The Winter Prince

by Kalyps0

Summary:

What if Bucky was never real? What if he were just a mask that James wore?

"No, James had other reasons for befriending Steve. Steve was easy to push around, easy to manipulate. James had learned that quickly. Stealing Steve’s medicine wasn’t something he was proud of, but it paid the rent when he needed it. And besides, Steve never noticed. He was too focused on the big picture, too busy dreaming of being a hero to notice the little things—like his pills going missing."

Basically, what if James was a borderline sociopath with a Master/Slave kink a mile wide, and how that would affect the MCU as we know it, starting with the draft and following through the beginning of Iron Man (2008)

Chapter 1: The Draft

James Barnes hated the way the air smelled when the army recruiters came to Brooklyn. The stench of sweat and desperation clung to the back of his throat. He’d been avoiding this moment for weeks, but it was inevitable—too many men were getting drafted, too many young bodies sent off to die in foreign lands. His number had come up. And like every other unlucky bastard who hadn’t volunteered, he had no choice but to go.
He lit another cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him as he stared at the dusty street, trying to avoid thinking about what was coming.
He’d grown up in Brooklyn, rough around the edges, a product of his environment. He’d spent most of his life learning to fight, first in the streets, then in the ring. Boxing had been his way to channel the violence in his chest. He liked the brutality of it, the feeling of control it gave him over his own aggression. People respected him for it, and in Brooklyn, respect was hard to come by. He didn’t need friends; what he needed was a way to survive.
And then there was Steve Rogers.
The scrawny kid from the wrong side of the tracks. James had never really understood why Steve latched onto him the way he did. Maybe it was because Steve was always in fights, and James was never one to shy away from a good scrap. But it wasn’t like James cared for Steve—at least, not the way Steve cared for him.
No, James had other reasons for befriending Steve. Steve was easy to push around, easy to manipulate. James had learned that quickly. Stealing Steve’s medicine wasn’t something he was proud of, but it paid the rent when he needed it. And besides, Steve never noticed. He was too focused on the big picture, too busy dreaming of being a hero to notice the little things—like his pills going missing.
James had never intended to keep Steve around, but the kid was useful. He had a way of looking at the world that was… different. James could take advantage of that. So when Steve showed up at the local gym, all eager to box with James—thinking he had a shot at the title—James let him. Let him believe that he was a part of something, that they were in this together.
But now, with the draft papers in his hand and a world at war, James knew something was different. This wasn’t a fight for him anymore. It was a ticket out of Brooklyn, out of the streets that had been suffocating him. He didn’t care if it meant getting shot at in some foreign country. At least there, he’d have a chance to make something of himself, or at least survive.
The sound of boots echoed down the street, and James looked up. The recruiters were here. The others were already lined up, eager to sign away their futures. James lit one last cigarette, the cherry glowing bright against the gray backdrop of the city. His time had come.
_

Boot camp was everything James expected and more. It was a machine, a well-oiled contraption designed to break men down and remold them into something that fit into the military machine. But James wasn’t like the others. He didn’t need to be broken. He was already an instrument of violence, honed and polished by the streets of Brooklyn. What they didn’t expect, though, was how easily he’d slip into the role they wanted.
The physical part was easy. He was fast, strong, and precise. Sniping came naturally to him—the distance, the focus, the stillness—it all clicked. He could take down a target from three hundred yards like he was picking apples from a tree. He didn’t even have to try. The discipline, the structure, the never-ending orders from drill sergeants—now that, he didn’t like. He hated being told what to do. Hated having to follow rules just to keep his head down.
But he played the game. He always did.
He was a natural at everything else, too. Hand-to-hand combat, tactics, endurance—James excelled. He quickly earned the reputation as one of the best soldiers in the camp, despite his clear disdain for the rigid hierarchy. He didn’t need to show off; he didn’t need to prove himself. But he did anyway, just to make sure people remembered his name.
It wasn’t long before the captain of the 107th took notice.
Captain Rucker was a decent man by military standards—tall, well-groomed, with a sharp mind and sharper eyes. He had been around long enough to know how things worked. He saw James for what he was: a soldier who could be of use, someone who could be bent to his will if the right strings were pulled.
James had always known there would be someone like Rucker. The kind of man who liked the idea of power, but didn’t have the means to exert it unless he found a way to manipulate the right people. And James was no fool. He had the looks, the charm, and the cunning to get whatever he wanted. All he had to do was play the part.
It started with a few quiet conversations after hours, the kind that could be written off as friendly chats between officers and their best soldiers. But James could tell the captain was getting more comfortable, more open. There was something in the air, a kind of tension that told James this wouldn’t be a casual exchange of pleasantries for long.
One night, after a particularly grueling day of drills, the captain invited James to his quarters under the guise of discussing strategy. The invitation was clear enough.
James didn’t hesitate. He had no shame, no hesitation. He knew exactly what the captain wanted, and he was more than willing to play the part.
“Captain,” James said, leaning casually against the doorframe as the man opened it. His tone was smooth, practiced. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me alone for more than just a chat about strategy."
The captain froze, his eyes flicking up to James’ with a mix of surprise and something darker—appreciation. He’d probably assumed James would resist, maybe even make it difficult, but James wasn’t one to put up a fight. He let the silence stretch for just a moment too long before stepping inside, not waiting for an invitation.
“I’m a soldier, sir,” James continued, his voice low, easy, as he closed the door behind him. “But I’m not stupid. I know what this is about.”
Rucker’s expression softened, and a flicker of relief passed over his face. It was a game they both played. It was clear that James had a unique set of skills, skills Rucker found… appealing.
James leaned in closer, the tension thick in the air. “So, what do you need from me?”
The rest of the night played out as expected. James didn’t let his guard down, but he didn’t have to. He knew how to turn the captain’s need for control into something beneficial for both of them. By morning, Rucker had already made his decision.

-

James didn’t bother asking how the paperwork had gotten processed so fast. He didn’t need to.
A crisp salute, a few too many back-pats, and a shiny new stripe stitched onto his uniform—Sergeant James Barnes. It was official, and it was dirty, and he couldn't have cared less. Rank meant less oversight. It meant privacy. It meant he could move through the world just a little more freely, and for James, freedom was everything.
There was no ceremony, no great announcement. Just a folded slip shoved into his hand after drills one morning. Report to Captain Rucker. Immediate assignment changes. James had smirked all the way there.
A few days later, the army gave him a brief leave—an unexpected luxury—to say goodbye to Brooklyn before shipping out to London with the rest of the 107th Infantry the next morning. James wasn’t sentimental about Brooklyn. Not really. But he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to breathe in the city one more time...and maybe pocket a few things if he felt like it.
Which was how he found himself dragging Steve around the Stark Expo.
The place was alive with lights and sounds James could only describe as electric wonder. He didn't say it out loud—couldn't—but he was captivated. Here was the future humming and buzzing in real time, gleaming and shimmering like a promise of something better. Flying cars. Wireless energy. Metal monsters that could think.
James drifted from exhibit to exhibit, his sharp blue eyes drinking it all in. The way people marveled at it—their mouths hanging open, faces lit with naive hope—should have disgusted him. It should have.
But instead, James felt a twist of something unfamiliar: hunger.
Not for the glory these fools dreamed about.
For the power. The potential.
"Barnes! Over here!" Steve's voice cracked over the noise, waving him down near an exhibit of Howard Stark's latest invention.
James ambled over lazily, lighting a cigarette on the way. His new stripes caught the light. People noticed. A few women smiled at him. James gave them a lazy wink, already filing them away as possibilities. Options.
Steve was practically vibrating with excitement in front of Stark’s booth. "You seeing this, Buck? He made a car that can fly."
James watched Howard Stark wrestle with a sputtering prototype. The thing lifted a few feet before jerking down, much to the crowd’s disappointment. James exhaled smoke through his nose and smirked.
"Give it twenty years," he muttered. "Someone'll get it right."
Steve beamed at him, still thinking James meant it as encouragement, still too naive to see the way James’ gaze flicked—not to the spectacle—but to the hidden gears and oil-slick wiring underneath. James wasn’t interested in the show. He was interested in the guts of it. The control.
"You're not worried?" Steve asked, bumping his shoulder lightly against James'. "About tomorrow? About shipping out?"
James stubbed out his cigarette against a nearby railing. "Nah," he said. "We'll be fine."
He said it because it was what Steve needed to hear.
He said it because it was easier than the truth: that James was bored of Brooklyn, bored of this life, and some part of him was ready—eager—to see what war looked like up close. To carve his name into the world in blood and bullets.
The crowd roared as Howard Stark took another crack at the flying car. James barely heard it. His mind was already a thousand miles away, in a trench somewhere, rifle in hand, watching the future burn.
Tomorrow they'd ship out.
Tonight, James let himself pretend he belonged here.

-

The ship smelled like grease, steel, and men packed too close together. James leaned against the railing, a cigarette between his lips, watching the ocean churn black under the night sky. He barely heard the laughter and gambling behind him, soldiers burning through their nerves with dice and cheap liquor. He kept his back to them all.
Sergeant Barnes.
It still made him grin when he thought about it. The paperwork said he’d earned it for "distinguished performance during basic training." Sure.
The truth was warmer, more human.
Sweat-slick sheets, whispered promises in the dark, the captain’s desperate hands.
James had found a way to survive, like he always did. Like he always would.
He exhaled smoke, watching it drift toward the stars.
A clatter behind him. James flicked a glance over his shoulder. A skinny private stumbled out of the mass of bodies, face pale and eyes wide. He barely nodded at James before vomiting over the side.
James watched him without sympathy. War hadn’t even begun yet for these kids.
They’d all come here dreaming about medals, about glory.
James came for something else.
He didn’t know what yet.
He just knew that whatever it was, it wouldn't be found in Brooklyn.

They landed on English soil two days later, rattling in the backs of trucks across endless gray fields, past crumbling stone fences and rows of dead trees.
The world here felt smaller, tighter. James felt it pressing in around his ribs.
Their barracks in London were cramped and damp, but it didn’t matter. James wasn’t planning on spending much time sleeping anyway.
Training was brutal, relentless. James thrived.
He was the best shot in the 107th—no question. First day on the range, he picked up a rifle, sighted down the scope, and hit dead center five times in a row like he was born with it in his hands.
The instructors barked praise.
The other soldiers clapped him on the back, called him a natural.
James just smiled and took it.
The truth was, it wasn’t natural at all.
It was hunger.
It was the raw thrill of power in his chest every time he pulled the trigger and watched a target drop.
He outpaced them in hand-to-hand, demolitions, field tactics.
He kept his mouth shut and his smile ready.
He let them believe he was one of them.

At night, he didn’t return to the barracks.
He returned to Captain Rucker’s quarters.
It started with long glances during drills.
An order to stay behind after everyone else was dismissed.
A hand brushing too casually against his wrist.
James didn’t hesitate.
He knew the rules of this game.
The first night, he let Rucker kiss him like a drowning man.
The second night, he let Rucker whisper about promotions, about assignments, about looking out for each other.
By the end of the week, James was a ghost in the barracks and a fixture in Rucker’s tent.
By the end of the month, he was promoted to permanent Sergeant.
No one questioned it.
Why would they?
James had charm when he wanted it.
He had that smile that made people think he was harmless. Loyal.
Good ol’ Bucky Barnes.
It was almost funny how easy it was.
Almost.

In the rare moments he was alone, James found himself drifting back to the Expo, to the gleam of the machines and the hiss of artificial engines.
The future was coming.
He could feel it.
And he wasn’t going to be left behind.
No matter what he had to do.

Chapter 2: Azzano

The 107th barely made it out of London before they were marched straight into hell.
The camp at Azzano looked abandoned from the outside, nothing more than a cluster of burnt-out buildings ringed by barbed wire. The real horror lay underground, in tunnels carved deep into the mountainside. Zola’s experiments churned inside the rock like something alive.
The 107th fought until they couldn’t anymore.
And when the last bullet was fired, they were herded into the dark like animals.
James moved easily among the prisoners.
He didn’t whimper.
He didn’t beg.
He smiled at the guards, sharp and sly, memorizing every face, every rank, every opportunity.

Captain Rucker, for all his promises of protection and favor, collapsed under the first blow.
James watched him scream, watched him cry out names that meant nothing here.
It didn’t take long for the Nazis to figure out that James was different.
Maybe it was the way he stood, unbroken even with blood running from his split lip.
Maybe it was the smile he wore like a knife.
Either way, one night, they dragged him into a cleared room at the center of the camp.
James was shoved to his knees in the dirt, hands behind his back, a circle of officers leering down at him.
Captain Rucker was there too.
Forced to watch.
Held upright by two guards, bruised and half-conscious.
The commandant barked something sharp in German, and the soldiers laughed.
James understood enough to catch the gist: Show him who you belong to now.
James lifted his head slowly, meeting Rucker’s eyes.
There was still hope in them.
Pathetic.
James grinned.
And he performed.
He leaned into every touch, every cruel command, every humiliating order.
He moaned loudly, laughed when they hurt him, gasped like he couldn't get enough.
He made a spectacle of it, putting on a show so filthy, so eager, that even the officers looked vaguely unsettled by the end of it.
Rucker wept openly.
James winked at him.

After that, James made his deal.
He offered himself — body, blood, whatever they wanted — in exchange for simple luxuries:
Clean clothes.
Real food.
A proper bed, or at least a warm one.
The commandant agreed, almost eagerly.
James quickly became a fixture among the senior officers, passed around but treated well in the ways that mattered.
No more starvation.
No more beatings without cause.
He slept curled in silk sheets instead of on cold stone floors.
He ate roast meat while the other prisoners gnawed moldy bread.
Every time he was used, every time he knelt or bent or smiled sweetly for men who thought they owned him, James kept one thought burning like ice in his chest:
I'm the one surviving. Not you.

Captain Rucker died a week later.
James didn’t spare him a glance.

The days blurred together after that.
James played his role perfectly, all dark eyes and bitten lips and whispered submission.
Inside, he was steel.
Inside, he was waiting.
There were rumors in the camp.
Whispers of an American soldier — smaller than most — sneaking through enemy lines, toppling entire facilities.
James doubted it.
Hope was for idiots.
Still, the thought stayed with him when he closed his eyes at night:
Maybe Steve had finally learned how to survive too.
Maybe not.
It didn’t matter.
James wasn't going to be anyone’s project.
Not anymore.
He belonged to himself.
The world would learn that soon enough.

-

It started with a cough.
Not much, at first.
A scrape in the throat. A roughness when he laughed in the officers’ beds.
He ignored it the way he ignored everything else — pain was background noise, and he had long since taught himself not to flinch.
But pneumonia didn’t care about pride.
Within days, James was hacking up blood into silk sheets.
The officers recoiled.
The luxuries disappeared overnight.
He was tossed into the infirmary with the other half-dead men, left to rot in a fever-dream of shivering, sweating, and whispered prayers he never bothered saying.

That's when Zola found him.
James barely registered the man at first — just another rat in a white coat, watching him with oily eyes and muttering notes into a recorder.
But when they strapped him down to a metal table, when the syringes came out, when the needles burrowed into his bones and something alien began rewriting his blood...
James paid attention.
He screamed once — not from the pain, but from the fury of it.
The helplessness.
And then something inside him snapped —
Not in fear.
In excitement.

It made a sick kind of sense.
James had spent his life trading flesh for favors, playing owned and obedient when it suited him.
He liked being used, when it meant survival, when it meant someone would feed him, clothe him, give him purpose.
Now, he was being made into something stronger.
Something rare.
Property still — but special property.
A weapon.
A prize.
The realization hit him through the fever and agony, and James found a vicious, giddy pride swelling in his chest.
Let them mold me. Let them make me. I'll be the best thing they ever owned.
He surrendered to it — not in fear, but in something almost like joy.
For once, he didn't have to scheme or pretend or bargain for scraps.
He was wanted.
He was needed.
He belonged.

The experiments stretched on for days.
They burned him.
They froze him.
They shattered bones and rebuilt them stronger.
And James, once he could think clearly again, realized he was changing.
Faster reflexes.
Sharper senses.
Strength humming under his skin like a living thing.
He was a masterpiece.
The scientists whispered it when they thought he was unconscious.
"Subject X."
The only one who survived.

When they unstrapped him at last, expecting a broken doll, James stood on his own two feet.
Smiling.
You wanted to make a monster, he thought, rolling his shoulders and hearing the joints pop like gunfire.
Congratulations.

The camp around him had changed too.
The guards eyed him differently now — fear mingled with hunger.
The officers who once barked orders now spoke in murmurs.
James could have taken over, if he wanted.
But he didn't.
He liked the game.
Liked being given things.
Liked the softness of a bed after a hard mission.
Liked the heavy hand in his hair, the collar around his invisible throat.
He could rip their heads off with a thought.
But he chose to obey.
And somehow, that made the power taste even sweeter.

James lay awake one night, staring at the cracked ceiling, the fever finally burned out of his body.
He ran a hand down his own chest, feeling the new density of his muscles, the way his body responded to even the slightest command.
He smiled to himself.
He had always been violent.
Always craved control.
But now he understood something deeper, something he'd never dared admit before.
He didn't just want to hurt.
He wanted to belong.
To be owned, prized, kept — like a wolf on a golden leash.
And he would be.
He would make damn sure of it.

-

The walls shook with distant explosions.
James opened his eyes.
The Hydra lab was chaos — alarms blaring, scientists scattering like rats.
It didn’t take a genius to know that whoever was tearing through Azzano was winning.
James sat up slowly on the operating table.
He was still in a hospital gown, the flimsy cotton clinging to the new, heavier lines of his body.
He could fight.
He could slaughter every man in this building if he wanted.
But he didn’t.
Violence for violence’s sake was one thing.
Survival was another.
Think, James.
Whoever was coming would expect prisoners.
Victims.
They wouldn't expect a man who had traded himself for food, water, and soft sheets.
They wouldn't expect a man who had liked it.
James rose, moving with grim efficiency.
There was a pile of clothes — stolen from dead soldiers, maybe — by the door.
He grabbed a uniform, tugged it on over his too-warm skin.
No insignia.
Good.
He threw himself back on the table, buckling one wrist loosely into a restraint.
Enough to sell the story.
He slowed his breathing, bit the inside of his cheek until blood pooled, giving himself a suitably battered look.
Then, he started repeating, hoarse and mechanical:
"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038."
Over and over.

