(Malik's Point of View)
I found him behind the supply tents, sitting on a crate like it was a throne that had given up on pretensions. A full barrel of vodka was tipped in his hands, the stuff pouring straight down his throat like water. No grimace. No pause. Just gone.
I didn't even blink this time.
Two weeks ago I would've sworn I was hallucinating. Now it was just another Tuesday with Jeanyx.
"You're gonna drain Russia dry at this rate," I said, leaning against a crate.
He lowered the barrel, wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, and shrugged. "They've got more."
I snorted. "Yeah, and you've told me about a hundred times none of it even works on you."
"It burns up the second it hits," he said casually. "Doesn't do a thing unless I want it to."
"And you don't want it to?"
He tilted the barrel again, letting the last drops run out. "Tonight? No."
I hesitated, then said it. "Word just came down the line. Not from the generals."
That got his attention. He looked at me sideways. "From who, then?"
"The Church."
He froze for half a second. Then slowly turned to face me. "Which one?"
"The big one."
There was a beat of silence. Then he laughed.
Not the dark, echoing laugh I'd heard on battlefields. Not the one that came with fire and screaming. This one was genuine—sharp, sudden, uncontrollable. He bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees, shoulders shaking.
"You're kidding," he said between breaths.
"I wish I was."
He straightened up, eyes bright with amusement. "What'd they call me this time?"
"Heretic. Abomination. Devil's mockery of creation."
That just made him laugh harder. I couldn't help it—I joined in. The idea of a bunch of priests somewhere drawing lines on parchment and declaring him condemned was absurd on a cosmic level.
"They really think they can do something?" I asked once I caught my breath.
Jeanyx waved a hand dismissively. "They can try. Won't get far."
"So… no weaknesses?"
He considered that, then nodded once. "I've got one."
That sobered me fast. "Yeah?"
"Holy weapons."
I stiffened. "Like… crosses?"
He scoffed. "No. Not symbols. Not prayers. I mean real divine weapons. Artifacts forged by gods themselves. Things like Mjölnir from the northern myths. Stuff that carries actual authority, not borrowed faith."
"And those can kill you?"
He shook his head. "No. They can hurt me. A lot. Tear me apart. Slow me down." He paused. "But kill me? No."
I frowned. "How the hell does that work?"
Jeanyx leaned back against the crate, eyes drifting to the sky. "Ghost Riders don't die the way mortals do. Across the multiverse, if one of us is completely erased—every atom gone—we still come back. As long as even a fragment of the spirit exists."
"That's insane."
"That's the job."
"So what happens?"
"Eventually, the spirit finds a new host." He said it calmly, like he was talking about changing coats. "Takes time. Could be days. Could be years. Depends."
"And the host?" I asked quietly.
He didn't look at me. "They usually don't survive the transition."
That sat heavy between us for a moment. The wind rattled the tents. Somewhere, men were laughing, playing cards, pretending the world wasn't ending.
"And if your soul gets destroyed?" I finally asked.
He smiled then—but it wasn't humor. It was confidence sharpened into something dangerous.
"I've got a backup plan."
I raised an eyebrow. "Of course you do."
He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. Whatever it was, I had no doubt it was worse than death.
I exhaled slowly. "So the Church declares you an abomination, the Germans pray against you, and you're out here drinking barrels of vodka like it's nothing."
He glanced at the empty barrel, then at me. "You worried?"
I thought about the battlefield. The crosses. The mold swallowing men whole. Then I thought about the truck, the shell, the version of my son growing up without a father.
"No," I said. "Not really."
He nodded once. "Good."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Just two figures in the cold, one man and one thing that used to be.
Then Jeanyx picked up another barrel.
"You want a drink?" he asked.
I laughed. "I'm good. One of us needs to stay human."
He smirked. "Fair."
And somewhere far away, in a stone building filled with candles and fear, men in robes were deciding how to kill a creature that could not stay dead—while that same creature laughed, drank, and waited for the war to give him another reason to burn.`
A couple of days later, Jeanyx found himself doing something he hadn't done in a long time—being seen.
