes were burning from not blinking.
"Don't be stupid, Ruslan, you've had goat before," the Tsarina said detachedly. "Now sit down. You're embarrassing yourself."
"But..."
No. No. No, this wasn't real.
This couldn't... Something inside him snapped.
"Stop!" Ruslan yelled, startling everyone at the table. "Stop! Stop it!" He violently shoved the full plate in front of Aunt Oksana away from her, frantically doing the same to Nikolai's. "Stop eating!"
"Ruslana!?" His mother's shout sounded far away, even though it was piercingly loud.
"No-no-no-no!"
He was hyperventilating. Climbing onto the table, knocking over cups and platers like an animal on his hands and knees. "She's sleeping. She's just sleeping. D-Darya? It's okay—it's okay. You're okay, I'm right here."
His hand touched the pretty, red bow—grabbed a hold of one of the lengths of velvet...
....and Darya's head, resting on a mound of greens and flowers, rolled away from her roasted and filleted body.
The sound that came from Ruslan was almost inhuman.
He screamed, and wailed. It was more than pained. It was wild. Anguished. Enraged—
This was all real.
Horribly, terribly real.
Tears streamed down his cheeks—searing his eyes and robbing him of his unobstructed view of his precious little friend.
"Get her off of there!" Razvan demanded from across the table.
Hands clawed at Ruslan's calves—at his wrists. He was being dragged off the table, and he fell forward, cheek colliding with something sharp just as his glare fixated on his mother—on her mock look of concern and astonishment.