The minutes dragged.
He heard gunfire, shouted orders in German, screams cut off mid-breath.
The walls trembled again, dust falling from the cracked ceiling.
Then —
Footsteps.
Boots pounding down the corridor.
James tightened his hands into loose fists, not enough to flex the enhanced tendons that lurked under his skin.
Not enough to betray himself.
The door slammed open.
And there he was.
Steve.
Except — not the boy James remembered.
This man was taller, broader, filled with a glowing, impossible strength that made James' teeth ache just looking at him.
The serum had worked.
James schooled his face into something between shock and fragile hope.
"Steve?"
He made his voice crack, just a little.
Steve’s mouth fell open, the shield dropping slightly from defensive readiness.
"Bucky!"
Steve rushed to him, unfastening the restraint with trembling fingers.
James let himself sag, clutching at Steve’s shoulders like a drowning man.
He made sure to tremble.
He made sure to look like a victim.
It wasn’t hard.
He had always been a good liar.

Steve half-carried him down the corridor, barking orders at the soldiers trailing behind him.
The prisoners of the 107th — the ones who hadn’t rotted to death — were staggering free from their cages.
Some of them glanced at James, confused.
He saw the flicker of doubt in their faces.
They hadn't seen him since he’d disappeared into the officers’ quarters weeks ago.
Before the deal.
Before the surrender.
But they said nothing.
Not here.
Not now.
James pressed closer to Steve, molding himself into the role of the grateful best friend, wounded but loyal.
He buried his face against the heavy weave of Steve’s uniform and let himself be carried out into the ruined night.
Behind them, Azzano burned.
And in James' chest, something darker and sharper than gratitude coiled tight.
He had survived again.
By lying.
By playing the part.
And Steve — poor, earnest Steve — was too busy beaming with victory to see the monster clinging to him like a brother.

-

When they stumble into the Allied lines the next morning, James is already building his next mask:
The brave survivor.
The loyal sergeant.
The sidekick to Captain America.
The Howlies will be formed from the survivors — dumb, tough men who see James as a battered legend — and Steve, oblivious, will put him at his right hand.
And James?
James will smile, salute, and bide his time.
Because loyalty was just another game.
And this time, he was going to win.

Chapter 3: Homecoming

London was grey and cold, the rain coming in sideways.
James stood at attention behind Steve as the brass pinned another useless medal to Steve’s chest, soaking in the cheers.
It was almost funny, in a way.
James had survived Arnim Zola’s knife.
He had sold his body to Nazi officers and enjoyed every minute of it.
He had clawed his way out of hell.
And now he stood here, a grinning ghost, hailed as a hero.
Life's funny like that.
Steve beamed under the attention, awkward in his new Captain America uniform.
The shield gleamed like a beacon against the drab day.
James tilted his head slightly, evaluating.
Steve didn’t notice it yet — how the officers stiffened when James passed too close.
How Howard Stark's gaze flickered, suspicious, when James cracked a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Peggy Carter saw it, too.
She was better at hiding it.
But every so often, when Steve turned away, her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if she could smell the blood under James’ skin.
James filed it away for later.
No need to make a move yet.

The Howling Commandos were born that week — a band of misfits pulled from the rescued ranks.
Falsworth. Morita. Jones. Dugan. Dernier.
Good men.
Tough men.
Idiots, mostly.
They bought James’ act without question.
Sergeant Barnes, war hero.
Sergeant Barnes, Steve Rogers' best friend.
They didn’t know.
They didn’t need to.
James made himself useful.
He was a crack shot — better than anyone in the unit.
He could hit a target a thousand yards out, dead center, even in the rain.
He moved through missions like a ghost, silent and deadly.
Slipping into Hydra bases ahead of the team, marking threats, clearing the way before Steve even kicked the door in.
The others chalked it up to luck.
Natural skill.
Only Peggy and Stark sometimes glanced at him strangely, as if catching the faint scent of something wrong on the wind.
James always smiled at them, bright and empty.

At night, alone in the barracks, James lay awake while the others snored.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the unnatural strength hum through his muscles.
He could break every man in the Howlies without breaking a sweat.
He could crush Steve’s throat with one hand.
But he didn’t.
Yet.

They won battle after battle.
Hydra bases burned.
Zola fled into deeper holes.
The brass wanted Steve on the front pages.
They wanted parades and smiling faces.
James stood always one step behind him, the loyal shadow.
And Steve?
Steve still looked at him like nothing had changed.
Still called him "Bucky" with that boyish grin, still clapped him on the back after missions, still believed James would follow him into hell.
It would almost be touching if it wasn’t so pathetic.
James wasn't following Steve.
James was simply riding the winning horse.
For now.

-

There was a heaviness growing in the air around Steve.
James could feel it — a crackle of tension every time Peggy brushed too close, a spark when Stark dropped another clever comment.
Steve was being pulled.
Pulled toward something James couldn't control.
James didn’t like that.
So he did what he was best at.
He manipulated.

It started with small things.
A glance.
A touch.
A joke whispered against Steve’s ear when no one else could hear.
Steve flushed every time.
Poor, sweet, stupid Steve.

Peggy noticed, of course.
Her lips tightened when she saw how Steve’s eyes lingered on James a little too long.
James made sure of it.
It wasn’t hard.
Steve had always been easy to lead — a soft, aching thing desperate to be wanted, desperate to be seen.
James offered him exactly what he craved.
Affection.
Loyalty.
Desire.
Lies, all of it.
But Steve drank it in like a dying man.

The first time James kissed Steve, it was in the dark between missions, behind a bombed-out church in Belgium.
James pulled him into the shadows, fingers tightening in Steve’s jacket.
Steve gasped into his mouth — surprise and longing bleeding out of him in waves.
When James pressed him back against the crumbling stone, Steve didn’t resist.
He clutched at James like a lifeline.
James kissed him harder, biting his lip just enough to make Steve gasp again.
When they finally pulled apart, Steve stared at him, wide-eyed.
“We can’t—” Steve whispered.
“I know,” James murmured against his mouth. “But I want to.”
He said it like a confession.
Steve believed it.
Of course he did.

They kept it hidden.
Had to.
A stolen touch behind enemy lines.
A kiss bruised into skin just before the bullets flew.
James made sure Peggy saw the distance growing between her and Steve.
Made sure she saw Steve smile more easily at him, laugh more freely.
Peggy’s eyes narrowed more and more.
James smiled sweetly and saluted her like the good sergeant he was pretending to be.

At night, when Steve slept with a hand tangled in James' shirt like he was afraid he might vanish, James stared at the ceiling and thought about Azzano.
About warm beds.
About chains.
About belonging to someone.
He missed it.
Missed the clear, brutal certainty of it.
At Azzano, he’d been a tool, a weapon, a body to be used.
There had been no lies.
No pretending.
He missed the aching surrender of it.
The knowledge that he was owned, needed, taken care of.
Here, with Steve, it was messier.
Here, James had to pretend to be something he wasn’t.
And he was getting tired.
So very tired.

The orders came down:
Capture Arnim Zola.
Disrupt Hydra’s latest weapons program.
James cleaned his rifle with methodical care.
Strapped knives into his boots.
Checked his harness.
He smiled to himself as he loaded the last magazine.
Finally.
One last mission.
One last show of loyalty.
Then he could be free.

-

The train rattled under James' boots as he followed Steve along the narrow walkway.
Snow whipped past the windows — sharp, stinging needles against the steel skin of the Hydra freighter.
Steve moved with purpose.
Shield in hand.
Eyes scanning, searching.
James moved too.
A step behind.
Silent.
Waiting.

The first explosion shook the whole car.
Metal shrieked.
The train lurched.
Steve slammed into the wall, shield raised.
Hydra soldiers poured into the compartment like blood from a wound.
James lifted his rifle, heart beating slow and steady.
Not excitement.
Not fear.
Anticipation.

Shots rang out.
Steve deflected.
James fired.
One man dropped.
Then another.
Behind them, Morita shouted orders, the Howlies storming the cars behind.
Steve barreled forward, shield first, plowing into the enemy.
James followed — a shadow at his back.
For now.

The real opportunity came three cars in.
The overhead catwalk splintered from another blast.
Hydra soldiers opened fire from above.
Steve shoved James back — instinctive, protective.
James let him.
He stumbled toward the broken railing, boots slipping against the frost-slick floor.
Steve turned —
shouted his name —
"BUCKY!"
—
James hated that name.
Always had.
Still, for a moment, he let Steve think he was fighting to hold on.
Gripping the edge, feet dangling over the frozen ravine flashing below.
Steve lunged.
James reached—
and missed.
—
It would have been so easy to catch Steve's hand.
To cling to him.
But James let go.
On purpose.
He saw the horror shatter across Steve's face.
Saw his mouth form a broken, desperate "NO!"
And then James fell.

The air tore past him, cold and sharp.
The world spun.
The train vanished.
Steve vanished.
For a second — just a second — James smiled.
Freedom.
Maybe death.
Maybe something worse.
He didn’t care.
He was finally free.

Chapter 4: Broken Glass

Notes:

So, like, I already have most of this part written. I've gotten through to 1966, this was meant to be a shorter prequel to the WinterIron stuff I have planned but then it kinda got away from me. :)

The first thing James noticed when he woke up was the pain.
It ripped through him like fire, raw and relentless, gnawing at his broken body, the sting of it sharp enough to make him wish he were still unconscious. He could feel the emptiness where his left arm used to be, the weight of it dragging down the rest of him. The pain was constant, but it was more than physical. It was lack. A gaping hole in his existence, a void that seemed to echo with the loss.
The second thing he noticed was the cold.
His bare skin pressed against the concrete floor, a chill sinking into his bones. He could taste blood in his mouth, the scent of iron thick in the air. His body wasn’t just bruised—it was ruined. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the silence, the weight of it pressing in on him, smothering him in his isolation.
And then came the noises.
Russian voices—harsh, clipped, and foreign—cut through the fog in his brain. Boots shuffled on the concrete floor, low murmurs, laughter that didn’t make sense.
He couldn’t understand them. But he could hear the waiting. They were waiting for him to break, to react, to be the monster they wanted him to be.
James wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. But all that came out was a quiet groan.
He could feel them watching. Waiting for him to wake up and surrender.
That was the problem. They thought they could break him with pain, with isolation. But what they didn’t understand was that James didn’t mind pain. He thrived in it. Pain was power, and he could manipulate that power to get what he wanted.

Days bled into each other. Time lost its meaning. The only thing James could focus on was the sharp ache in his body. His mind, though slow to return, began to sharpen again, cutting through the haze. This wasn’t a POW camp. This was something worse.
The men who came to play with him weren’t soldiers. They weren’t even military. They were something darker. Something more sinister. Scientists? Interrogators? James didn’t care. They wanted his body, but what they didn’t realize was that his body wasn’t the only thing they were going to have to take. They wanted to own him, use him, but he wasn’t just going to let that happen.
The pain was just a tool. He could endure it. He’d been enduring it for years.
No. It wasn’t the pain he had to fear. It was what came next.

The first time they made him kill, he almost laughed.
It was another prisoner, ragged and broken, shaking with terror. They shoved him in front of James, and the command was simple.
Kill him.
James looked at the trembling man on his knees. The terror in his eyes. The way his breath hitched in panic. But James didn’t feel pity. He didn’t feel anything.
The Soviets stood there, watching, cruel smiles on their faces, waiting for the violence to unfold. Waiting for him to satisfy them.
James didn’t move.
But it wasn’t because he couldn’t. It was because he didn’t want to. He didn’t need to kill this man to prove anything. It didn’t excite him. He was smarter than that. This—this was a game. A test. And he wasn’t here to play by anyone’s rules but his own.
He wasn’t just a tool. Not yet.

Weeks went by. Time was irrelevant.
James felt himself heal, slowly. His body, broken and battered, mended piece by piece. But it was the mental haze that bothered him more. The manipulation, the constant pressure to submit. He wasn’t their weapon, not yet. Not until he made it his own game.
They wanted to turn him into a soldier. A machine. But James had been a soldier before, and he knew how to make a deal.
He knew what they wanted from him.
And he knew how to get what he needed in return.

It didn’t take long for him to understand: They didn’t just want a soldier. They wanted someone they could own.
James could feel it. The way their eyes lingered on him, the way they spoke over his head, as if he was some tool to be used. They wanted his body. But they weren’t going to get it—not for free.

That’s when it hit him.
A deal.
He could offer them what they wanted—obedience, loyalty, strength. He would give them what they needed. But in return, they’d have to give him everything. Everything he craved.
They could have him, but they would pay for it. Better food. Better water. A clean bed. And most importantly, they would have to treat him like the prize he was. He wasn’t a slave. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He was a king in need of a kingdom.
And he needed them to worship him. To own him.
He wanted them to show him off like a thing of value, a thing of luxury. He wanted them to need him, to put him on display, to adore him. He wanted praise.
That was the price.
He would give them the weapon they needed. But they would have to give him everything else.
The luxury. The decadence. The worship.
James wasn’t some mindless killer anymore. He wasn’t just the Winter Soldier, the thing they could command. He was a man who knew what he was worth. He would be owned.
But if they wanted to own him, they’d have to show him they were worthy of it.

The idea was simple, but perfect.
The Soviets had underestimated him. They thought they could break him with pain, with isolation. But they were wrong. He wasn’t some animal to be tamed. He was a prize, and he would demand to be treated like one.
It wasn’t just a matter of survival anymore.
It was a matter of control.

James’ mind raced as he thought about what was coming next.
The Soviets would come. They would try to break him further, test him, manipulate him. But they were playing a game they couldn’t win. Because James didn’t need freedom. He didn’t need to be free.
What he needed was to be owned. He needed to be worshipped. And once they realized that, once they realized he was worth more than just a weapon, they would see the power in his hands.
And then, he would have everything he wanted.

Notes:

Please message me if you want to help write smut for this series, I'm not very good at it lol :) Idk yet if I'm gonna put all the smut in a separate work or just add it in later, we'll see.

Chapter 5: The Golden Leash

The air was thick with the stench of sweat and cigar smoke. A single, flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. James was standing in the middle of it, eyes locked on the imposing figure seated before him. The General.
Sokolov. The man who would be both his captor and his owner.
James had learned over the weeks of torment and manipulation that there was power in this man — power in his control. The man before him was not a brute like the others. He wasn’t simply another sadistic experimenter or a mindless officer. He was someone who could see the value in what James offered.
His eyes were calculating, sharp, unblinking as they watched James. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, as if he already knew what James was about to offer, but wanted him to speak it aloud. James had always known his worth. Always understood his place. But now, for the first time, he was in control of how that worth would be used.
"I’m yours," James said, his voice a low, throaty murmur, the words hanging between them like an invitation — an offering.
Sokolov’s gaze never wavered. There was a certain amusement in his eyes as he studied James — the broken, bloodied soldier standing before him, but there was something more. Something darker. Something that only men like them would understand.
"You offer yourself freely?" Sokolov’s voice was smooth, but there was a hardness underneath. A man who had seen many things, and yet, perhaps, he still found this proposition strange. Still unsure if James was playing a game or laying himself bare.
James nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. "I’ll kill for you," he said again, his voice steady now, though the weight of his words felt heavier this time. "I’ll kill whoever you want. However you want."
His gaze flickered to the side, then back to Sokolov, watching the General carefully. "But there’s a price," James continued, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. "I’ll want comfort between missions. A real bed. Food. Clean water. Warmth. And I want to be treated like I’m worth it."
The General’s eyes narrowed slightly, his brow furrowing just enough to show that he was thinking. There was no fear in James. No hesitation. Just a dark hunger, a twisted craving that had been brewing for months, and finally, it was coming to the surface.
James took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He felt the eyes of the soldiers in the room, but they weren’t important. They weren’t the ones who held the power here. Sokolov did.
"I’m more than just your assassin," James said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his tone thick with intent. "I can be your... entertainment. Your reward. Your pet."
He let the words sink in, feeling a thrill at the reaction he could already see forming in Sokolov’s eyes. A flicker of recognition. A glint of something he could almost taste. Power. Desire.
James pressed on, his breath a rasp, a low growl building in his chest as he spoke. "I’ll warm your bed," he murmured, his voice low and sinful. "I’ll kneel when you command. Submit when you tell me to. I’ll be yours, General." His hand moved to his chest, resting just above his heart. "Owned. Prized."
There it was. The offer. The bargaining chip. James wasn’t just selling his services. He was offering his submission. His need to be owned, controlled. To be taken, like a thing of value, something to be cared for and used.
Sokolov’s eyes flickered again, and for the first time, James saw the barest hint of approval in them. His lips curled, the corners twitching with a smile that promised something darker, something far more dangerous.
"You’re offering yourself as a... prize," Sokolov said, his voice quiet, calculating. "A weapon and a slave. A loyal... pet."
James didn’t flinch. He didn’t shy away from the word. It fit. It always had. "Yes," he said, his smile growing darker, more satisfied. "I’m yours. To use however you want. To own. I’ll kill for you. I’ll kill for your pleasure, General. But when the blood is done, I’ll be waiting for you in your bed. To serve. To please. To submit."
The room was silent. The tension thick enough to cut through. Sokolov’s gaze never left him. The weight of James’ offer hung heavily between them, but James wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t desperate. He was powerful in his own right, and he knew exactly what he was worth.
For the first time in months, he felt that fire inside of him stir again. That need. That craving. To be wanted. To be owned.
Sokolov leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the surface in front of him as he considered James’ offer. The silence stretched on, unbearable, but James knew better than to break it. He knew that when Sokolov made his decision, it would be final.
Finally, the General spoke, his voice low, commanding. "You’re not like the others," he said, his tone both a compliment and a challenge. "But I see what you are. You understand your place. And I understand yours."
James held his breath, waiting for the words that would seal his fate.
"You are mine, Winter Prince," Sokolov said, his voice thick with authority. "And you will serve me. But know this: you will be prized, and you will be mine to use. Your blood will spill for my gain, and in return, you will be cared for, rewarded, and kept. But remember... you are nothing but my weapon and my pet."
James' heart raced, a dark thrill curling in his chest. He wasn’t just a soldier. He was a weapon, a tool. But he was more than that. He was something to be kept. Something to be owned.
"Understood," James murmured, a grin curling at his lips. "Owned."