The palanquin rocked gently as it was carried through the wide avenues of Petrograd, its lacquered panels gleaming under the pale winter sun. Silk curtains fluttered with every step of the bearers, embroidered with imperial gold thread and double-headed eagles. It was excessive. Loud. Exactly the sort of thing Jeanyx hated.
Outside, the city roared.
Crowds lined the streets shoulder to shoulder, bundled in coats and scarves, cheering until their voices cracked. Banners waved overhead, church bells rang without pause, and soldiers stood at attention as the procession passed. Petrograd—no longer St. Petersburg, no longer anything that sounded remotely German—was alive in a way Jeanyx hadn't seen since before the war chewed it hollow.
Malik sat across from him on velvet cushions, posture stiff, eyes darting everywhere at once.
"You gotta be kidding me," Malik muttered. "This is for you?"
Jeanyx leaned back, arms folded, expression flat. "Technically, it's for Russia."
Malik snorted. "Man, where I'm from, if you did half the stuff you did, they'd lock you in a basement and pretend you never existed."
Jeanyx smirked faintly. "They tried that."
Malik glanced out through the curtains again. People were throwing flowers. Actual flowers. Some were crying. Others were crossing themselves as the palanquin passed.
"And they're… happy about this?" Malik asked. "About you?"
"They're happy about victory," Jeanyx said. "I just happen to be the symbol today."
Malik shook his head slowly. "Wild. Absolutely wild."
The palanquin slowed as they approached the central boulevard. Jeanyx could see the palace spires in the distance, pale against the sky. This—this—was exactly why his uncle had ordered it. Not just celebration, but spectacle.
A reminder.
Petrograd wasn't St. Petersburg anymore. It wasn't borrowing its name from Germany. It was Russian again, out of pure spite if nothing else. Nicholas had changed it the year before, just to twist the knife at Wilhelm II—his cousin, the Kaiser, one third of the so-called war trio tearing Europe apart.
Malik leaned closer, lowering his voice. "So… why am I here?"
Jeanyx glanced at him. "Because my uncle wanted them to see you."
"See me?"
"An American," Jeanyx said. "Not just helping Russia. Riding with me."
Malik blinked. "That's it?"
"That's enough," Jeanyx replied. "It tells them the world's already shifting. Even if your country hasn't officially stepped into the war yet."
Malik let out a slow breath. "Guess I'm propaganda now."
Jeanyx shrugged. "You're alive. That's already rare enough."
The crowd's roar swelled as the palanquin entered the heart of the city. Somewhere ahead, Nicholas waited—crown polished, uniform pristine, playing the part of the unbroken Tsar. Jeanyx could already imagine the speeches, the medals, the careful words meant to turn blood into hope.
Malik watched the people a moment longer, then glanced back at Jeanyx. "You don't look proud."
"I'm not," Jeanyx said honestly. "I'm… tolerated."
"That don't sound like how they're treating you."
Jeanyx looked out at the sea of faces—fear, devotion, desperation all mixed together. "Crowds love monsters when they think the monster's on their side."
Malik sat back, absorbing that. "Still," he said after a beat, "not a bad seat for a guy who was bleeding out in a truck a week ago."
Jeanyx's mouth twitched. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
The palanquin came to a halt. The noise outside peaked into something almost deafening.
And as the curtains were drawn back and the light flooded in, Jeanyx stepped forward—not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not even as a ghost—but as a reminder to the world that Russia still had teeth.
The palanquin rolled forward at a measured pace, borne on the shoulders of uniformed guards whose boots struck the stone in perfect rhythm. The silk curtains had been drawn back now, leaving Jeanyx and Malik fully visible to the city. Cold air spilled inside, carrying with it the smell of snow, incense, and too many people packed too tightly together.