The cold wind of Russia howled as James stood in the courtyard of the Sokolov Estate, the towering walls of the mansion looming over him like a shadow. The wind bit at his exposed skin, but he didn’t flinch. There was something intoxicating about it, something that only fueled the thrill coursing through his veins. He was no longer just a weapon, a tool to be used. He was someone’s prize now — someone’s possession. And that made everything feel sharp, dangerous. He reveled in it.
Sokolov had given him a new name. A name that was both foreign and familiar, as if it were a shackle that tightened around his soul, marking him. Yasha. A diminutive of Yakov — the Russian version of his own name. It was a name that bound him to Sokolov, a symbol of his patronage, his ownership.
"Yasha," Sokolov had said, his voice laced with quiet authority, the word itself thick with meaning. It was a simple name, but it carried weight. It meant something. You are mine, it said. I claim you. And James had nodded, feeling the truth of it seep into his bones.
At first, he’d been uncertain. Yasha had been a name given to him in moments of control, of power, of absolute submission. It was everything he wanted — to be named, to be owned, to belong. And now it was official. He was Yasha.
The title that followed, however, was the one that made his skin tingle with anticipation. Sokolov didn’t just call him Yasha. No, in certain circles, when speaking to those who held power and influence, he was known as Zimniy Prints — the Winter Prince.
The name rang in his mind like a bell. Winter Prince. Not a servant. Not a soldier. A prince. It was the perfect codename for someone who had been through hell and yet emerged not just a weapon, but someone precious. Someone prized. He would wear that name with pride, knowing that it was both a title and a reminder of what he was meant to be — not only a killer, but something far more important: an object of lust, power, and obedience.
He’d been brought to the Sokolov Estate outside of Stalingrad, nestled in the thick of the Russian winter. The sprawling estate was surrounded by a labyrinth of trees and high fences, and the mansion itself was a fortress. Tall, dark stone walls, windows barely visible from the outside, a world unto itself.
The interior was luxurious, but James barely spared it a glance as he followed Sokolov through the grand hall. The cold marble floors beneath his feet were polished, smooth, and gleaming. The rooms were high-ceilinged, decorated with intricate tapestries and expensive furniture, but James’ attention was on something far more important: Sokolov’s presence. The man who owned him. The man who would shape him into something he’d always craved to be.
James felt the shift as he was led into the private wing of the estate, away from the business side and into the personal quarters. His new quarters. This was where he would stay, at least for now.
He was shown into a grand bedroom, its design austere yet decadent. The four-poster bed was larger than anything he had ever slept in, its silken sheets gleaming even in the dim light of the room. The decor was minimal, yet somehow, it all spoke of wealth — of ownership. This was where he would be kept, pampered, and used. It wasn’t a prison, but it sure as hell wasn’t freedom either. This place was different. Here, he was kept, prized, and well-cared for — as long as he proved himself.
Sokolov stood in the doorway, watching him with quiet amusement as James took in his new surroundings. "This is where you will stay," he said, his voice low and firm. "Comfort. Clean clothes. Good food. All the things you wanted. And when you’re not serving me, you will remain here. This is your place. Your home."
James’ lips twitched into a smile, but there was no humor in it. "Home," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, as if the word were both foreign and familiar. It felt right. It was a strange thing, this sense of belonging. He wanted it. Needed it. To be owned. To be prized.
Sokolov stepped closer, his presence commanding. "You will learn quickly that you are not like the others. You are something special, Yasha. A Winter Prince. And you will be treated as such."
James met his gaze, a spark of something dark igniting in him. He had always wanted to be treated like royalty, like something rare, something valuable. And now, for the first time, he was. He wasn’t just a soldier, a tool for destruction. He was a prize. A treasure. The thought made his pulse quicken.
"I’ll be a good boy," James said, his voice dripping with dark intent. "I’ll serve you well. I’ll be exactly what you want me to be."
Sokolov gave him a small, knowing smile. "I have no doubt, Yasha. But remember, your service will come at a price. You will kill for me. You will kill with no hesitation. You will do what I ask without question." His eyes darkened, the weight of the command clear. "But in return, you will be owned. You will belong to me, and I will reward you as you deserve."
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with meaning. James’ heart raced, his breath shallow, as he took in the promise that was being made. He was owned now. He was prized. And in that moment, everything else faded away.
The only thing that mattered was Sokolov. The man who had claimed him. The man who would use him. And James would let him. He would serve him with everything he had, because this was what he had always craved — to be wanted, to be needed, to be cherished. And in return, he would give everything: his loyalty, his obedience, his body.
And when the time came, when the blood was spilled, he would be there, at Sokolov’s side, ready to serve. Ready to kill. Ready to be used.
Because in this place, under this man’s ownership, James was no longer James Barnes. He was Yasha. The Winter Prince. And he would be treated as such.

The cold wind of Russia howled as James stood in the courtyard of the Sokolov Estate, the towering walls of the mansion looming over him like a shadow. The wind bit at his exposed skin, but he didn’t flinch. There was something intoxicating about it, something that only fueled the thrill coursing through his veins. He was no longer just a weapon, a tool to be used. He was someone’s prize now — someone’s possession. And that made everything feel sharp, dangerous. He reveled in it.
Sokolov had given him a new name. A name that was both foreign and familiar, as if it were a shackle that tightened around his soul, marking him. Yasha. A diminutive of Yakov — the Russian version of his own name. It was a name that bound him to Sokolov, a symbol of his patronage, his ownership.
"Yasha," Sokolov had said, his voice laced with quiet authority, the word itself thick with meaning. It was a simple name, but it carried weight. It meant something. You are mine, it said. I claim you. And James had nodded, feeling the truth of it seep into his bones.
At first, he’d been uncertain. Yasha had been a name given to him in moments of control, of power, of absolute submission. It was everything he wanted — to be named, to be owned, to belong. And now it was official. He was Yasha.
The title that followed, however, was the one that made his skin tingle with anticipation. Sokolov didn’t just call him Yasha. No, in certain circles, when speaking to those who held power and influence, he was known as Zimniy Prints — the Winter Prince.
The name rang in his mind like a bell. Winter Prince. Not a servant. Not a soldier. A prince. It was the perfect codename for someone who had been through hell and yet emerged not just a weapon, but someone precious. Someone prized. He would wear that name with pride, knowing that it was both a title and a reminder of what he was meant to be — not only a killer, but something far more important: an object of lust, power, and obedience.
He’d been brought to the Sokolov Estate outside of Stalingrad, nestled in the thick of the Russian winter. The sprawling estate was surrounded by a labyrinth of trees and high fences, and the mansion itself was a fortress. Tall, dark stone walls, windows barely visible from the outside, a world unto itself.
The interior was luxurious, but James barely spared it a glance as he followed Sokolov through the grand hall. The cold marble floors beneath his feet were polished, smooth, and gleaming. The rooms were high-ceilinged, decorated with intricate tapestries and expensive furniture, but James’ attention was on something far more important: Sokolov’s presence. The man who owned him. The man who would shape him into something he’d always craved to be.
James felt the shift as he was led into the private wing of the estate, away from the business side and into the personal quarters. His new quarters. This was where he would stay, at least for now.
He was shown into a grand bedroom, its design austere yet decadent. The four-poster bed was larger than anything he had ever slept in, its silken sheets gleaming even in the dim light of the room. The decor was minimal, yet somehow, it all spoke of wealth — of ownership. This was where he would be kept, pampered, and used. It wasn’t a prison, but it sure as hell wasn’t freedom either. This place was different. Here, he was kept, prized, and well-cared for — as long as he proved himself.
Sokolov stood in the doorway, watching him with quiet amusement as James took in his new surroundings. "This is where you will stay," he said, his voice low and firm. "Comfort. Clean clothes. Good food. All the things you wanted. And when you’re not serving me, you will remain here. This is your place. Your home."
James’ lips twitched into a smile, but there was no humor in it. "Home," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, as if the word were both foreign and familiar. It felt right. It was a strange thing, this sense of belonging. He wanted it. Needed it. To be owned. To be prized.
Sokolov stepped closer, his presence commanding. "You will learn quickly that you are not like the others. You are something special, Yasha. A Winter Prince. And you will be treated as such."
James met his gaze, a spark of something dark igniting in him. He had always wanted to be treated like royalty, like something rare, something valuable. And now, for the first time, he was. He wasn’t just a soldier, a tool for destruction. He was a prize. A treasure. The thought made his pulse quicken.
"I’ll be a good boy," James said, his voice dripping with dark intent. "I’ll serve you well. I’ll be exactly what you want me to be."
Sokolov gave him a small, knowing smile. "I have no doubt, Yasha. But remember, your service will come at a price. You will kill for me. You will kill with no hesitation. You will do what I ask without question." His eyes darkened, the weight of the command clear. "But in return, you will be owned. You will belong to me, and I will reward you as you deserve."
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with meaning. James’ heart raced, his breath shallow, as he took in the promise that was being made. He was owned now. He was prized. And in that moment, everything else faded away.
The only thing that mattered was Sokolov. The man who had claimed him. The man who would use him. And James would let him. He would serve him with everything he had, because this was what he had always craved — to be wanted, to be needed, to be cherished. And in return, he would give everything: his loyalty, his obedience, his body.
And when the time came, when the blood was spilled, he would be there, at Sokolov’s side, ready to serve. Ready to kill. Ready to be used.
Because in this place, under this man’s ownership, James was no longer James Barnes. He was Yasha. The Winter Prince. And he would be treated as such.

Chapter 6: Training

The sun barely broke over the horizon as Yasha stood in the cold, snow-strewn courtyard of the Sokolov Estate. His bare chest was heaving, breath coming out in visible plumes of steam, but his posture remained straight. His eyes, sharp and focused, betrayed none of the weariness his body felt. He had learned, over time, that weakness wasn’t tolerated here—not in the presence of his new Master, not among the men who regarded him with a strange mix of awe and envy.
Yasha had become a living legend among the Soviet elite. He was Zimniy Prints — the Winter Prince — an extension of Sokolov’s power. In the darkest halls of Moscow and the smoke-filled rooms of NKVD operatives, his name was whispered in reverence. The Winter Prince, an assassin to be feared, a weapon to be wielded.
But today, he wasn’t the Prince.
Today, he was a soldier. A mere tool, like any other. His training was brutal—an endless cycle of hand-to-hand combat, weapon drills, and endurance tests. His superhuman strength and speed were assets, but they were nothing without the discipline of a soldier.
Sokolov's men pushed him past the limits of what was humanly possible, but they still treated him with a warped respect. His exhaustion didn’t matter. His bloodied knuckles, his bruised skin, his aching muscles—they didn’t matter either. He wasn’t just another soldier; he was a symbol. A perfect creation of Soviet science, honed for war and bound to Sokolov’s will.
The trainers were cruel, their methods harsh. They didn’t care that Yasha had lost his arm or that his body had been rebuilt. They just cared that he performed. But there was an unspoken rule in the air. They couldn’t break him. Not completely. Not for long. Not when he had already been molded into something far more dangerous than they could ever comprehend.
One of Sokolov’s officers, a man named Mikhail, barked orders at him in Russian as he attempted yet another round of unarmed combat. Yasha was on the ground, blood running down his cheek from a particularly nasty blow to the face, but he wasn’t done yet. He rose to his feet, body moving with the precision and grace of a predator. There was no hesitation. No fear. Only a deep, boiling anticipation for the next battle.
Mikhail lunged, but Yasha was already moving. He twisted, his bare feet striking the snow-covered ground with quiet power. In a blur, his fist connected with Mikhail’s jaw, knocking him to the ground with brutal efficiency.
Yasha stood over him, breathing heavily but satisfied. His eyes met Mikhail’s for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he stepped back. He wasn’t just playing along with this training; he was asserting himself. He was showing them, all of them, that he was more than a weapon.
Sokolov would know this too.
But even as the officers praised his performance, even as they prodded him with questions and demands for further feats, Yasha felt a familiar ache deep in his chest. The thrill of combat—the joy of taking down his enemies—it was fleeting, empty. In the silence that followed, he found his thoughts drifting to other things.
To the warmth of Sokolov’s private chambers. To the gentle touch of his Master’s hand on his skin. To the knowledge that, even here, in the midst of this hellish training, he was owned. He was prized. The Winter Prince.
Sokolov, for all his gruff exterior, was still his Master. He had marked Yasha as his own, and the promise of luxury, of comfort, of decadent satisfaction, was always just within reach.
Later that evening, in the warmth of the estate’s grand halls, Yasha was led by Sokolov’s guards to a room filled with lavish furniture. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a soft silk robe was draped over the back of a chair, waiting for him. It felt like the only comfort in this cold, punishing world.
He shed his sweat-drenched training clothes without hesitation. He was sore, bruised, aching from the day’s trials, but there was something about the promise of comfort that made his heart race. The weight of the cold night air was suddenly replaced by the soft heat of the fire, and the fatigue in his body seemed to melt away.
The guards had been dismissed, leaving him alone in the room. Yasha’s mind raced. This was his space, his sanctuary, a place where Sokolov allowed him the illusion of control—because, in truth, he was owned, and that made it all the sweeter. He moved to the bed slowly, kneeling on it with a quiet reverence, his bare skin glowing in the warm light. This wasn’t weakness. This was what he craved. To be here. To belong. To be more than a soldier.
He waited, patiently. For Sokolov’s return. For whatever his Master might demand next.
But tonight, Yasha knew something had shifted. He was more than just a tool, more than just a weapon in the hands of the Soviets. He was a prize.
And he would serve his Master for as long as Sokolov saw fit.

The door opened with a soft click, and Yasha didn’t need to look up to know who had entered. He could feel it—like a thread pulled taut between them, humming with anticipation. The warmth in the room deepened as General Sokolov stepped inside, dressed not in uniform, but in a sleek, high-collared house coat of deep red wool, sharp against the snow dusting his shoulders.
Yasha stayed perfectly still, kneeling on the bed, spine straight, hands resting palm-down on his thighs. He knew what this was. He’d felt it coming in the way the servants avoided his gaze today, in how the guards had spoken in hushed tones outside his door. His bruises were still fresh from combat, but his skin was scrubbed clean, and the silk robe left on the chair remained untouched. He wanted Sokolov to see him like this—unclothed, unguarded, waiting.
Sokolov crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. He said nothing at first. Only looked.
Yasha held his gaze, not defiant, but inviting.
“You present yourself well,” Sokolov said finally, voice low and measured. “Like a gift.”
Yasha felt his stomach twist—not with nerves, but pleasure. The approval was soft, but it filled his chest like a drug. He bowed his head in response, his voice husky from disuse.
“I am a gift, General.”
A pause. Then the scrape of a chair being pulled forward.
“Tonight,” Sokolov said, seating himself with a regal ease, “we begin your second education.”
Yasha’s pulse quickened.
“You’re already an excellent killer,” the General continued. “Precise. Efficient. Loyal. But that’s only half of what you’ll become.”
Yasha lifted his head slightly, curious.
“You will learn how to kneel properly,” Sokolov said, “how to move, speak, and serve in a way that turns men into worshippers and kings into beasts. You will be taught to take orders not only on the battlefield, but in the bedroom. With poise. With grace. And with pride.”
Yasha’s lips parted just slightly, the words winding around him like silk.
Sokolov smiled, not unkindly. “You enjoy being a good soldier. Now you will learn to be a perfect whore.”
There was no shame in it—not in the General’s tone, not in the way the words rolled off his tongue like praise. And Yasha… Yasha felt seen.
“Yes, General,” he whispered.
“Wrong,” Sokolov said calmly. “If I am to own you, you will call me Master in this room.”
The shift was immediate. Yasha felt it like the click of a collar around his throat.
“Yes, Master,” he corrected, his voice softer, reverent.
Sokolov stood and walked to him, letting his fingers brush lightly along Yasha’s jaw, then down his neck. Not possessively—demonstratively. As though confirming the quality of something rare and cherished.
“We begin with posture,” Sokolov murmured. “Back straighter. Chin down slightly. Good. Hands, palms-up. Show me you’re open.”
Yasha adjusted. Each correction was like music, each adjustment a moment of transformation.
“You’re not a dog,” Sokolov said. “Not yet. You’re a Prince. You’re mine. You will learn to hold yourself like something valuable. Something that can be displayed.”
Yasha’s breath trembled with pleasure. This wasn’t humiliation. It was purpose.
“You will learn the difference between obedience and eagerness,” Sokolov continued. “You’ll know when to speak and when to stay silent. You’ll ask for permission to touch. To come. To serve. And when I command it… you’ll do so with joy.”
Yasha whispered, “Yes, Master.”
Sokolov paused, tilting his head. “And what does that make you?”
Yasha looked up at him, eyes shining.
“Yours.”
A satisfied silence followed.
“Good,” Sokolov said, stroking his hair back from his face. “Then we’ll start small. Titles. Etiquette. Rules. You will wear the collar when I say. You will eat at my feet, drink from my hands, and learn what it means to be prized—not for your body, but your surrender.”
Yasha’s heart pounded in his chest. This was what he’d been waiting for.
A life not of freedom, but of luxury. A leash he could trust. One held by someone who saw him—what he was, what he wanted, what he needed to thrive.
“I’ll be good,” he whispered, voice trembling with reverence.
Sokolov's hand cradled his jaw, gentle.
“You’ll be perfect.”

The days bled into one another, marked only by the rhythm of Yasha’s body breaking and healing, submitting and rising. Mornings began with drills—brutal, relentless, tailored for someone no longer merely human. He ran obstacle courses under a hail of live fire, lifted weights that would have broken most men’s spines, learned every Russian firearm down to the click of its safety.
He was not permitted to speak unless asked a question. He was not allowed to rest until dismissed. And yet, he thrived.
The Winter Soldier was being forged with every strike of the whip, every barked command, every instance where he bit down on a scream and kept moving. But when night came, the training changed.
Evenings belonged to the Winter Prince.
Sokolov himself handled this side of the boy’s education. At first, it was posture. Grace. How to walk through the halls with a regal stillness, how to command a room without speaking. Then it became table manners, languages, subtle social codes. French. German. Polish. Japanese. Which wine to drink with duck. How to tilt his chin just so when offering his hand to be kissed.
And then came the intimacy.
Not in the way of lovers—but in the unshakeable intimacy between sculptor and marble.
Sokolov did not touch Yasha in the way men touched whores, and Yasha learned quickly not to expect it. The general didn’t take; he bestowed. Every order, every collar, every whispered "good boy" after a display of perfect submission was a gift Yasha craved with bone-deep hunger.
He came to live for the praise. For the touch of Sokolov’s hand on his hair. For the warmth of a bath drawn by servants but watched over by Master. For the silk of his Winter Prince wardrobe—each piece tailored to both flatter and restrain. Tight leather vests, gloves that buttoned to the elbow, silver clasps at his throat. Leashes that clipped to the inside of his coat. Control, woven into elegance.
In those quiet nights, Yasha would kneel at Sokolov’s feet, shirtless but wearing fine trousers and a velvet collar, and recite his lessons.
“Who do you belong to?” Sokolov would ask.
“You, Master.”
“And what are you?”
“Your soldier. Your whore. Your prince.”
“Good. Again.”
There were evenings when Sokolov would simply sit beside him, brushing his hair back and murmuring things in Russian—old proverbs, ancient lullabies, words Yasha barely understood but let himself absorb like a spell. There was affection in the way he was handled. Not love, not quite. But something darker. Twisted. Fatherly.
“Yakov,” Sokolov said one night, stroking a finger along his cheek. “My beautiful boy.”
The name struck something inside Yasha. It wasn’t James. That name was American, lost in blood and ice. It wasn’t even Bucky, a name he’d always hated, a name of soft boys and weaker days.
Yakov. The Russian name for James. But smaller. Diminished. Claimed.
And yet—elevated. Because when Sokolov said it, he said it like a secret. Like a prayer.
The transformation culminated one snow-laced morning when Yasha was summoned to the drawing room, the same room where he’d first knelt, bruised and bloodied, and begged to be used.
Sokolov stood beside a low table, papers spread before him, a glass of dark liquor in his hand.
“Come,” he said, gesturing.
Yasha padded forward, dressed not in silks tonight, but in the crisp black uniform Sokolov had designed for him. Tight across the chest, high collar, silver trim. On the shoulder: a patch stitched with a wolf and crown.
Sokolov gestured to the papers.
“Do you know what this is?”
Yasha scanned them. Cyrillic, official markings, Ministry seals.
“No, Master.”
“Your new identity,” Sokolov said simply. “Signed by the Party. Approved by the Politburo. You are no longer an American ghost. No longer property of Hydra. No longer unwanted.”
He handed Yasha a small leather booklet—deep red, with the hammer and sickle embossed in gold.
A Soviet passport.
“Your name,” Sokolov said, voice almost soft, “is Sergeant Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov. You are now, legally and politically, my son. My heir. And my weapon.”
The words struck him with the weight of ceremony. Yasha’s hands trembled around the passport.
“You belong to Russia now,” Sokolov said, stepping closer. “But more than that—you belong to me.”
Yasha looked up at him, lips parting, his voice a whisper:
“I’ll make you proud, Master.”
Sokolov smiled and touched a hand to his hair, then rested it there—light but final.
“You already have, Zimniy Prints.”