Petrograd opened itself up around them. Wide boulevards stretched ahead, flanked by imperial buildings draped in banners of white, blue, and red. Bells rang from distant churches, overlapping in uneven waves. Somewhere in the crowd, a military band struggled to keep tempo beneath the noise of thousands of voices shouting at once.
Malik leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees, eyes wide. He looked left, then right, taking in the faces—workers in heavy coats, soldiers missing fingers, women clutching icons to their chests. None of them looked away.
"They're really cheering," he said, voice low.
Jeanyx gave a small shrug. "They're cheering at the idea of safety."
That was when Malik did something Jeanyx hadn't expected. He lifted one hand and gave a slow, uncertain wave.
For half a second, the crowd seemed to hesitate, as if unsure what to do with that gesture. Then someone near the front shouted,
"Американец!" (An American!)
The reaction was instant.
Cheers surged louder, rougher, almost feral. People pushed forward, arms raised, voices overlapping. Flowers were thrown—some hit the palanquin, others bounced uselessly off the guards' helmets. A chant began to form, uneven but growing:
"Россия! Америка!" (Russia! America!)
Malik froze, then laughed under his breath. "Oh hell," he muttered. "I just broke something, didn't I?"
Jeanyx glanced at him. "You made it worse," he said. "Which, strangely enough, is impressive."
From somewhere deep inside, Nyxia stirred, her voice sliding into Jeanyx's thoughts like warm smoke.
They like him, she said, amused. Hope looks better on a foreign face.
Jeanyx didn't answer her, but he felt the truth of it settle in his chest. An American—alive, smiling, standing beside the Prince who had died—was a story people could believe in without understanding the cost.
The palanquin slowed as they approached Palace Square. The Winter Palace loomed ahead, pale and vast, its green-and-white façade stark against the winter sky. Lines of soldiers snapped to attention as they passed, rifles held rigid, eyes forward.
At the top of the steps stood Nicholas.
He wore his uniform as if it weighed nothing, medals catching the light with each subtle movement. From a distance, he looked every bit the Tsar—composed, unshaken, carved out of authority. But as Jeanyx drew closer, he caught the small tells: the tension in his uncle's jaw, the way his fingers flexed once before stilling.
Nicholas raised a hand, and the cheering began to soften, not stopping but pulling back enough to breathe. His voice carried across the square, practiced and steady.
"Народ России!" (People of Russia!)
A hush followed, imperfect but respectful.
"Сегодня вы видите силу. Не только оружия — но верности."
(Today you see strength. Not only of weapons—but of loyalty.)
His gaze shifted, briefly, to Malik.
"Даже за океаном есть те, кто встал рядом с нами."
(Even across the ocean, there are those who stand beside us.)
Malik swallowed, then gave another wave, smaller this time. The crowd answered anyway, louder than before.
Nyxia hummed again in Jeanyx's mind.
Your uncle is careful, she observed. He shows them fire, but he speaks of unity.
He always did, Jeanyx thought back.
Nicholas continued, his eyes finally meeting Jeanyx's. Just for a moment, the Tsar faded, and there was only an uncle looking at the boy he had buried two years ago.
"Есть те, кого смерть не удержала."
(There are those whom death could not hold.)
The words rippled through the square, and Jeanyx felt the weight of them settle unevenly on the crowd. Some cheered. Some crossed themselves. A few stepped back, uneasy.
Malik leaned in closer. "He talking about you, right?"
"Yes," Jeanyx said.
"Thought so." Malik exhaled slowly. "Man's got a way with words."
The palanquin came to a gentle stop at the base of the steps. Guards moved into position, forming a corridor of steel and fur-lined coats. The noise didn't fade so much as shift, becoming a constant, living thing that pressed in from every side.
Jeanyx stood, feeling the cold stone beneath his boots as he stepped down. The crowd surged again, voices rising, names shouted—some his, some not. Malik followed, still looking slightly stunned, his presence drawing just as much attention now that people could see him clearly.