Chapter 7: Debut

Snow powdered the streets of Leningrad, crisp and glittering under the glow of gaslight and candle flame. The Sokolov Estate shimmered like something out of a storybook—frosted windows glowing warm gold, carriages and motorcars crunching up the drive. Uniformed guards stood at attention at every door, and the air carried the scent of pine, fur, and expensive tobacco.
Inside, the ballroom was a study in decadent restraint. Dark mahogany walls. Crystal chandeliers. Red velvet banners edged with gold thread. Every powerful man in Soviet Russia was in attendance: ministers, generals, scientists, and ideologues. Even a few foreign diplomats, escorted tightly and watched even more tightly, circled the room with champagne flutes in hand.
And at the heart of it all, Yasha.
He entered on Sokolov’s arm like a favored concubine from a czar’s court—collared, gloved, and perfect.
He wore black velvet with silver trim, his waist cinched tight in a custom corset that emphasized his lean, muscled frame. A silk half-cape fell over his left shoulder, the right kept bare to show the silver glint of the new prosthetic grafted to the stump where his arm had once been. It wasn’t yet fully functional—but it gleamed like art. His boots were polished mirror-sharp, and a delicate silver leash clipped from his collar to Sokolov’s wrist.
Yasha’s makeup was subtle but intentional: powdered pale, lashes darkened, lips touched just enough to invite hunger. His eyes were kohl-rimmed, accentuating the cold, dangerous beauty of the thing he had become.
Sokolov introduced him not with rank, but with reverence.
“Zimniy Prints,” he said, voice proud and low. “My Winter Prince.”
Yasha kept his eyes lowered, but he could feel the ripple of attention. Power thickened in the air. Men leaned in. Women whispered. His presence had weight.
He was not the soldier some had expected. He was not a beast of war or a frothing savage. He was worse.
He was a tamed weapon.
He was owned.
And then, he came.
Stalin arrived with no fanfare. He did not need it. The room simply shifted, as though instinctively aware of a gravity more profound than politics.
Sokolov stepped forward, respectful, but unbowed. “Comrade Stalin.”
“General,” Stalin greeted. His eyes shifted—sharp and assessing—to Yasha. “This is the one you spoke of?”
“Yes,” Sokolov said. “My creation. My legacy.”
Yasha dropped into a perfect kneel, hands behind his back, eyes up.
“Comrade Stalin,” he said, voice honeyed and cool.
Stalin approached slowly, eyes scanning every inch of him. Not with lust—no, not quite. With the curiosity of a man inspecting a rare gem. A weapon. A miracle.
“And what is it you are meant to be, boy?” Stalin asked.
Yasha smiled faintly. “A prince, Comrade. And a pet.”
There was silence. Then, unexpectedly, laughter. Low and pleased.
“You’ve trained him well,” Stalin said, glancing at Sokolov. “He’s exquisite. Like porcelain soaked in blood.”
Yasha flushed under the praise, spine straightening subtly.
“Will he perform?” Stalin asked. “Can he be tested?”
Sokolov’s smile was razor thin. “He lives to serve.”
And Yasha—glorious in velvet and steel, collared and leashed, a killer with the gaze of a courtesan—bowed his head.
“Command me, Comrade,” he said sweetly.
And thus, the Winter Prince was welcomed into the heart of the Soviet Empire.

The Winter Prince did not need a stage.
The crowd formed a natural circle in the ballroom, drawing back instinctively as Yasha rose from his kneel, unhurried, eyes half-lidded with pleasure and purpose. A hush fell as Sokolov unhooked the silver leash and stepped aside, watching with a glint of hunger in his eyes.
At the center of the circle, a Red Army officer—young, broad-shouldered, clearly chosen for his physique rather than his intellect—stood at attention. A test. A challenge.
A prop.
Yasha approached the man with slow, liquid grace, boots silent against marble. He circled him once, deliberately, his gloved fingers brushing lightly over the soldier’s collar, shoulder, jaw.
Then, without warning, he moved—lightning-fast, brutal, precise.
A flash of silver. A twist of his prosthetic arm. The soldier was slammed down onto the floor, his wrist twisted behind his back, Yasha straddling his spine like a lion pinning prey. He didn’t strike. Didn’t need to. The display was power in its purest form—dominance, grace, control.
Gasps echoed around the room. A few diplomats murmured to their aides in their native tongues, intrigue thick in their voices.
Yasha stood slowly, letting the soldier crawl away in shame.
Then, in one fluid motion, he unfastened the half-cape, letting it fall to the floor like spilled ink. The room got quieter. Hungrier.
“Do you see?” Sokolov’s voice rang out, cold and reverent. “He is not just a weapon. He is art.”
Yasha turned his back to the crowd, head tilted to the side, baring his neck like an invitation. A red silk ribbon had been threaded through the metal links of his collar—a symbolic leash. He took it in one hand and offered it up to the crowd.
“Who among you is worthy of holding Russia’s leash?” Sokolov asked, voice rich with challenge.
Stalin stepped forward. “None of us. Not yet.”
But Yasha heard it—the shift in tone. The want. He could feel it radiating from the room: desire, reverence, fear.
He had them.
He had them all.
Later, there would be whispers in corridors and lavish parlors.
The Winter Prince.
The Crown Jewel of Russia.
A velvet-gloved killer with a courtesan’s face and a monster’s soul.
Even the French attaché murmured to his translator, “C’est une arme vivante. Un chef-d'œuvre.”
A living weapon. A masterpiece.
And Stalin—cold, brilliant Stalin—clapped once, solemn and slow.
“We will make history with this one,” he said. “The world will kneel.”
Yasha smiled faintly as the leash was returned to Sokolov’s hand.
Let them.
He was their prince now. Their pet. Their pride.
And soon, the whole world would learn to fear the name Zimniy Prints.

Chapter 8: Lessons in Devotion

Stalin did not touch Yasha—not at first.
He observed. Watched with the clinical detachment of a man who saw nations as chessboards and people as pieces. But Yasha was not a piece.
He was a symbol.
And symbols, Stalin believed, required perfection.
"You’re a weapon, yes," Stalin murmured as he paced a slow circle around the kneeling Winter Prince, his hands clasped behind his back. "But weapons are easy. Any fool with steel can kill. You—you must learn to enchant. To ruin men not with bullets, but with breath."
Yasha shivered, not from fear, but from eagerness. Praise, especially from someone like this, was its own kind of touch.
“Yes, Vozhd,” he whispered, head bowed, spine arched with silent offering. His obedience was flawless. He bloomed under structure.
Stalin paused behind him. “You’re beautiful. But beauty alone is currency without value. It must be wielded.”
Yasha nodded. He wanted to learn. Needed to become everything they desired—everything they could show off, brag about, conquer the world with.
So Stalin taught.
Not with touches, but words. With lessons.
“You must learn to read hunger in a glance. Anticipate needs before they are spoken. Submission is not weakness, little Prince—it is strategy.”
Yasha devoured every word.
He was trained in posture. In tone. In silence. How to wield his eyes like weapons, how to use stillness like a blade. Stalin would summon diplomats, minor officers, Party wives and foreign journalists—and Yasha would practice. Bowing. Smiling. Standing just close enough for his scent to be noticed, just far enough to stay out of reach.
Stalin would watch it all from his seat, expression unreadable, hands steepled beneath his chin.
“Your obedience is perfect,” he murmured one evening as Yasha knelt, trembling slightly from the exertion of holding his pose. “But perfection is cold. You must learn to burn.”
“Teach me,” Yasha whispered, eyes glassy with devotion.
Stalin offered him a rare smile. “You will be the fire beneath their bedsheets. The blade behind their desire. And when they beg for you—you, not just your body—you will smile and give them nothing until Sokolov allows it.”
Yasha whimpered softly, the leash wrapped around his hand like a rosary.
He was becoming what they wanted.
A prince. A weapon. A luxury.
And with every whispered lesson, every command wrapped in silk and threat, Yasha only fell deeper into his role.
He did not miss James Barnes.
James had been ordinary.
But Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov, the Winter Prince?
He would be immortal.

The salon was velvet-draped and low-lit, designed not for comfort but for spectacle. The chandeliers above cast golden light across polished wood floors, where members of the Soviet elite mingled with carefully selected foreign dignitaries. French, German, British—spies disguised as envoys, all eyes and secrets.
Yasha stood just behind Stalin’s chair.
Dressed in slate-gray silk and tailored black trousers, his uniform wasn’t military—it was designed. It clung to his figure, accentuating the line of his throat, the fine dip of his waist. His dark hair was brushed back, lips subtly rouged to deepen the natural pink of them. A black velvet collar graced his neck, fastened by a golden clasp bearing the hammer and sickle. A leash could easily be clipped to it.
He looked like the answer to a question no one dared ask aloud.
Stalin tapped his fingers once on the arm of his chair. A signal.
Yasha moved forward.
The man waiting for him was British—Sir Edmund Lawton, a senior attaché from London with a reputation for arrogance and a taste for young company. He was middle-aged, pink with wine and indulgence, and regarded Yasha like one might an expensive dessert.
“Ah,” Lawton said, smirking. “So this is the boy?”
“Prince,” Stalin corrected coolly, swirling the amber in his glass. “Russia’s Crown Jewel.”
Yasha offered a shallow bow, then moved to Lawton’s side like water flowing into place. He tilted his head just so, let his lashes lower, spoke in soft English:
“May I sit beside you, Sir?”
The diplomat blinked once, caught off guard by the combination of submissive deference and pure poise. “Of course,” he said, coughing to mask how dry his throat had gone.
Yasha took the seat with fluid grace, letting his thigh brush against Lawton’s. Just enough contact to distract. Just enough heat to bait.
He let Lawton speak—about politics, about the weather, about the tedium of Moscow—and made all the right noises. Soft laughter. Light touches to the forearm. A deliberate glance at his mouth. Not too eager. Not too coy.
Perfect.
From his vantage, Stalin observed like a proud, ruthless mentor. Every nod, every lean of Yasha’s body was calculated. Yasha listened like Lawton’s words were scripture, responded as though the man were clever, interesting, important.
By the time Yasha murmured, “You must be terribly lonely in such a cold country,” Lawton looked ready to sell MI6 itself for a kiss.
He leaned in.
Yasha placed a hand gently on his chest—not a push, not a refusal, just a pause.
“I belong to Russia,” he said, low and lilting. “To my General. And to the Vozhd.”
His smile was devastating.
The leash, invisible but unmistakable, gleamed behind his words.
Lawton sat back, breathless.
Stalin finally spoke, calm and amused: “Careful, Sir Edmund. You look ready to defect.”
The room laughed politely. But Lawton didn’t.
He looked at Yasha like he was already lost.
Later that evening, after the guests had gone and the salon was once more silent, Stalin approached where Yasha stood, hands still folded, posture pristine.
“You passed,” he said simply. “They’ll be whispering about you for weeks.”
Yasha didn’t smile. He bowed his head.
“Thank you, Vozhd.”
Stalin touched his shoulder once—rare, reverent.
“You are ready,” he said. “For greater things.”

Chapter 9: Beneath the Velvet Glove

It was late when Yasha returned to his quarters in the Sokolov Estate.
The corridors were dark, lit only by flickering sconces and the soft sheen of moonlight filtering through frosted windows. His feet barely made a sound against the polished wood floors. The air was cool, still carrying the perfume of cigar smoke, fine wine, and power.
He had performed beautifully. Stalin had said as much. Sokolov had said nothing—but his silence was never empty. It crackled with approval.
Yasha lit a single lamp and undid the buttons of his silk shirt slowly, methodically. His reflection in the mirror stared back: flushed, composed, and beautifully collared. He touched the velvet ribbon around his throat with reverence.
The door behind him opened without a knock.
Sokolov.
He entered the room like a storm disguised as a man—broad-shouldered, severe, his uniform pristine even at this hour. His eyes swept over Yasha once, from collar to bare feet. They lingered.
“You pleased him,” Sokolov said, voice low.
Yasha’s mouth curled in a subtle smile. “Of course I did.”
Sokolov’s gaze darkened.
He crossed the room without hesitation and reached for Yasha’s face—not with violence, but with possession. A gloved hand beneath his jaw, tilting his head up, forcing him to look.
Yasha melted under the touch. His knees softened. His lips parted.
“Say it,” Sokolov ordered.
“I’m yours,” Yasha breathed.
The glove slipped off. Sokolov’s bare fingers traced the curve of Yasha’s cheek, his throat, down to the collar that marked him.
“You belong to Russia,” he said, voice rich with certainty. “But you are mine.”
“Yes, General,” Yasha whispered.
There was something almost holy in the silence that followed.
And then Sokolov kissed him.
Not cruel. Not hurried. It was deep, deliberate, and utterly consuming. The kind of kiss that said I made you, and I will keep you. Yasha melted into it, clutching at Sokolov’s uniform, pulling him closer like gravity itself demanded it.
When they finally parted, both breathing hard, Sokolov leaned close, his voice a promise:
“You’ll sleep in my bed tonight.”
Yasha shivered.
“Thank you,” he said, lips brushing the man’s throat. “Thank you for using me well.”
Sokolov chuckled darkly.
“Oh, Winter Prince, I’m only getting started.”

Yasha woke slowly, cocooned in warmth and the faint scent of expensive tobacco and leather.
The sheets were silk. The mattress, impossibly soft. Sunlight spilled across the bed in long, golden stripes, and for a moment, he simply breathed—deep, satisfied, sore in all the right ways.
Sokolov’s arm was heavy around his waist, his presence looming even in rest. The General did not sleep often, and never deeply, but when he did, he allowed it only here. With Yasha. In this bed. In this quiet, gilded sanctuary far removed from the sharp coldness of the world outside.
Yasha turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the inside of the man’s wrist where bare skin met gold watch. A ritual now. A quiet prayer of gratitude for being possessed.
He felt… kept. Claimed. Worn like a badge, but polished like a gemstone.
His collar sat snug against his throat, still fastened from the night before. He never removed it unless Sokolov ordered it—and the General had not. Not yet. It was a mark of status, after all. A mark of worth.
Sokolov stirred behind him.
“You’re awake,” came the low rasp against his shoulder.
“I wanted to be the first thing you saw,” Yasha said, voice honey-slow.
Sokolov chuckled, the sound deep and fond. “You always are.”
Yasha turned in his arms, stretching like a cat, languid and spoiled. “Did I do well?”
Sokolov raised a brow. “You shined. Even Stalin was impressed. You’ve made the Party… curious.”
Yasha purred, basking in it. Praise was his drug—his reward. His purpose.
“Good. I want to be the crown on your empire,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “I want them all to see me and know who I belong to.”
Sokolov tilted his chin, studied him with a gaze sharpened by pride.
“They already do, Zimniy Prints,” he murmured. “They whisper your name in every hall. Russia’s Crown Jewel. The Winter Prince. My beautiful little blade.”
Yasha flushed with delight.
He lived for this: to be spoken of like a thing rare and precious. To be used, sharpened, displayed, and adored.
Sokolov shifted, rolling Yasha fully beneath him with the ease of ownership. “One more hour,” he said, voice dark with promise. “Then you’ll be bathed, dressed, and paraded before diplomats. Smile for them. Make them ache. Let them envy me.”
Yasha grinned.
“Yes, General.”
And when Sokolov kissed him again—slow and thorough—Yasha offered everything without hesitation. His body. His breath. His purpose.
Because this was the reward for perfect obedience: to be worshipped like treasure and ruined like property.
And Yasha wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter 10: Polished for Display

The Winter air that morning was cruel, but the palace was kept warm, the heat laced with the soft, spiced smoke of clove cigarettes and the burnished scent of old wood polish. Yasha stood in front of the gilded mirror, a vision of trained perfection. Still. Beautiful. Bare.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Three attendants worked around him in reverent silence, smoothing lotion into his skin, combing out his dark hair, trimming the ends just so. Another knelt behind him, buffing the boots he’d yet to put on. Sokolov stood nearby, watching everything with an impassive expression and sharp, unreadable eyes.
Yasha had learned quickly that the performance began long before you entered the room. It began in how you were prepared. How you were polished.
Tonight would mark his official introduction to foreign dignitaries as Zimniy Prints—Winter Prince—Sokolov’s prize and Russia’s latest masterpiece.
“Hold out your wrists,” one of the attendants murmured.
Yasha obeyed instantly, extending them. Thin chains of silver and onyx were fastened around each wrist, delicate but unmistakable: not shackles, but jewelry that implied them. A statement.
Next came the collar—thicker than the one he wore at night, this one built like a choker with the Sokolov crest in cold steel resting against his throat. There was no clasp; it locked in place with a soft click, only the General holding the key.
Yasha inhaled softly, the weight grounding him. He felt his spine straighten, his focus sharpen.
He was not just a man. He was an ornament. A promise. A threat wrapped in silk.
“Perfect,” Sokolov said finally, stepping closer.
Yasha turned his head, not quite meeting his gaze. Submissive. Poised. Silent.
Sokolov’s hand ghosted along his jaw, thumb brushing over Yasha’s bottom lip.
“Speak.”
Yasha’s voice was soft and breathy, a performance of innocence he wore like perfume.
“Thank you, General. For making me worthy of being seen.”
Sokolov’s lips curved faintly. “You were always worthy. I merely helped you remember what you were born to be.”
He nodded once to the attendants.
Yasha was dressed in the formal uniform—black with silver piping, tailored to fit like a second skin. The medals were real. The rank was real. The reputation he was building would be legend.
But beneath it all, he was still collared.
Still claimed.
A beautiful contradiction.
He stepped into the heels of his polished boots, then held still while white gloves were pulled onto his hands—thin, smooth, elegant. Weaponless, but no less dangerous.
“You’ll be introduced as my heir,” Sokolov said, circling him slowly. “My finest creation. Smile for the French. Bow for the Italians. Let the Americans look and feel envy bleed from their teeth.”
Yasha smiled. Slow. Sharp.
“Yes, General.”
Tonight, he would be art.
Tonight, they would all see him.
And none of them would ever forget the name Zimniy Prints.