Nyxia settled deeper inside Jeanyx, content, watchful.
Enjoy this moment, she murmured. It won't last.
Jeanyx didn't argue. He adjusted his coat, glanced once more at the mass of faces, then turned toward the palace steps, where Nicholas waited—where duty, spectacle, and consequence were already overlapping, refusing to stay neatly separated.
At the far edges of the square, where the cheering thinned and the shadows grew longer, a very different kind of gathering watched the spectacle unfold.
They stood apart from the soldiers and officials—men in dark coats, collars high, faces half-hidden beneath hats pulled low. A few wore clerical robes beneath their coats, the fabric heavy and unmistakable even at a distance. Incense clung to them faintly, out of place among the smell of snow and sweat and horses.
One of them crossed himself slowly.
"Это не человек." (That is not a man.)
Another murmured back, voice tight with unease,
"И народ радуется ему… как идолу." (And the people rejoice in him… like an idol.)
Their eyes tracked Jeanyx as he moved beside Nicholas, the crowd parting for him without being told. The fire wasn't visible now, but they could feel it anyway—something wrong, something that made their teeth itch.
A priest near the back whispered in Latin, barely moving his lips.
"Abominatio ambulans." (A walking abomination.)
"Haeresis vivens." (Living heresy.) another replied.
They watched Malik too—his wave, the way the crowd roared louder for him, the way the Tsar allowed it. That unsettled them even more.
"Америка." one of them spat quietly. (America.)
"Если он рядом с чудовищем… это знак." (If he stands beside the monster… it is a sign.)
Nyxia noticed them before Jeanyx did. She always did.
Oh wow, she said inside his head, voice bright with amusement. Look at those guys. You've got a fan club.
Jeanyx didn't turn his head, but his eyes slid just enough to catch the cluster of dark coats near the colonnade. "They're staring."
Staring? Nyxia scoffed. They're mentally sharpening stakes.
Malik leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You seeing those church dudes off to the side?"
"Yes," Jeanyx said.
"They don't look like they're here to clap."
Nyxia snorted. Clap? Please. Those guys look like they're drafting your execution notice in their heads.
One of the clerics spoke again, more forcefully now, in Russian meant only for those close enough to hear.
"Если это существо существует, значит, Бог испытывает нас."
(If this creature exists, then God is testing us.)
Another shook his head.
"Или мы уже отвернулись от Него."
(Or we have already turned away from Him.)
A third, older than the rest, said nothing at first. He watched Jeanyx carefully, eyes narrowing—not in fear, but calculation. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, deliberate.
"Молитвами его не остановить."
(Prayer will not stop him.)
That one made Nyxia laugh outright in Jeanyx's mind.
Oh, I like the old one. Took him long enough to catch up.
Jeanyx exhaled slowly. "They're planning something."
Obviously, Nyxia said. Religious types hate competition. Especially when it breathes fire and gets parades.
Malik shifted his weight. "You worried?"
Jeanyx glanced at the priests one last time, then back toward the palace steps where Nicholas waited. "No," he said. "Just curious what kind of stupid they'll try first."
Nyxia's tone turned almost cheerful. I'm betting holy bullets or a surprise exorcism. Five rubles says they shout Latin while doing it.
Malik snorted despite himself. "I don't even wanna know how you know that."
The bells rang again, louder now, pulling attention back toward the center of the square. The clerics melted back into the crowd, already murmuring plans, already convincing themselves they were righteous.
Jeanyx stepped forward, boots crunching on stone, fully aware of the eyes following him—from the cheering masses, from the palace, and from the shadows where faith sharpened itself into something dangerous and very, very foolish.
The shift happened fast, the kind of fast that only comes when intent hardens into action.
The Church representatives peeled away from the edges of the square like ink bleeding through water. At first it looked accidental—men drifting forward, heads bowed, hands hidden beneath coats. The crowd was loud enough that no one noticed the spacing tighten, the way they angled themselves into lanes of approach.