The waiting room off the grand ballroom was dim, quiet, and lined with velvet drapes to drown out the distant murmur of foreign tongues and clinking glasses. Soft amber light cast long shadows across the floor, gilding the edge of Yasha’s boots as he stood still in the center of the room, hands behind his back, collar gleaming at his throat.
He was perfection wrapped in regulation—formally dressed, formally trained. Every breath under control. Every movement deliberate.
But this wasn’t about presentation anymore.
This was about trust.
Loyalty.
Obedience.
Sokolov entered without a word, and Yasha dropped to his knees before the man, like a string pulled taut. His gloves touched the floor. His head bowed, hair falling like ink over his cheek.
He didn’t speak until ordered.
Sokolov walked a slow circle around him, inspecting him as if he were a weapon to be paraded before generals—or a show dog set to perform in front of wolves.
“Do you know what this evening is?” Sokolov asked, voice calm and cold.
Yasha’s voice was barely more than breath. “My debut, General.”
Sokolov hummed. “And?”
“My final test.”
“Correct.”
A pause.
Then a gloved hand tangled in Yasha’s hair, guiding his head back until he was staring up into the General’s gaze. There was no cruelty there. Only calculation—and something possessive that had taken root over the past months. Something quietly proud.
“You know what they think of you,” Sokolov said. “What they fear. They wonder if you’re a weapon… or a trap. They think you might signal the Americans. Escape. Betray us.”
“I won’t,” Yasha said simply.
“I know. But they must know too. Tonight, your obedience must be flawless. Your charm must drip like honey. Your restraint must feel like elegance, not fear.”
“Yes, General.”
“Look at me.”
Yasha’s gaze lifted. Blue eyes wide, obedient, hungry.
Sokolov let go of his hair and instead ran a thumb across Yasha’s bottom lip, slow and heavy with silent expectation.
“What are you?”
Yasha’s lips parted, breath hitching.
“Yours,” he whispered.
“And if they ask?”
“I’m Russia’s crown jewel. The Winter Prince.”
“And beneath it?”
Yasha smiled. Soft. Secret.
“A loyal pet. Polished. Owned.”
Sokolov finally allowed the faintest curve of a smile, pride rippling beneath the surface like oil over still water. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver pin—an ornate crest: the Sokolov family insignia.
“Your final adornment.”
He pinned it just below Yasha’s medals, above his heart.
“This is not just for them. It is for you. You wear my name now. My house. My protection. Understand?”
Yasha nodded. He felt the weight of it settle deep into his bones. It wasn’t fear. It was comfort.
It was belonging.
“Tonight,” Sokolov said, brushing a final speck of lint from Yasha’s shoulder, “you do not flinch. You do not waver. You dazzle.”
Yasha stood slowly at the General’s gesture. Not a boy. Not a soldier.
A legend in the making.
“I won’t fail you.”
Sokolov straightened his collar with practiced ease, then stepped back and gave a sharp nod.
“Then go, my Zimniy Prints. Show them why even the West will one day kneel.”

Chapter 11: Unveiled

The grand ballroom of the Leningrad Diplomatic Hall glittered like ice under gaslight. Crystal chandeliers swayed ever so slightly overhead. Murmurs curled between diplomats like smoke, soft and conspiratorial, in a dozen languages.
The air was thick with politics and perfume.
And then—the crier at the top of the marble staircase struck his cane once against the floor.
“Presenting Sergeant Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov,” the man declared, voice ringing out, crisp and commanding, “decorated son of the Union, ward of General Sokolov, and emissary of the Zimniy Project—the Winter Prince.”
Every conversation halted. All heads turned.
Yasha stood at the threshold, framed by the towering archway behind him. His military uniform was tailored within an inch of scandal—dark and clean, with polished medals and the Sokolov family crest glinting on his chest. His long hair was swept back into a velvet ribbon. His expression was composed, cool, serene.
A crown jewel meant to be seen.
He descended the stairs with unhurried grace, each step measured. He did not fidget. He did not smile. He was a weapon in a silk holster, perfectly poised to kill or curtsy, depending on what the moment demanded.
Eyes followed him. Whispers bloomed in his wake like poppies.
“...the Sokolov boy…”
“…Winter Prince… I heard he was trained…”
“…no older than twenty-five—”
And then, in English—soft, sharp, laced with disbelief:
“Is that—? That’s Bucky Barnes. From the 107th.”
Yasha paused only a fraction at the base of the stairs, gaze sweeping across the crowd. He caught the glint of American lapels—diplomats and generals, some he recognized dimly through the drugged haze of his old life. Faces that had watched him bleed in the mud. Faces that had seen Captain America lift him from it.
He gave them nothing.
But inside?
Oh, inside he smiled.
Steven Grant Rogers, he thought. Noble to the end. Always the hero. Always ready to die for love.
He imagined the moment: Steve crashing that plane into the ice, thinking of the mission, of duty… but most of all, thinking of him. Of “Bucky.”
How funny, then, that Bucky was gone.
That the boy Steve had died for now wore the name of the enemy. That he now bowed his head not to freedom, but to command.
Touching, Yasha thought with a trace of dark amusement. He died for a ghost.
“Sergeant Sokolov.” A Russian minister approached, offering a formal nod and a glass of chilled champagne. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you.”
Yasha accepted the glass with perfect etiquette, offering a bow just deep enough to show humility, not subservience.
“Thank you, Minister. It is my honor to serve the Union.”
He turned back to the crowd as conversations resumed. He caught one of the Americans staring.
A general, pale and aging, eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“Barnes?” he muttered under his breath to the man beside him. “That’s Barnes. Sergeant James Barnes.”
“No,” the other man said slowly, shaking his head. “That man’s eyes are colder than Barnes ever was.”
Yasha caught their gaze for a heartbeat too long—then raised his glass in a silent toast.
The American paled.
He turned and walked away before the man could summon the courage to speak.
The ballroom doors shut behind him, and the whispers grew bolder.
Russia’s Crown Jewel had arrived.

The scent of caviar mingled with the faintest hint of tobacco smoke as Yasha made his way through the crowd. The ballroom was filled with the elite of the Soviet Union—diplomats, generals, Party officials—and the occasional foreign dignitary, all of them dressed in their finest. He was the centerpiece of the evening, and they couldn’t take their eyes off him.
He moved slowly, deliberately, offering nothing more than a polite smile to those who greeted him. He was a weapon disguised as a prince, but it was not his steel and blood that held their attention—it was the way he moved through the room, his presence felt like a pulse, a hum in the air.
The Americans, of course, were the most interesting. They hadn’t yet decided whether he was a curiosity or a threat.
“Comrade Sokolov,” one of them, a stout man with thick glasses, said as he stepped forward. His name was General Harrington, and he looked at Yasha with a knowing, skeptical gaze. “I must admit, I did not expect to see you here tonight. I had heard... rumors.”
Yasha allowed his lips to curve upward, just enough to show the faintest glimmer of amusement. He didn’t flinch, didn’t break character. Sergeant James Bucky Barnes was a ghost in the wind now—nothing more than a shadow of the past. But that face… that hauntingly familiar face, it worked wonders.
“Rumors, General?” Yasha said smoothly, his Russian accent thickening just enough to suggest both authority and mystery. “I don’t put much stock in rumors. I prefer facts.”
Harrington’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t challenge Yasha. Not yet. Instead, he offered a tight smile and a handshake, which Yasha accepted with a firm grip, cold and controlled.
“Indeed,” the general said, trying to probe further, his voice laced with suspicion. “And what exactly is it that brings you to the heart of Soviet power, Comrade Sokolov? I understand you’re an… important asset to our people.”
The phrasing hung in the air like a delicate thread, a veiled attempt at probing Yasha’s past, at discerning whether the whispers about Barnes—the American soldier who had vanished—were true.
Yasha leaned in slightly, dropping his voice just low enough for only Harrington to hear. His tone was playful, almost teasing.
“My history... is of no consequence to the likes of you, General,” Yasha said, lips curling into a smile that was more like a warning than a gesture of kindness. “What matters now is the present. I am the Winter Prince. That is who I am.”
The general’s face twisted slightly in frustration, but Yasha did not give him the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort.
“The Winter Prince...” Harrington repeated slowly, tasting the words, perhaps wondering if Yasha was mocking him. “And what, exactly, does a Winter Prince do?”
Yasha glanced around the room, then back to the general. His eyes were cold, unfathomable—no hint of emotion to betray his thoughts. He leaned closer, just enough for their faces to be mere inches apart.
“I do what I’m told,” he whispered, the words a dark promise. “What you are told, General. And what he tells me to do, too. A prince serves his kingdom, after all.”
Harrington’s breath caught, but before he could respond, Yasha stepped back, his gaze turning to the other diplomats who had been watching them. He flashed a brief, innocent smile as he moved past the general, leaving him standing there, uncertain, irritated.
The Russian foreign minister, who had been lurking nearby, leaned in with a small, amused chuckle.
“Comrade Sokolov,” he said in a low voice. “You do enjoy playing with them, don’t you?”
Yasha’s smile was sweet, almost innocent—his eyes, however, were anything but.
“They need to be reminded of their place,” he murmured, stepping back into the crowd, scanning the room for his next target. “Even the Americans.”
As he moved from group to group, Yasha was careful to never confirm or deny the past they were all so curious about. His responses were always vague, tinged with just enough truth to keep them guessing. His answers were puzzles wrapped in riddles—words that promised nothing but left them hungering for more.
The Americans, at least the ones who had seen him fight in the war, were in awe of him. But there was something about the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, that unnerved them. Yasha was no longer just a soldier. He was something more.
A weapon wrapped in silks.
A king in the making.
By the time the evening began to wind down, Yasha had successfully waged his own campaign—a war of words, a battle of politeness, all wrapped in honeyed tones and ice-cold silence.
He had done his job. He had gotten under their skin. And for the first time since he’d donned the title of Winter Prince, he felt that sharp, electric thrill run through him. It wasn’t just the thrill of victory. It was the thrill of belonging. He was no longer a soldier. He was a prize.
The whispers followed him as he made his way to the exit. Some still speculated, their curiosity burning with a quiet intensity. But none of them would have the courage to ask him directly.
Not yet.
“Russia’s Crown Jewel,” someone murmured as Yasha slipped past them.
He didn’t acknowledge the title. Not yet. But he felt it—felt it settle over him like a second skin. The prize. The possession. The pet.
He was Russia’s. And the world was just beginning to understand that.

The ballroom had been cleared, the diplomats gone, the lights dimmed to a low, golden glow. Servants moved silently through the remnants of the evening, clearing glasses and forgotten cigarette trays, their eyes never straying too long toward the elevated balcony above.
Yasha stood before the window there, posture perfect, hands behind his back. From this height, the city lights of Leningrad shimmered like fallen stars, the night blanketed in snow and silence.
He hadn’t changed out of his formal uniform yet—black and crimson, tailored sharp, medals pinned to his chest like trophies. His collar was still fastened high around his neck, the soft brush of silk and velvet against his skin a constant reminder: he wasn’t free.
He was kept.
And that suited him perfectly.
Behind him, the heavy doors opened without a sound, and Yasha didn’t turn—he didn’t need to. He knew the footsteps. The smell of Sokolov’s cologne: cold pine, gunmetal, and leather.
“You performed well,” Sokolov said simply, coming to stand beside him. His voice was low, private. “Better than I expected. They saw only what I wanted them to see. What you allowed them to see.”
Yasha didn’t answer right away. His breath fogged against the window, and for a moment he watched the frost feather outward like spiderwebs. “They whispered,” he said at last, voice soft and amused. “They think I might be him. Bucky Barnes. Captain Rogers’ pet. They don’t know what to make of me.”
Sokolov’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. “And what do you make of yourself, Yasha?”
That earned a faint smile. Yasha turned to face him fully, shoulders back, head high—serene and proud in his submission. “I’m yours.”
Sokolov reached out and adjusted the edge of Yasha’s collar, fingers grazing his throat. “And the Party? The Americans? The whispers? Do they trouble you?”
Yasha leaned into the touch just enough to make it clear he wasn’t ashamed. “No,” he said, voice firm. “They amuse me. The dead are sentimental. Captain Rogers died for a ghost. I hope it was agonizing.”
Sokolov studied him, searching for any trace of insincerity. He found none. Yasha was flawless tonight—not just in poise, but in belief. In loyalty.
Still, the final test wasn’t the ballroom. It was what came after.
He stepped closer, his tone now gentler, quieter—fatherly.
“Do you know what Stalin said to me after you left the ballroom?”
Yasha tilted his head slightly, curious. “What did he say?”
“He said: 'He is no longer an American. No longer a soldier. He is myth now. A crown without a king, ready for us to place it on his head.'” Sokolov paused, then added, “You’ve become something rare, Yasha. Not just a weapon. Not just a prize. But a legacy.”
Yasha felt it in his chest, like a warm weight, a surge of pride so fierce it almost hurt.
“Then crown me,” he said, softly. “I’ve been waiting.”
Sokolov didn’t smile, but his hand slid to Yasha’s shoulder with a grip firm enough to leave a mark.
“Soon,” he said. “But not before your first mission. Your final proof of loyalty. They still watch, even now.”
Yasha nodded once. “Then let them.”
“Go change,” Sokolov said. “Come to my study. We’ll debrief, and I will give you the name of your target.”
As Sokolov turned and left, Yasha lingered for a moment longer. The ballroom was empty, the masks removed, but he remained as composed as ever. There was no mask left for him to wear—only the truth he had embraced.
He wasn’t James.
He wasn’t Bucky.
He was Yasha. The Winter Prince. Russia’s Crown Jewel.
Owned.
Prized.
Ready.

Chapter 12: Silence and Steel

The fire in Sokolov’s study was a low, crackling presence, casting the room in amber and shadows. Thick drapes blocked the chill of the Leningrad night, and the scent of aged paper and tobacco smoke curled in the air, heavy and intimate.
Yasha stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, still in his evening uniform. The moment the heavy oak doors shut behind him, something in his posture shifted—deference, yes, but also anticipation. He had performed. He had seduced, maneuvered, dazzled. And now came the reward.
The next evolution.
Sokolov sat behind his desk, a crystal tumbler half-full of brandy in his hand. He studied Yasha with quiet intensity, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make a point.
“They are pleased,” he said finally. “More than pleased. Stalin says your name has already reached ears in Berlin. Washington. Even London. They will remember the Winter Prince.”
Yasha’s smile was slight, lips parted just enough to suggest satisfaction. “Let them.”
Sokolov set the tumbler down, then pushed forward a thick leather file.
“Your first mission.”
Yasha stepped forward silently, retrieving the file and opening it. Inside: a photograph—grainy, clearly taken through a telephoto lens—of an American diplomat. Mid-forties. Smile too wide. Eyes calculating.
“Harlan Whitby,” Sokolov said, folding his hands. “A consultant to the American ambassador. But more than that—he’s OSS. Intelligence. He recognized you tonight.”
Yasha didn’t blink. “Then he’s a liability.”
“He’s a test.” Sokolov’s tone sharpened slightly. “He knows who you were. If he makes it back to Washington, he will raise the alarm. So you will ensure he doesn’t.”
Yasha’s gaze dropped back to the photo. “How soon?”
“He boards a train in thirty-six hours. You will intercept it outside Luga. Quietly.” Sokolov rose then, slow and deliberate. “No witnesses. No mistakes. And no sentiment.”
There was no hesitation in Yasha’s voice. “Yes, General.”
Sokolov walked to a panel on the wall and pressed a concealed switch. With a faint mechanical click, a hidden door slid open behind the bookshelf. “Come. It is time we dress you properly.”
—
The armory was buried deep beneath the estate, untouched by time and untouched by anything but purpose. The walls were stone and steel, and the air was colder here, cleaner.
Waiting on a mannequin was his uniform: matte black combat gear, reinforced with Soviet-engineered polymer and Kevlar. Functional, but regal. At the collar, a slash of crimson marked him as elite. Along the belt: a holster for a silenced pistol, throwing knives, and a custom sheath for a blade forged from repurposed German steel.
Laid beside it was the piece that made Yasha pause: a black mask, featureless save for the molded eyes.
And on a stand just behind it—gleaming, magnificent—a prototype combat arm.
Yasha’s breath caught.
It was a blend of Zola’s science and Soviet craftsmanship—sleek, powerful, whirring softly as the internal servos calibrated themselves. Sokolov stepped behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ll wear it for now. We will upgrade you later. For now, this will do.”
Yasha let the gear be strapped onto his body, piece by piece. The weight felt good. Right. He was still the Winter Prince. But now he was more.
Now he was a weapon.
When the mask was fitted over his face and the arm locked in place, Sokolov stood back to admire his creation.
“You are not Bucky Barnes,” he said. “You are not James. You are Yasha. Zimniy Prints. The world will learn that name in fear and reverence.”
Yasha turned slightly, his new arm flexing with metallic grace. The mask made him unreadable. Inhuman.
“And Whitby?” he asked.
“Yours to kill,” Sokolov said. “And yours to prove.”
Yasha nodded once.
“Then I’ll bring you his heart.”

The train cut through the Russian wilderness like a silver snake, its windows glowing faintly in the early morning dark. Snow fell in lazy spirals, coating the rails, the trees, and the silent forest that surrounded the tracks. Inside the private car near the rear, Harlan Whitby sipped black coffee and watched the blurred whiteness pass by. He was uneasy. He didn’t know why.
But something in the air had changed.
He reached for the folder on the seat beside him—the one with his typed report, coded and meticulous.
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, presumed KIA, seen alive at Soviet diplomatic function. Dramatic change in appearance and accent. Possible conditioning. Possible Soviet asset.
He hadn’t spoken the name aloud. Not yet. But the moment he returned to Leningrad, that report was going straight to the OSS.
If he returned.
The train lurched slightly, just enough to make him glance toward the end of the cabin. The door was ajar. Odd. He didn’t remember it being open.
Then—
A whisper of motion. A flicker of black in the hallway.
Whitby rose slowly, heart starting to pound. He reached for the revolver tucked beneath his coat—too late.
The door flew inward, and the world went dark.
—
When Whitby came to, it was with a mouthful of blood and a searing pain in his shoulder. He was on the floor of the baggage car—surrounded by crates, silence, and snow-flecked steel.
And above him stood a shadow.
The figure was dressed in matte black, face masked, arm gleaming metal. One red star glinted against the prosthetic’s plating, catching the dim light. The weapon.
The myth.
“Please,” Whitby croaked, coughing blood. “I—”
The man tilted his head slightly. Almost curious.
“James,” Whitby whispered, desperate. “Bucky, listen—Steve would—”
A sharp kick silenced him, heel slamming into his chest with brutal efficiency.
Yasha crouched beside him then, pulling the mask up just enough to show his mouth. His lips curled into a smile.
“Wrong name,” he said, voice low and cold. “He died on a train. I lived.*”
He reached for the knife strapped to his thigh.
Whitby’s breath hitched. “Why—why are you doing this?”
Yasha leaned in, mouth near his ear. “Because the General asked me to.”
Then—
Steel flashed.
—
By the time the train reached Luga Station, Whitby was gone. Officially, he never boarded. The Party would say he’d taken ill. Americans would be told he was reassigned.
In truth, his body burned in a snow-covered pit deep in the forest, the last trace of his existence reduced to ash and cinder.

Chapter 13: Velvet Chains

The frost still clung to Yasha’s lashes when he stepped into the estate’s grand hall. He hadn’t yet changed out of his Winter Soldier uniform—black leather lined with faint traces of ash and blood—but he stood straight, proud, eyes glittering with anticipation beneath the hardened shell of control.
Sokolov was waiting, seated in the high-backed chair near the fire, a glass of dark brandy in one hand and a faint, approving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Come here, kotenok,” he murmured, voice like silk across steel.
Yasha obeyed instantly. He knelt at Sokolov’s feet without hesitation, head bowed in formal deference, but there was no shame in the gesture. No meekness. Just practiced elegance—trained submission.
Sokolov’s hand found Yasha’s jaw, fingers tilting his face up. He studied him, not like a man studies a tool—but like a collector admiring a prize.
“A clean kill. No witnesses. And the whispers…” He smiled, brushing Yasha’s lip with the pad of his thumb. “The whispers call you a ghost.”
Yasha’s lips parted just slightly under the touch. “A ghost they’ll never forget.”
“Mm.” Sokolov leaned forward. “And do you want your reward, Prints Zimniy?”
Yasha’s breath hitched—just barely. “Yes, General.”
A snap of fingers. The sound of movement. Two attendants entered quietly, heads bowed, carrying folded silk and black velvet boxes. One box was laid gently on a crimson cushion.
Sokolov reached for it, opened it with ceremony. Inside lay a collar—black leather, polished to a shine, with an engraved silver tag:
Собственность СССР — The Winter Prince
Property of the USSR
Sokolov held it up, letting it catch the firelight, before fastening it around Yasha’s throat himself. It closed with a soft, inevitable click.
“There,” he said, his voice low, reverent. “Now the world knows what you are.”
Yasha shivered—not from cold. He exhaled softly, eyelids fluttering. “Yours,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Sokolov stood, circling behind him, his hand stroking over Yasha’s shoulder, down the seam of the metal arm. “My soldier. My whore. My prince.”
Yasha basked in it—in the weight of the leather, the heat of the gaze, the affirmation of his place.
“I want you to rest,” Sokolov said. “Eat. Bathe. Be pampered. Then tonight—” He bent down, voice in Yasha’s ear, lips brushing skin. “Tonight, you will be adored properly.”
Yasha turned his face just slightly, chasing that heat, that praise.
“I’ll be perfect,” he promised, low and sincere.
“You already are.”

Velvet drapes shrouded the room in shadowed warmth. A low fire flickered in the ornate hearth, casting golden light over polished wood and fur-lined furniture. The bed—massive, canopied, dressed in silks the color of spilled wine—waited at the center like a stage prepared for its finest act.
Yasha stood at its edge, freshly bathed, his skin flushed from heat and scrubbed clean of blood and ash. The new collar sat proud around his throat, its silver tag catching firelight with each breath he drew. He was wrapped in a robe of dark burgundy silk, the sash tied loosely, the hem skimming over bare legs.
He looked like temptation incarnate. Or a gift. Or both.
Sokolov entered without knocking. He never needed to.
His gaze swept over Yasha with hunger barely disguised, but it was tempered by something else—pride, and something darker beneath. Possession. Worship. The kind of desire that bends gods to their knees.
“On the bed, Prints Zimniy,” he said, soft but firm.
Yasha climbed onto the mattress without a word, the silk sliding off one shoulder as he knelt in the center, posture poised but pliant, ready. Wanting.
Sokolov sat beside him and reached out, letting one gloved hand drift across the curve of Yasha’s spine.
“You did well,” he murmured. “Your first mission… they’ll be talking about it for weeks. You’ve frightened the Americans. Impressed the French. Made the Party proud.”
Yasha tilted his head, breath catching slightly as Sokolov’s fingers brushed the collar. “And you?”
Sokolov smiled. “You’ve made me very proud.”
Yasha flushed under the praise—truly flushed, his expression softening, eyes dropping in a rare flicker of shyness. He basked in it, as if the words alone warmed his blood.
“I want you to feel it tonight,” Sokolov continued, his voice a low purr. “What it means to be mine. Not just used… but treasured. Adored.”
Yasha swallowed, chest rising. “Yes, General.”
“No,” Sokolov corrected gently. “Not General. Not tonight.”
He leaned in, fingers untying the silk sash with careful reverence.
“Tonight, I am your master. And you are my prince.”
Yasha’s lips parted around a breath, his body already yielding, already aching with the need to please. But beneath it all was something purer—something tender. A desire not just to be taken… but to be cherished.
To be his.
And for the rest of the evening, he was. Soft kisses between firm commands. Praise whispered like prayer. Touches designed to worship, not simply to use. Yasha lay pliant in his master's hands, drugged on approval, on the knowledge that he had done well, had been good, had earned this.
Earned the adoration of an empire.
Earned the love of a monster.

The world had narrowed to warmth, silk, and breath.
Yasha lay sprawled across the bed like an offering, his limbs relaxed and pliant, his cheek resting against the plush of Sokolov’s chest. The fur throw was pulled over them both, soft as a dream, but the real comfort was the weight of the arm slung possessively around his waist, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath his ear.
He felt claimed.
And for once, that didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like a crown.
Sokolov’s hand stroked along his spine in lazy arcs, not demanding, not insistent—just present. A reminder. A mark of ownership gentled into affection. Yasha breathed in deeply, the scent of Sokolov’s skin—cologne, leather, sweat—filling his lungs. Familiar. Grounding.
“Such a good boy,” Sokolov murmured into his hair, lips brushing the crown of his head. “You were perfect.”
Yasha shivered. He wasn’t cold.
The praise filled something inside him he hadn’t realized was empty. He tilted his face slightly, nuzzling closer with a hum, basking in the afterglow of pleasure and approval. His lips curved in the ghost of a smile.
“I like it,” he said quietly.
“Like what?” Sokolov asked, voice a low rumble against him.
“This.” Yasha’s fingers curled lightly against the older man’s chest. “Being wanted like this. Treasured. Not just… used.”
Sokolov stilled for a moment, then exhaled slowly. “You are treasured. You are mine. The world will learn it soon enough.”
Yasha’s eyes fluttered closed. He’d been told many things in many beds—sweet lies, cruel truths, careless words thrown in the dark. But this? This felt carved in stone.
There was a pause, then Sokolov’s voice again, softer this time:
“You are my Winter Prince. My pride. My weapon. My beauty.”
Yasha breathed in sharply. The possessiveness curled around him like silk ropes—comforting, secure. He was bound by something far more dangerous than steel: devotion.
“I want a bath,” he said sleepily, shifting against the other man’s chest.
“You’ll have one.”
“And a glass of wine.”
“You’ll have two.”
“And to be brushed,” he added with a sly smile. “Like a cat.”
Sokolov chuckled, the sound deep and indulgent. “Of course, kotyonok. Anything for my prince.”
Yasha didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.
He had everything he wanted—warmth, pleasure, and a leash that gleamed like gold.

The bath was drawn by hand—no servants tonight. Sokolov insisted on the intimacy. He filled the marble tub himself, adjusting the temperature until it steamed gently, fragrant with crushed lavender and oils that turned the surface to silk.
Yasha entered the bathroom in nothing but a silk robe—thin, crimson, nearly sheer in the right light. He paused at the doorway, the heat ghosting across his bare legs, lashes low over his dark eyes.
“Beautiful,” Sokolov said simply, voice reverent.
Yasha stepped forward, wordless, and let the robe fall from his shoulders with the grace of a performer trained in subtle seductions. He didn’t need to try. He never had. He simply was.
Sokolov extended a hand and guided him into the tub like one might guide a prince onto a throne. The water lapped gently at Yasha’s skin as he sank in with a sigh, long lashes fluttering closed as warmth enveloped him.
He stretched out, decadent and fluid, like something born of luxury and meant for display.
Sokolov knelt beside the tub with a brush already in hand—a wide paddle of dark wood, the bristles natural and gentle. Yasha felt a thrill of anticipation as fingers dipped into his hair, wetting it slowly, reverently.
“I thought you wanted me brushed like a cat,” Sokolov teased softly.
Yasha smirked, head tilting into the touch. “I did. You seem eager to please.”
“I always aim to please,” the older man murmured, beginning to draw the brush through the damp, tangled strands of sable. “Especially when it comes to my prince.”
Yasha melted. Not visibly—he had better control than that—but within, where the knots of duty, danger, and desire often lived. The brush passed through his hair in long, even strokes, and each one made him softer, lazier, looser.
“Is this what you wanted?” Sokolov asked, tone low, indulgent.
Yasha tilted his head to expose his throat, wet and glistening with steam. “I want a kingdom,” he whispered, “but this will do for tonight.”
Sokolov chuckled again, not mockingly, but with warmth. “You’ll have both. You’ll have everything.”
The water glistened along Yasha’s skin like polished bronze, each slow motion of the brush another mark of worship. He didn’t speak again. There was no need.
In the steam and hush of the bath, he was no longer an assassin, no longer a ghost of war. He was simply Yasha—beautiful, adored, and utterly untouchable.
When he rose from the bath, he would be dressed in velvet and leather once more, the Winter Prince ready to kill at a whisper. But for now, he was only a beloved creature, bathed and brushed, and worshipped like he’d always dreamed.

Notes:

My doc for this fic is currently 385 pages and 127,358 words long. I've still have about 4 and a half decades to go :)

Chapter 14: Before the Court of Winter

Dawn poured like pale gold across the polished floors of the Sokolov estate, softened by sheer curtains that swayed in the chill breeze. It was quiet at this hour, hushed and slow—only the birds dared speak.
Yasha moved like shadow made flesh, silk robe loose over his shoulders, coffee cup in hand. He was barefoot, hair damp from the bath the night before, still slightly curled from sleep. The bruises along his ribs were faint but satisfying—reminders of his mission, of how beautifully he’d performed.
He stood in the window nook, looking out over the frost-touched grounds, while behind him, Sokolov read the latest Party reports in his wool dressing robe. No servants yet. Just the two of them in their quiet ritual.
“You were seen,” Sokolov said after a moment, not looking up from the papers. “Clean kill. No trace. But Whitby’s attaché caught a glimpse of your face in the reflection of a train window. The Americans are... disturbed.”
Yasha smiled faintly. “Good.”
Sokolov glanced over the edge of his report. “Do you wish to be recognized?”
“I wish them to wonder,” Yasha said, sipping his coffee. “I want the memory of Bucky Barnes to unsettle them. I want every whispered rumor to twist their stomachs. I want them to doubt the safety of their beds.”
Sokolov set the papers aside and joined him at the window, resting a hand lightly on Yasha’s lower back. “And the boy? Rogers?”
“Dead,” Yasha said simply. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s been dead since Azzano. It just took the body a little longer to catch up.”
Sokolov studied him, then nodded once. “You’ll be summoned to court today. They want to hear your account.”
“Shall I be charming?” Yasha purred, tilting his head. “Or ruthless?”
“Both,” Sokolov said with the ghost of a smile. “You’re not just a soldier. You’re the Winter Prince. Let them see what they own.”
Yasha leaned into the touch, letting his head rest briefly against Sokolov’s shoulder. There was affection there, in a twisted, crystalline form—sharp and precious and deeply conditional.
“I’ll make them proud,” he murmured.
“No,” Sokolov corrected softly. “You’ll make them afraid.”
Yasha smiled.

The royal suite had been transformed into a quiet flurry of motion. Silk rustled. Leather was polished. The scent of bergamot and vetiver lingered in the air as Yasha stood at the center of the room, arms slightly lifted as attendants moved around him with the reverence of acolytes dressing a relic.
Sokolov watched from a chaise, his expression unreadable but eyes sharp with pride. “This is not a uniform,” he’d said earlier. “It is a declaration.”
And it was.
The outfit had been custom-tailored in Leningrad, blending military precision with opulent decadence. Black leather trousers hugged Yasha’s long legs, tucking seamlessly into polished boots with steel heels and reinforced soles. A fitted military jacket—charcoal with silver detailing, high-collared and hand-stitched with the emblem of the Winter Sun—rested heavy on his shoulders. Medals, real and fabricated, glinted under the morning light.
He wore no shirt beneath the jacket.
Let them see the scars. Let them see the man they’d made.
A wide leather harness, more ceremonial than functional, sat beneath the jacket and crossed over his bare chest in a quiet nod to the other type of service he offered—coded and calculated.
Yasha’s metal arm had been cleaned, oiled, and burnished to a shine. A new glove of reinforced leather slipped over his flesh hand. His hair had been combed smooth and parted with deliberate care, the longer strands tucked behind his ear to show the sharp line of his jaw and the slight bruising still fading at his throat—a love-mark from reward or mission, or perhaps both.
An attendant brought over the final piece: a silver pin shaped like a crown of thorns over a snowflake. The Winter Prince’s insignia.
Sokolov stood and crossed the room himself to fasten it to Yasha’s collar.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
Yasha obeyed, lifting his chin slightly.
“You do not flinch. You do not falter. You are not Sergeant Barnes. You are not James. You are Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov. You are the Winter Prince.”
“And your weapon,” Yasha replied, voice smooth, almost purring.
Sokolov pressed a gloved hand against Yasha’s chest, over his heart. “No. You are their obsession.”
Yasha smiled, small and wicked. “Shall we go make them remember why they fear us?”
Sokolov’s answering smile was colder than steel.
“Let them bow.”

The great hall of the Party's inner circle had been arranged like a theater, velvet drapes casting the room in hues of blood and frost. The dais was elevated—lit with soft, strategic lighting designed not to flatter but to expose. Every wrinkle, every tremor of hesitation would be seen. It was not a court of law. It was a court of power.
And into it stepped the Winter Prince.
Yasha’s boots struck the marble floor with elegant certainty. Not hurried. Not slow. Measured. Controlled. He walked like someone who belonged there—no, like someone who’d been born from the bones of the room itself. Silent and sharp and watching.
The murmur of voices quieted as he ascended the steps, Sokolov at his side.
Stalin sat at the head of the semicircle of Party officials, expression inscrutable. Beside him, Chairman Nikitin observed Yasha with open distrust. Others whispered, their eyes devouring the image Yasha cut: the war hero turned ghost, the dead man resurrected, the Soviet Crown Jewel in leather and sin.
Yasha stood before them and bowed his head with perfect deference.
“Zimniy Prints,” Stalin intoned. “We are told you completed your mission.”
Yasha straightened, eyes glowing faintly in the light. “Comrade Whitby is dead. Three others with him. It was... cleaner that way.”
“Evidence?”
He opened a gloved hand. A small satchel was placed into it—confiscated documents, surveillance film, proof. Yasha handed it over without flourish.
“And your loyalty?” Nikitin asked sharply, voice like a whip. “Still to the Motherland?”
Yasha smiled, just enough. “Always. I am what you made me.”
Another whisper stirred, this time with something darker—approval, perhaps. Awe.
“Do you remember America?” Nikitin asked, a trap hidden in his tone.
“I remember snow,” Yasha replied, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “But the blood runs red here. I remember that best.”
A beat. Stalin leaned forward.
“And your old name?”
Yasha’s smile widened, razor-thin. “A ghost’s name. Let it haunt graves.”
The Party was silent.
Sokolov stepped forward then, placing a hand once again on Yasha’s shoulder like a seal. “He has proven himself. He is loyal. He is ours.”
“He is Russia,” Stalin said at last.
Applause rose—not loud, but no less powerful. The sound of approval behind closed doors.
Yasha bowed again, eyes cast down—but not in shame. In practiced humility. A submission offered like a gift.
Let them think he belonged to them. Let them think they held the leash.
He only needed them to keep pulling.