Jeanyx noticed.
Malik noticed a heartbeat later.
Nyxia clicked her tongue in Jeanyx's head. Oh come on. Middle of a parade? That's just rude.
One of the clerics reached into his coat. Another murmured something sharp and urgent under his breath.
"Во имя Бога—" (In the name of God—)
That was as far as he got.
Jeanyx's hand was already moving. The black 1911 was in his grip like it had always been there, hellfire blooming along the slide in thin veins of violet and black. Malik's revolver cleared leather at the same time, his stance clean, steady, practiced.
Gunfire cracked through the square.
The first priest went down with a round through the chest, his prayer cut off into a wet gasp. Malik pivoted and fired again, dropping another cleric mid-step, the man's rosary scattering across the stone. People screamed now, the cheer turning sharp and chaotic. Guards surged forward too late.
"УБИЙСТВО!" (Assassination!) someone shouted.
Nyxia laughed, bright and unapologetic. Wow. Bold plan. Terrible execution.
Jeanyx's eyes snapped to the right—one of them had slipped past, moving straight for Nicholas. The priest had a blade out now, silver-edged, symbols carved deep into the metal. His face was wild, desperate.
"За душу России!" (For the soul of Russia!)
Jeanyx didn't fire.
The chain was already uncoiling from his arm, links singing as they cut through the air. It wrapped around the priest's torso in a blink, locking tight. Jeanyx flicked his wrist once.
Hellfire surged through the chain.
The priest screamed as violet-black flame raced along the links and consumed him from the inside out. His body lit like dry paper, fire bursting from his mouth and eyes. Jeanyx yanked the chain back. The man came apart mid-motion, collapsing into ash that scattered across the palace steps.
Silence punched the square for half a second.
Nyxia sounded pleased. Ten out of ten. Very dramatic.
Malik lowered his revolver slightly, breathing hard. "You see that blade?"
"Yes," Jeanyx said calmly. "It wouldn't have worked."
Nicholas stood frozen, guards finally closing around him, faces pale. He stared at the drifting ash where the priest had been, then at Jeanyx. His voice was tight, low.
"Ты знал." (You knew.)
Jeanyx nodded once. "Они всегда пытаются." (They always do.)
Around them, soldiers were dragging bodies away, boots scraping stone, shouting orders. The crowd had split—some fleeing, some staring in horrified awe, some dropping to their knees and crossing themselves over and over.
Malik glanced at Jeanyx. "That was an assassination attempt, right?"
"Yes."
"On the Tsar."
"Yes."
"And us."
Nyxia chimed in cheerfully. Mostly you. Collateral damage, really.
Malik snorted despite himself, then sobered. "Church really picked the wrong day."
Jeanyx reholstered his pistol, the hellfire fading like it had never been there. He looked down at the ash again, expression unreadable. "They'll call it martyrdom."
Nyxia scoffed. They call everything martyrdom. It's their favorite excuse.
The bells were still ringing, uneven now, clashing with the distant screams and orders. The parade hadn't ended so much as fractured—ceremony bleeding straight into chaos, faith into violence, spectacle into consequence.
Jeanyx stepped back beside Malik, chain settling against his arm like it was content. He glanced once more at the crowd, at the palace, at the places where belief had just tried and failed to kill him.
Then he exhaled, slow and steady, like this was just another inconvenience layered onto the day.
More of them poured out of the nearby buildings like roaches shaken loose from rotten wood.
Side doors burst open. Windows flew up. Clerics in black coats and hidden vestments spilled into the square—two dozen at least, maybe more—some armed with pistols, others with silver-edged blades, a few clutching relics and chanting through clenched teeth.
"Во имя Господа!" (In the name of the Lord!)
"Убейте демона!" (Kill the demon!)
The square tipped fully into panic. Civilians screamed and ran. Soldiers shouted orders over one another as the Tsar was rushed backward, guards forming a wall of steel around him. Nicholas didn't resist, but his eyes stayed locked on Jeanyx as he was pulled away.
Jeanyx didn't move.
Malik looked at the wave of priests advancing, then at Jeanyx. Slowly, a grin crept across his face.
"Well," he said, cocking his revolver, "guess they really committed."
Jeanyx glanced sideways at him. His mouth twitched. "You ready?"
Malik nodded once. "Been ready since the truck."
Nyxia practically vibrated with excitement in Jeanyx's head. Oh hell yes. Look at them. This is gonna be messy.
The first priest fired.
Jeanyx stepped forward instead of back. The bullet never reached him—Nyxia surged up his arm, black-red mass hardening into a shield that caught the round and swallowed it whole. In the same motion, Jeanyx's other arm snapped forward, the symbiote stretching, thickening, forming into a massive, inky fist.
The punch crossed the distance in an instant.
It hit like a battering ram. The priest flew backward, slamming through a stone balustrade and vanishing in a cloud of dust and blood.
Malik fired twice, clean and controlled. Two priests dropped, robes tangling around their legs as they fell. He moved without hesitation now, adrenaline smoothing the edges.
"Еретики!" (Heretics!) someone screamed.
Nyxia laughed. They're so dramatic. I almost feel bad.
Jeanyx didn't.
Black tendrils erupted from his back, thick as tree trunks, snapping outward with whip-crack force. One wrapped around a priest mid-chant and yanked him off his feet, slamming him into the ground hard enough to crater stone. Another tendril speared through a man's chest, lifting him into the air before tearing him apart in a spray of red.
Jeanyx drew his chain again, hellfire crawling along its length as he swung it wide. The arc cut through three attackers at once, bodies igniting mid-motion, collapsing into ash before they hit the ground.
Malik ducked as a blade swung past his head. He brought the revolver up under the priest's chin and fired. "Man," he muttered, "you guys really don't quit."
Nyxia formed along Jeanyx's shoulders now, her shape half-visible—eyes gleaming, smile sharp. She launched another symbiote limb forward, this one splitting into multiple tendrils mid-strike, each one grabbing a different target.
I call this one crowd control, she said cheerfully.
Jeanyx laughed under his breath as he stepped into the chaos, fire licking up his arms. He slammed a symbiote-formed fist into the ground. The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the square, knocking priests off their feet, relics and weapons scattering across the stone.
One of them raised a crucifix, shouting prayers in Latin, voice cracking.
"Per potentiam Dei—" (By the power of God—)
Jeanyx flicked his wrist. The chain wrapped around the crucifix and ripped it from the man's hands, crushing it into molten slag midair. He didn't even slow as he backhanded the priest with a symbiote arm, snapping his neck with a wet crack.
Malik reloaded on instinct, spinning the cylinder smooth. He moved closer to Jeanyx now, back to back without needing to say it.
"You always get this kind of welcome?"
"Only from people who think they're righteous," Jeanyx replied.
Nyxia snorted. So basically everyone.
The last few priests hesitated, fear finally overriding zeal. One tried to run. A tendril caught his ankle and dragged him screaming across the stone before pulling him under a wave of black mold that rose from the cracks in the square. His voice cut off abruptly.
Silence crept back in, broken only by the crackle of fading hellfire and the distant shouts of soldiers securing the area. Bodies—or what was left of them—littered the square. Burn marks traced where Jeanyx had walked.
Malik lowered his revolver, chest heaving. He looked around, then at Jeanyx.
"So," he said, "that went about how I expected."
Jeanyx rolled his shoulders, the tendrils retreating, Nyxia melting back into him with a satisfied hum.
"They'll try again," he said casually.
Nyxia added, And they'll do it even dumber next time.
Malik let out a short laugh, shaking his head as soldiers finally began to approach, eyes wide, unsure whether to salute or back away.
Behind them, the Tsar was already gone, the palace doors closing like nothing unusual had happened at all.