The sound of the closing doors echoed through the marble halls, and the last of the Party officials, like ghosts fading into their own shadows, dispersed. The weight of the room was gone, but its power lingered. Yasha stood alone for a moment, his back still to the gathering as Sokolov moved towards him. The moment stretched like a taut wire between them.
Yasha could feel the lingering heat of the judgment in the air, the satisfaction of the room having received their expected show. They had seen the Winter Prince—masterfully composed, undeniably deadly—and now they knew him as both soldier and creature of the Party’s making. He belonged to them. He had been branded before them.
Yet, the satisfaction was not his.
Not entirely.
As he turned to face Sokolov, the man’s eyes met his with something that almost resembled approval, but there was no softening in the way Sokolov held his posture. The man’s gaze remained cold, assessing, but there was something else buried beneath it—something not quite paternal, not quite lover.
“You’ve done well,” Sokolov said, his voice a low rumble, though his expression didn’t quite reach warmth.
Yasha allowed his lips to quirk in a smile that held no true joy. “Is that all I get?” he asked, eyes dark with amusement. “A pat on the head from the great General?”
Sokolov stepped closer, his breath mingling with Yasha’s, cold and intimate. “You are no pet, Yasha,” he said softly, fingers brushing a lock of dark hair from Yasha’s forehead. “But you are mine. And you will be rewarded... in ways that none in that room will ever understand.”
Yasha’s breath caught, just slightly, and his smile deepened. He was always aware of the thread between them—the one that held him in place even as it gave him the illusion of freedom. He’d never be fully free. Not here. Not in this world Sokolov had built. But that was fine. He was more than willing to stay in the cage, as long as the bars were gilded with the promise of power and reward.
He stepped closer to Sokolov, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I want more than just your approval, General. I want...” He trailed off, letting his words hang in the air like an offering.
Sokolov chuckled, the sound rich with dark humor. “You want what all your kind wants, don’t you, Yasha? To be prized.”
Yasha gave a subtle nod, eyes never leaving his. He didn’t have to speak it aloud—his need, his hunger, it was evident in the way his body leaned toward Sokolov’s presence. But in the way the General stood, rigid yet expectant, it was clear that his needs were a different kind of beast altogether.
Sokolov’s fingers grazed Yasha’s jaw, then trailed down his throat, the motion slow and deliberate. “I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for, Yasha. I’ve made you into what you’ve become. But remember—I am the one who decides when the leash tightens.”
Yasha swallowed, a subtle but deliberate motion, his heart pounding with an anticipation he wouldn’t dare to show. There was no need. Sokolov already knew.
“You’ll be rewarded,” Sokolov murmured again, his grip on Yasha’s chin tightening ever so slightly. “But it will be on my terms. Your loyalty must remain unwavering. Do you understand?”
Yasha’s smile grew, and for a fleeting moment, the mask of the obedient soldier slipped, revealing the gleam of something darker in his eyes. “I’m yours, General. Completely.”
The silence that followed was charged, thick with the unspoken truth of their dynamic. There was no need to say more. They both understood. And in that understanding, a deeper, more twisted bond was cemented.
The tension broke when Sokolov stepped back, his demeanor shifting back to something more calculating, more distant. “Come,” he said, turning toward the hallway. “We have much to discuss. Tomorrow, you begin your new mission. And this time, Yasha, there will be no room for failure.”
Yasha’s eyes glinted with quiet anticipation, though he remained silent. Failure was never an option. Not when the reward was so sweet. Not when he was still prized.
And when the night finally came, he would remind Sokolov exactly why.

Between 1946 and 1950, Yasha’s reputation within the Soviet Union solidified with each mission. His name—once associated with the whispers of a soldier’s death in the Alps—now became synonymous with the unyielding power and terror that the Party could wield. He was no longer just the Winter Prince, a toy for generals and diplomats to admire. He was the Winter Soldier, an instrument of brutal efficiency whose loyalty to the Party had been tested time and again—and found unwavering.
Each mission was a reflection of his versatility, his brutality, and the cold, calculating manipulation that Sokolov had honed in him. Whether it was in the shadows of Berlin, the back alleys of Prague, or the secretive halls of Budapest, Yasha’s reach stretched across Europe, and his actions left behind no trace of mercy.

Mission 1: The Hungarian Dissidents (1946)
The Hungarian resistance had begun to regain ground in the post-war chaos. Their actions threatened Soviet interests in Eastern Europe, and the leadership of the Party saw the need to eliminate the dissenters quietly and quickly.
Yasha was sent under the guise of a diplomatic mission, slipping into Budapest with the approval of the local authorities. Disguised in the uniform of a Soviet officer, he infiltrated the resistance under the pretense of offering them protection from their supposed oppressors.
For weeks, he played the part of a charming liaison, feeding information about Soviet plans to the resistance leaders—knowing full well that his role was a lie, a setup. When the moment arrived, he struck without mercy, turning his cover into a deadly weapon.
The dissidents were obliterated in a swift, blood-soaked evening. Yasha’s efficiency was remarkable; no survivors remained. By the time the sun rose over the Danube, the resistance had vanished, swallowed by the shadow of Soviet dominance.
Sokolov, upon hearing the success of the mission, offered no praise. Instead, he’d simply said, “Good work, Yasha. There are still more to kill.”
And so, Yasha’s path continued.

Mission 2: The Scientist in Berlin (1947)
The Cold War was beginning to solidify, and the Soviets were determined to gain every advantage over their former allies. A prominent German scientist, once employed by the Nazis, had knowledge that could tip the balance in favor of the USSR.
Yasha was sent to Berlin to retrieve him—alive or dead, it didn’t matter. The scientist was to be brought back to the Soviet Union to continue his work for the Party.
Yasha moved through the divided city like a ghost, using his charisma and intelligence to track down the scientist’s location. Once there, he found him hiding in plain sight, using a network of contacts to evade capture.
Instead of dragging the scientist out of hiding, Yasha chose a far more subtle approach: blackmail. Using his charm and calculated cruelty, he manipulated the scientist into thinking that his life could be saved—if only he cooperated. The scientist was brought to the USSR under the false pretenses of safety.
Once the scientist was in Soviet hands, Yasha ensured there were no leaks, no loose ends. The scientist was disposed of. The Party received the knowledge they required, and Yasha’s status as their most loyal assassin was solidified.

Mission 3: The Defector in Prague (1948)
In Prague, a Soviet operative had defected, taking highly classified information with him. The Party could not afford the leak to the West, and so Yasha was sent to rectify the situation.
The mission took Yasha through dark alleyways, into the underbelly of the city’s communist-controlled districts, where whispers of the defector’s whereabouts floated through the air like smoke. With his cold smile and uncanny ability to blend in, Yasha cornered the defector, who thought he could escape into the arms of the West.
Yasha’s methods were unrelenting. The defector was tortured for hours, but Yasha’s gaze never wavered from his mission. When the man finally broke and confessed, Yasha slit his throat with a swift movement.
The operation was clean. No evidence remained.
When he reported back to Sokolov, there was a rare glimmer of pride in his mentor’s eyes.

Mission 4: The Spy in Paris (1950)
In Paris, a Soviet mole had been exposed, and the French government had taken advantage of the situation to try to blackmail the USSR. Yasha’s mission was simple: infiltrate the French government’s secret services, eliminate the mole, and send a message to anyone who thought they could cross the USSR.
This mission was far more delicate, requiring Yasha to navigate not only the political networks but also the sensual and clandestine affairs of Parisian elites. He seduced a key diplomat in the French foreign ministry, using his charm and mastery of manipulation to gain access to the highest levels of information.
When the time came, he acted with precision, eliminating the traitor and framing a series of other high-profile figures in such a way that the French government was left scrambling, unsure who to trust. The message was clear: the Soviet Union had no tolerance for betrayal, no matter where it came from.
Sokolov was impressed with the subtlety of the mission and told Yasha, “You are more than just an assassin. You are a symbol of our reach. Remember that.”

Chapter 15: The Winter Soldier, The Winter Prince

As the years passed, Yasha’s position within the Party continued to grow. He was no longer just an instrument of violence. He was an ambassador of fear, a living legend whose name echoed through the halls of power in Moscow. The whispers that had once followed him as “Russia’s Crown Jewel” had evolved into something more tangible. He was the Winter Prince—a soldier, a weapon, and a creature of the Party’s making.
But he was also something more.
In the quiet moments, when Sokolov looked at him with approval—or when Stalin’s fingers lingered on his skin in passing—Yasha understood that he was owned. The Party had taken him, shaped him, and made him into something far beyond the man he once was. He had become an object, but one prized and treasured.
And no matter the coldness of the world around him, Yasha would always remain loyal to those who gave him everything.

Yasha sat back, the warm water lapping against his skin, cocooning him in a sea of silk-like indulgence. It was the most decadent bath he had ever known, the oils and perfumes perfuming the air around him, the fragrant steam rising to mingle with his thoughts. The opulence of the moment was intoxicating, just as the warm water was soothing against the chiseled lines of his body.
His thoughts drifted. He let them, unfurling like the steam that curled around him. The life he had lived before, the life of Bucky, felt like a distant, almost laughable shadow now. He had been Bucky—and he had worn that name like a mask, a costume of protection. It had served him well, making him appear noble, giving him a veneer of heroism that he hadn’t deserved. He had fought for Steve, sure, but not because he was some noble protector. No. He had fought because it made him a hero—someone people could respect, someone who wasn’t just a thug, a street rat who was always one step away from being abandoned.
He had always liked the violence, the chaos that came with it. The thrill of battle had been exhilarating, but it wasn’t the shield he carried that had attracted him—it was the damage, the destruction, the power of taking what he wanted by force. That was the real addiction. It was why he had befriended Steve—because it allowed him to feel justified in his need for violence, to make it appear like it was some kind of higher purpose. But in reality, he had been exploiting Steve—using the sick, vulnerable kid to make himself feel stronger, more alive.
Even the act of stealing Steve's medicine, the little pills he would pocket and sell or trade for money or other pleasures, had been about taking control. He had known that Steve needed them, that the boy was dependent, and it had given James—Bucky—a sense of power over him. It wasn’t just about the money or the drugs. It was about the feeling of owning something, of controlling the one person who might have actually cared about him. And when he had prostituted himself out to older men, men who paid for his body, he had felt that same thrill. Not just the cash or the comfort it brought, but the feeling of being wanted, of being desired in the way he always had craved. He wasn’t just a tool; he was something precious, something coveted. It was just a different way of taking, of being wanted for what he could provide.
Now, though—now, the concept of wanting had evolved. He was no longer that hungry, unrefined creature from Brooklyn. That boy was gone, his innocence long since destroyed. Instead, Yasha was something far more dangerous, more calculated. The violence still lived inside him, but it was now something honed, a tool for those who could afford him. And the desire for being owned, for being prized, had become his most intimate need.
The water swirled around him, and his thoughts turned to the present, to the man who had truly seen him for what he was—Sokolov. His mentor, his master, the one who had reshaped him, had taken that raw potential and forged it into something valuable, something worthy of the Party. Sokolov had never treated him like a pet. He treated him like a prize—something to be valued, cultivated, and used.
Yasha felt the irony of it all. He had been born for violence, for destruction. But it was the desire to be owned, to be cradled and shown off as something precious, that had truly become the defining force of his life. He was no longer the Bucky who wanted to be someone’s hero. He had become the Winter Soldier—a tool of power, yes—but also a possession, a treasure locked away and displayed for those who would use him. And in that, in being owned and prized, he found a strange peace.
He closed his eyes, letting the warm water wash over him, imagining the rest of his life unfolding before him, as a weapon, yes—but more importantly, as something worth owning. Something worth keeping.
The bath was indulgent, but it was the touch of Sokolov’s hand, the commanding presence of his mentor, that he craved now. The reminder of what he had become.
Not Bucky. Not the boy who had needed protection. But Yasha, the Winter Prince, the Winter Soldier—owned, prized, and desired.

Yasha stepped out of the bath, the decadent warmth still lingering on his skin, the scent of oils and perfumes wrapping around him like a second skin. He was aware of the transformation within himself—the distance between Bucky and who he was now, the Winter Prince, Yasha, a weapon and a possession, a thing to be used, desired, and prized.
He knew where to find Sokolov. The master’s quarters were always a place of quiet authority, but Yasha's steps held the certainty of a man who understood his position. His skin still damp, he didn’t bother to dry himself; he walked through the corridors of the estate with a purposeful stride, his mind clear of any hesitation. He didn’t need to be told where to go. He knew his place, and it was by Sokolov’s side, always.
The door to Sokolov’s study stood open, and inside, the older man sat at his desk, papers and maps spread before him, but the moment Yasha entered, the atmosphere shifted. The steady pace of Sokolov’s writing slowed as his gaze shifted toward the door, eyes narrowing with approval, and perhaps something else that Yasha had come to recognize over the years.
Yasha crossed the threshold with a sense of purpose, the weight of his training and his own desires clear in his body language. He moved slowly, deliberately, allowing the anticipation to build between them. His movements were measured, his body radiating both submission and the quiet confidence of someone who knew his value.
When he reached the desk, he stopped. He didn’t speak immediately; there was no need. Sokolov already knew what he wanted. Instead, Yasha sank to his knees, hands resting on his thighs, his posture open, ready, waiting for the command to take the next step. His eyes flickered to Sokolov’s face, waiting for that familiar shift in the air, the recognition of their unspoken bond.
Sokolov’s eyes met his, calculating, sharp. There was no need for words yet—everything they needed to communicate had already been established. Yasha belonged to him. He had become something far more valuable than he ever could have imagined, and Sokolov had made it clear that he would never be allowed to forget his place.
"You know your place, Yasha," Sokolov said, his voice low but firm, the power behind it undeniable. "And you’ve earned it. You are not just a weapon now, but a treasure. A prize. Remember that."
Yasha’s eyes lowered slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of his position, but he couldn’t help the faint smile that curved his lips. A prize. That was what he had always wanted—what he had craved, even before he understood it. And now, here, at Sokolov’s feet, he had it.
"I belong to you, Master," Yasha said quietly, the words a reminder to both of them. He didn’t need to say more. The words carried all the weight of his submission, his loyalty, his need. His heart thrummed in his chest, the same way it had when he had first been taken in by Sokolov all those years ago. This was his place now, and he would never be anyone else’s.
Sokolov stood, the movement smooth and commanding, and Yasha looked up at him, feeling the heat of the room shift around them. The older man’s gaze softened just slightly, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. He reached down and tilted Yasha’s chin up with a finger, lifting his face to meet his gaze.
"You’ve become more than I ever imagined, Yasha," Sokolov said. His hand traced lightly over Yasha’s jaw, a quiet display of ownership. "But never forget, you are still mine. You will remain mine. And I will always remind you of your place."
Yasha’s heart raced, a thrill running through him at the very thought. He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper as he said the words he knew Sokolov wanted to hear.
"Yes, Master," he replied, and it felt as though those words had always been destined to pass from his lips. He was, as always, at Sokolov’s feet—his loyal, prized Winter Prince.

Chapter 16: Stalin's Chosen

Stalin's quarters were dim, the heavy curtains drawn to block the late winter sun. The once powerful man lay frail against a mound of pillows, his breath a slow, uneven rasp. The scent of mint tea lingered in the air—one of the few comforts he still allowed himself. His body was failing, but his mind, razor-sharp to the very end, remained fixed on his legacy. And a part of that legacy, perhaps the most important part, had just entered the room.
Yasha stepped through the door in full uniform—black, sleek, severe—with the silver insignia of a Generál-leytenant shining on his shoulders. He looked every inch the soldier the Party had molded, but Stalin, ever the strategist, knew what Yasha truly was. A blade, honed to perfection. A masterpiece of loyalty and manipulation, ruthlessness and beauty. And still—his favored pupil. His chosen.
“Yasha,” Stalin rasped, his voice dry but unmistakably commanding.
“Comrade Stalin,” Yasha greeted, kneeling beside the bed without hesitation. “You summoned me.”
A thin smile ghosted over Stalin’s lips. “I always knew you’d rise,” he said. “They doubted you, in the beginning. They saw only the body, not the mind. Not the will. But I saw.”
“You made me what I am,” Yasha replied. “Everything I have, I owe to your vision.”
Stalin’s eyes, though rimmed with fatigue, glinted with approval. “You are not just my creation. You surpassed me. You became something greater.”
With a shaking hand, Stalin gestured toward a velvet-wrapped bundle resting on a nearby table. An aide stepped forward, carefully lifting it and offering it to Yasha.
Yasha unwrapped it slowly, reverently. Inside was a delicate porcelain tea set—imperial white and cobalt blue, rimmed in gold. The double-headed Romanov eagle had been scratched out on most of the pieces, but their quality, their weight, spoke of royalty. The set had once belonged to the Winter Palace, before the fall.
“It’s beautiful,” Yasha murmured, fingers grazing the edge of the teacup.
“It belonged to the Tsar’s mistress,” Stalin said, voice thin but amused. “Now it belongs to mine.”
Yasha blinked once. Slowly. But he didn’t speak.
“You were always more than a soldier,” Stalin continued. “You were my sharpest blade. My most willing instrument. And I—”
He broke into a fit of coughing, blood bright against his handkerchief. Yasha rose slightly, reaching for water, but Stalin waved him off.
“I named you in my will,” he said hoarsely, his breath now shallow. “A third of everything I’ve gathered. Accounts. Land. Dachas. And intelligence files too sensitive for the Politburo. They are yours. You will know what to do with them.”
Yasha’s heart beat slow and steady in his chest. Not with sentiment. With certainty. He’d always known he would outlast them. But to be chosen like this, to be trusted by a man like Stalin—it was power. It was recognition. And that, more than anything, made something warm bloom in his chest.
“I will not waste it,” Yasha said quietly.
Stalin nodded once, satisfied. “I know. Russia will remember your name. Not as a ghost of a dead American. But as what you are now.”
“The Winter Prince,” Yasha said.
Stalin’s pale lips curved into the barest smile. “Da. Zimniy Prints... my legacy.”
Yasha sat with him until the end, long after the attendants had been dismissed. When the final breath left Stalin’s lungs, Yasha remained still, one hand on the old man’s cooling wrist, the other still holding the tea set like a relic from a forgotten empire.
When he finally rose, he did so not as James Barnes, nor the pet named Bucky.
He rose as Lieutenant General Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov—Winter Soldier, Winter Prince, and now heir to the revolution itself.

Red Square was silent.
Snow fell like ash on the hundreds gathered beneath the blood-red banners. The towers of the Kremlin loomed high and severe against the grey sky, casting long shadows over the sea of black coats and stiff uniforms. Stalin’s body lay in state within a glass coffin, the line of mourners stretching like a dark ribbon through the Square. Party heads, foreign dignitaries, generals, and faithful proletariats alike all bowed before the founder of their world.
But it was Yasha who drew the most eyes.
He stood at the foot of the platform in ceremonial dress: coal-black uniform, polished silver buttons, a crimson sash knotted across his chest, and the intricate insignia of a Lieutenant General gleaming beneath his medals. His long coat bore the subtle sigil of House Sokolov—an iron wolf embroidered just beneath the collar. At his throat lay something far more striking: a choker of beaten gold and black enamel, deceptively delicate, unmistakably a collar.
A gift from Sokolov.
A mark of ownership.
Russia’s Immortal Son, the papers whispered the next day. Zimniy Prints. The Winter Prince.
He was beautiful. Ageless. The Americans didn’t say it aloud, but they stared. His face—James Barnes' face—had not aged a day. But the man who bore it no longer moved like a soldier mourning his Captain. No, he walked with the practiced ease of a prince raised to court, sharp-eyed and elegantly restrained. A wolf with a gleaming chain, wrapped in fur and steel.
And when he gave the eulogy—fluent Russian, reverent tone, a voice smooth as silk over razors—even the dissenters wept.