Jeanyx looked at the scorched square, then at Malik, the faintest smirk still on his face. The noise hadn't fully died yet—it was just changing shape, turning into rumors, prayers, and very bad ideas that would start spreading by nightfall.
They found the Tsar in a side chamber off the main hall, one of the smaller rooms meant for private audiences rather than ceremony. The doors were shut, guards doubled outside, boots shifting nervously. Voices carried through the thick wood before Jeanyx even touched the handle.
Alexandra's voice came first—sharp, frayed, riding panic like a live wire.
"Это безумие, Николай!" (This is madness, Nicholas!)
"Ты выставил себя, детей, всю семью!" (You exposed yourself, the children, the whole family!)
Nicholas answered more quietly, trying to anchor the room.
"Аликс, прошу… успокойся. Всё под контролем." (Alix, please… calm yourself. It's under control.)
Jeanyx opened the door without knocking. Malik followed him in, posture straight, eyes alert_attaching to exits the way Jeanyx had drilled into him.
Alexandra turned instantly, dark eyes flashing.
"Это они?!" (Is it them?!)
Nicholas looked relieved despite everything.
"Да." (Yes.)
Jeanyx inclined his head.
"Ты цел, дядя." (You're unharmed, Uncle.)
"Благодаря тебе," Nicholas replied softly. (Because of you.)
Alexandra stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over Jeanyx like she expected to find blood or burns that weren't there.
"Это недопустимо!" (This is unacceptable!)
"Охрана подвела тебя. Их нужно уволить — или казнить!"
(The guards failed you. They should be dismissed—or executed!)
"Аликс, не сейчас," Nicholas said, placing a hand on her arm. (Not now.)
She pulled away, breath uneven.
"Сегодня это были священники. А завтра?"
(Today it was priests. And tomorrow?)
Jeanyx spoke evenly.
"Сегодня они не прошли." (Today they didn't get through.)
"Ты не можешь быть везде!" she snapped at him. (You can't be everywhere!)
Malik stepped forward before Jeanyx could answer, his Russian rough but earnest, words chosen carefully.
"Он… трудно пройти мимо," he said. (He… is hard to get past.)
Then, realizing how that sounded, he added quickly,
"Мы… защищаем." (We… protect.)
Alexandra blinked, surprised, clearly catching both the meaning and the accent.
Nicholas nodded once.
"Я сказал тебе — они здесь, чтобы защитить меня."
(I told you—they're here to protect me.)
That eased something in her, just a little. Her shoulders lowered, though her hands still trembled.
"Я не хочу хоронить тебя," she said quietly. (I don't want to bury you.)
Nicholas took her hand.
"Ты не будешь." (You won't.)
Nyxia's voice chimed in Jeanyx's head, blunt and amused.
Oof. She's intense. Very "execute first, cry later."
Jeanyx ignored her, keeping his focus on Nicholas.
"Мы останемся в городе." (We'll stay in the city.)
"На время." (For a while.)
Nicholas studied him, then nodded.
"Хорошо." (Good.)
Alexandra looked at Malik again, this time more carefully.
"Американец…" (The American…)
Malik straightened, trying again, slow and deliberate.
"Спасибо… за доверие." (Thank you… for the trust.)
Her expression softened despite herself.
"Спасибо," she said quietly. (Thank you.)
Malik nodded.
"Пожалуйста." (You're welcome.)
For a moment, the room settled—not calm, but steadier. Outside, orders were being barked, boots moving, the palace regaining its rhythm.
Nyxia muttered inside Jeanyx's mind, You know someone's getting blamed for this, right? Probably someone very unlucky.
Always, Jeanyx thought back.
Alexandra finally exhaled, exhaustion bleeding through the fear.
"Больше никакой показухи, Николай." (No more spectacles, Nicholas.)
Nicholas didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on Jeanyx, something unspoken passing between them.
The moment stretched—not ending, just easing enough to breathe, while everyone in the room understood the truth: the danger hadn't passed. It had only learned a new shape.