In the days that followed, Yasha rose.
Not to the seat of General Secretary—he had no hunger for governance. But his name carried weight in every hall of power. He dined with heads of state, advised military councils, and appeared in portraits beside legends. Yet still, he belonged to Sokolov.
The world might think him free—untouchable, untamed—but the truth was simpler.
He thrived in the golden leash.
His collar was no secret. It was displayed, part of his uniform now, always visible in court and in public. Whispers followed him, admiration laced with fear, envy with desire. The Americans called him a monster. The Soviets called him Divine.
He was what the Revolution had birthed—violence gilded in glory. A prince raised on blood and affection, a symbol of what the Motherland could own, and command, and love.

In private, nothing changed.
He returned from galas and state dinners not to lavish apartments of his own, but to the Solokov Estate—his home. He knelt for his Master each night. He lay at his feet like a favored hound and a treasured prize. And when Sokolov ran a hand down his spine, kissed the crown of his head, and called him Moy prints, something in Yasha’s chest always fluttered like a bird behind bars.
He could never have ruled. That was never who he was.
But he could belong.
He could serve.
And when the leash pulled taut, Yasha only smiled, sharp and radiant beneath the weight of the crown he’d never wear.

The room smelled of paper and dust and old, lacquered wood.
Sunlight filtered through heavy velvet curtains, casting gilded stripes across the vast study—once Stalin’s, now his. It still felt surreal, sometimes. The desk, imported French mahogany, was wide enough to seat five men. Its drawers were filled with correspondence between world leaders, original drafts of manifestos, and a crystal ink set Stalin had used in 1917.
Yasha—no, Lieutenant General Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov—sat back in the high-backed leather chair, a file balanced on one knee, one boot braced on the edge of the desk with the practiced arrogance of a man who knew he belonged here.
He wore silk lounging trousers and little else, his torso bare and dappled in sunlight. His collar glinted softly against his skin.
Stacks of documents surrounded him. Deeds to land in the Urals. A dacha near Sochi. Two state apartments in Moscow. Artifacts from the Romanovs. Bonds, accounts, keys to vaults tucked away in Switzerland and Paris. Stalin hadn’t just named him heir to a fortune—he’d granted him a legacy, a kingdom carved in red and gold, draped in blood.
And now, it was all his.
"Property at Sevastopol..." Yasha murmured, flipping through the latest folder. "Complete with vineyard and staff. How quaint."
He laughed softly to himself and reached for a sugar-dusted biscuit on the silver tray beside him, provided (as always) by the estate’s kitchen at exactly three minutes past noon. The tray also held a glass of thick black tea—Stalin’s blend, now his.
A servant hovered by the door, silent, waiting. Yasha didn’t look up as he murmured, “Tell Polina to start drawing up renovation plans for the estate in Yalta. I want the ballroom restored by summer.”
"Yes, General."
He exhaled and stretched like a cat in the sun, then tossed the file onto the growing pile of “mine now” with a flick of his wrist. Gold rings glittered on his fingers, gifts from foreign dignitaries and Party elite. A golden watch nestled against his wrist—engraved, one of a kind. Another gift. Everything, now, was a gift.
He was surrounded by opulence—clothes tailored to his form, furniture carved by hand, weapons with jeweled hilts, books bound in leather. Yet the most precious thing he had was the one thing he hadn’t inherited.
His leash.
A soft chime echoed from the wall. Afternoon prayer.
Not religious—not in the traditional sense—but Yasha set down his tea all the same. Ritual mattered. Symbolism mattered. He rose fluidly, moved to the mirror, and adjusted his collar just so.
In this reflection, there was no trace of Bucky Barnes. No trace of the skinny thug from Brooklyn who’d stolen medicine and fucked old men in exchange for warmth.
Only Yasha.
Russia’s Winter Prince. Son of Sokolov. Chosen of Stalin.
He smiled into the glass—slow, feral, content.
Then turned on his heel and headed downstairs to his Master's study, humming softly to himself.

Chapter 17: Yalta

The black ZIS-110 rolled to a smooth stop beneath the carved marble archway of the Yalta estate. A sea breeze carried the scent of salt and cypress through the early morning air, catching in the crisp folds of Yasha’s tailored uniform as he stepped out onto the sun-warmed stone drive.
He tilted his face to the light—one of the few luxuries he allowed himself in public—and exhaled slowly. The estate gleamed before him, the summer palace of another era reborn in opulence. Restored frescoes adorned the portico. The ballroom windows, newly cleaned and set with imported glass, caught the light like cut crystal.
Sokolov exited the car behind him, his presence as solid and immovable as ever. He did not need to say a word. This place, like so many others, belonged to them now.
The staff—uniformed, crisp, and silent—bowed their heads as Yasha and Sokolov passed. None dared speak first, though the servants’ eyes flicked over Yasha with something like awe.
“Everything is prepared,” one finally offered as they entered the grand foyer. “The ballroom has been completed. Shall I arrange a viewing?”
Yasha didn’t answer immediately. He slid his gloves off, fingers slow, deliberate, before handing them to the steward without looking. “Later,” he said in flawless Russian. “For now, I wish to see my rooms.”
The master suite had been redesigned with him in mind. Soft velvet in blood-wine hues, rare furs laid across imported silk sheets, carved wood furnishings with Tsarist detailing polished to a mirror shine. The centerpiece was the bed—a statement of ownership and indulgence. Massive. Grand. Fit for a prince.
Yasha circled it like a cat, running one hand along the fur, the other still gloved. “Good,” he murmured. “Softer than I remember.”
Sokolov watched from the doorway, arms behind his back, head tilted slightly in approval. “You will host your gala here?”
Yasha smiled—sharp, secret, and a touch indulgent. “Of course. It’s my birthday, after all. And I wish to be celebrated like the prize I am.”
Sokolov stepped closer, his voice quieter. “You will be.”

The door shut with a soft click, sealing the suite from the rest of the estate. Sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, catching in the strands of Yasha’s hair as he stood by the bed, spine straight, chin tilted just so. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence was invitation enough.
Sokolov approached slowly, the heavy steps of polished boots muffled by the thick carpet. His gloved hand reached for Yasha’s jaw, tilting it up, inspecting the face that had captivated diplomats, ministers, and murderers alike. This was his creation. His weapon. His beautiful, wicked heir.
“You look at home,” Sokolov murmured, voice deep with approval.
“I am,” Yasha replied, the words barely a breath. “Yours. As always.”
A pause stretched between them, heavy with heat and familiarity. Then Sokolov’s hands were at his collar, undoing the golden clasp there, the familiar sound of metal sliding free from leather sending a shiver down Yasha’s spine. The collar was placed reverently on the bedside table—only ever removed for sleep or moments like this.
Yasha began to undress with a slow elegance, letting each layer fall from his body like a performance. Not rushed, not coy—this wasn’t seduction for strangers. This was worship for the man who owned him.
When he was bare, he turned to the bed and crawled across the dark furs, stretching out like a feast offered. The soft play of muscle under skin caught the light, a living statue carved from pale stone and tempered steel.
Sokolov watched for a moment longer before removing his gloves and coat, his movements efficient but unhurried. This wasn’t about urgency—it never was. It was about power, control, and the sacred ritual of possession.
As he climbed onto the bed, Sokolov’s hand found Yasha’s back, trailing down the spine he had taught to bend only for him.
“Do you remember,” Sokolov asked softly, “what I told you the first night you knelt at my feet?”
Yasha turned his face into the fur, smiling lazily. “That I was more valuable than any throne.”
Sokolov leaned in, mouth brushing against Yasha’s ear. “And I meant it.”
Their bodies aligned, familiar and practiced, the bond between them stretching deep—beyond flesh and into something ritualistic. Not love, not quite. Something colder. Older. Worship and dominance, loyalty and ownership. A prince and his crown.
The bed groaned beneath them, silk slipping and fur mussed as Yasha moved to accommodate, to welcome. He gave without protest, accepted without question. He did not need to beg—he was already owned.
When it was over, the golden collar was replaced, its clasp clicking shut like a lock on something precious.

The room was thick with warmth, the scent of musk and silk and fur. Outside, the Black Sea glittered in the distance, summer sunlight dancing across the horizon, but within the private chambers of the Yalta estate, time seemed to slow.
Yasha lay sprawled across the ruined bed, one long leg kicked out from beneath the tangle of sheets, his cheek pressed lazily against Sokolov’s chest. His hair—always immaculate in court—was a tousled halo across them both. The golden collar at his throat gleamed faintly with the light filtering through the high windows.
“I’m not moving,” Yasha declared, voice muffled and petulant against Sokolov’s skin.
Sokolov huffed a laugh, fingers idly combing through Yasha’s tangled curls. “You say that every time.”
“And yet I mean it every time.”
“Shall I summon a stretcher, then?” Sokolov teased, amusement curling in his tone. “Have the guards carry your Royal Highness down to the ballroom like the decadent brat you are?”
Yasha cracked one eye open, lips quirking. “Yes, actually. Bring me grapes while you’re at it.”
Sokolov only chuckled and gave a light smack to Yasha’s bare flank. “Up, Prince. You wanted the ballroom restored in time for your birthday. You can’t admire your empire from the bedsheets.”
Yasha groaned dramatically but didn’t move. “I could try.”
Another light smack, firmer this time. “Don’t tempt me.”
Yasha grinned and sighed deeply, nuzzling closer for just a moment longer. “One more minute. I’m luxuriating. You said I could have that.”
“I said you could have anything,” Sokolov corrected, voice quieting. “And I meant it.”
For a brief moment, the silence between them was soft and full. No orders, no titles. Just warmth, loyalty, and the golden leash that bound them.
Yasha finally pushed himself up with a dramatic sigh, hair falling into his face, collar catching the sunlight.
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the dressing robe draped over the side of the bed. “But if the ballroom is anything short of perfect, I’m staging a coup.”
Sokolov watched him, fond and faintly indulgent. “I welcome the attempt.”

Chapter 18: A Winter Prince's Ball

The doors to the ballroom opened with a soft creak, and sunlight spilled across polished marble floors like honey. The air was perfumed faintly with lavender and old pine, the scent of the mountains and the sea drifting in through open windows. Crystal chandeliers glittered above, their countless facets scattering gold across the tall ceilings. The grand space had been transformed—not restored to its former glory, but elevated beyond it.
Yasha stepped in slowly, silent in his soft-soled slippers, robe cinched tight around his waist, damp curls still clinging to his temples. Sokolov followed a pace behind, hands clasped behind his back, watching the Prince watch his domain.
Every surface gleamed. The freshly lacquered floors reflected Yasha’s pale frame like a mirror. The tapestries had been replaced with deep crimson velvet edged in gold. At the far end, beneath a proud Soviet crest re-embroidered in golden thread, stood the raised dais where Yasha would sit beside Sokolov during the gala. The throne-like chairs had been reupholstered in black leather and burnished brass—dark, elegant, and unmistakably theirs.
Yasha moved forward like a man in a dream. He touched the carved banister leading up to the musician’s loft, then trailed his fingers along the long banquet table being polished by silent staff in uniform. Every detail had been seen to. The columns gleamed with inlaid gold leaf. The candelabras were polished to a shine. The ballroom floor had been cleared of scaffolding and debris, its patterned stonework now uninterrupted and flawless.
Sokolov watched his Winter Prince’s expression change—first mild skepticism, then delighted surprise, and finally something like awe. It was rare to catch Yasha speechless, rarer still to see a flicker of boyish wonder dance across his face. But it was there, brief and unguarded, before he schooled himself back into elegance.
“Well,” Yasha said at last, voice quiet. “I suppose the coup will have to wait.”
Sokolov chuckled, stepping beside him. “A pity. I was almost looking forward to it.”
Yasha turned to him, smirking, eyes still alight. “It’s perfect. Beyond perfect. Even the floor’s been re-patterned to match my boots.”
“Of course it has. Your boots were the template.”
“Really?”
“I had the measurements sent to the stonemasons.”
Yasha laughed, tipping his head back, throat exposed and collar gleaming. “God, you’re sick. I adore it.”
Sokolov hummed in agreement, gaze sliding over the opulence around them, then back to his Prince. “It is yours. All of it.”
Yasha turned slowly in place, taking it all in once more. “Then let them come,” he said softly. “Ministers, generals, foreign dignitaries, spies and snakes. Let them all come groveling.”
Sokolov stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Yasha’s shoulder, just above where the collar sat nestled against his skin.
“They already are,” he murmured. “They just haven’t realized it yet.”

Preparations for the gala unfolded with the precision of a military operation and the decadence of a royal wedding. Yasha oversaw it all from the heart of the estate like a general in silk and leather, lounging on velvet chaises as ministers, decorators, and tailors fluttered around him.
Everything had to be perfect.
The guest list was scrutinized line by line—party officials, military elites, foreign ambassadors, hand-picked courtiers from Moscow to Vienna. Those who were not invited would understand the insult. Those who were would understand their place.
In the music hall, a hand-selected orchestra rehearsed the curated program of the evening. No nationalistic droning here—Yasha wanted elegance, power, seduction. Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, even a smattering of Debussy and a few haunting pieces from the East. Music that would make spines shiver and souls ache.
The ballroom was fitted with fresh arrangements of blood-red roses, black tulips, and white peonies. Trays of caviar, smoked sturgeon, and vodka-infused desserts were tested and retested. Wines were selected from the Sokolov cellars—one from Crimea, one from France, and a rare, forbidden vintage from California, smuggled in and gifted personally to Yasha by a certain Czech diplomat with loose morals and looser lips.
In the grand dressing suite, Yasha’s tailors worked tirelessly. The main ensemble for the evening had already been chosen: high-collared black military coat tailored within a breath of his frame, with blood-red embroidery curling over the shoulders like flame. Underneath, only the softest silk. His boots gleamed like obsidian, and the golden leash would be clipped to his collar the moment he descended the stairs.
He sat for the final fitting with the bored grace of a crowned serpent. Fingers idly playing with the edges of a velvet throw as the tailors adjusted cuffs and hem, fussing over minute details while Yasha kept his gaze on his reflection in the mirror—half-prince, half-pet, fully dangerous.
Sokolov entered near the end of the fitting, and the tailors melted away like mist. Yasha turned slightly, eyes catching Sokolov’s in the mirror.
“Well?” he asked, running a hand down the length of the coat.
Sokolov walked behind him, hands resting on Yasha’s shoulders. “You look like the future of the Party,” he said softly. “Like a god they would kneel for.”
Yasha smiled, slow and dark. “Good,” he purred. “Because they will.”

The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and gold, every marble column casting shadows across the lacquered floor as the orchestra struck its first chord. The guests had gathered—uniforms and gowns, glittering medals and icy smiles. There was laughter, murmured diplomacy, and the gentle clink of glasses.
But it all halted as the doors at the top of the grand staircase opened.
The Winter Prince had arrived.
Yasha stood framed in the archway like a vision torn from a dream—or a nightmare. Clad in black and red, his dark hair swept back, a golden collar gleaming at his throat. The leash hung decoratively from one shoulder, its clasp secured but symbolic. He descended slowly, a controlled, sinuous grace in every step, chin high, gaze sweeping the crowd with cool calculation.
He was the weapon dressed as royalty. The wolf in silk. Russia’s Immortal Son.
And then—he saw them.
Tucked near the French delegation, with credentials that should have never passed inspection: Margaret “Peggy” Carter, lips tight, eyes scanning, and beside her—slightly older, thicker in the shoulders but unmistakably brilliant—Howard Stark.
Yasha didn’t so much as flinch.
He reached the final step and allowed one of the party officials to take his gloved hand and kiss the knuckles in a show of reverence. He gave a slow nod, gracious, indulgent, and let his gaze linger long enough on Peggy and Howard to be unmistakable.
Peggy’s breath caught.
Howard narrowed his eyes.
Neither of them said a word.
Yasha turned his back to them like they were ghosts, long dead and utterly unimportant.
But inside—he was thrilled.
Oh, Steve. How utterly heroic, he thought, lips barely twitching with a suppressed smile. You died, and your precious friends didn’t even make sure the body count was right.
He drifted through the crowd, a phantom of red silk and vodka-smooth smiles, accepting compliments in Russian, French, and German, occasionally whispering responses in tongues too ancient for the diplomats to place. He was untouchable. Worshiped.
And yet two ghosts watched him from the edges of the room. Wondering. Whispering.
He hoped they had the sense to fear him now.

Chapter 19: Bucky?

The ballroom was a carefully curated spectacle of Soviet opulence—a glittering sea of silk, satin, and gold. Everything was perfect. Everything was meant to be perfect.
But for Peggy, the sharp scent of too much perfection clung to the air, and she hated it. Hated how it made her feel small, even in her own skin. This wasn’t the kind of event she was accustomed to; she’d seen the grandiose displays of power before, but never from this side of the Iron Curtain. The weight of the atmosphere pressed against her chest, suffocating in its grandeur.
"Well, this is certainly… something," Howard muttered beside her, his voice a mix of cynicism and genuine curiosity as he scanned the lavish room. He looked good—too good, if she was honest, but then Howard Stark always had a way of looking effortlessly charming when he wanted to.
Peggy didn’t want to admit how much she missed that, the ease with which Howard operated in the chaos of high society. She’d never been one to thrive in environments like this, preferring action, the tangible work of the field. But here they were, once again at the mercy of people far more powerful than them.
She glanced down at the invitation they'd received—hand-delivered by a military official, no less. The words were chilling in their simplicity. To attend as honored guests of the Winter Prince.
She still couldn’t quite shake the knot in her stomach at the name, though she'd heard whispers. But rumors, when you're someone like her, are dangerous things, because they can cloud your judgment. And for once, she wasn’t sure if what she’d heard could be true.
Then, she saw him.
He entered with all the grace of a man who had been trained to command the attention of a room. But there was something more to him than that—something primal, something far darker. His presence swallowed the air. Every head turned to him, not out of curiosity, but reverence.
He was tall, broader than she remembered James being. His hair dark, his features sharper now, the jawline more defined. But it was the eyes—the eyes that always haunted her in dreams—the unmistakable, intense blue that stared back at her from a face she hadn’t seen in years.
Her heart skipped, but it wasn’t the rush of nostalgia she expected. It was fear. The face before her might’ve once been James Barnes, the young man she had known in another life, but the creature standing in front of her now was not the same.
She could feel it in the way he moved, the way he interacted with those around him. As if he had always belonged here—among the powerful, among the elite. He played the part with a practiced ease. His smile—cold, calculated—was one of someone who had long since stopped pretending to be anything but what he was: a weapon.
But the most unsettling part?
It was how little he seemed to care about the people who were staring. He was utterly unaffected, working the room as if it were his domain. A flicker of recognition, a measured glance, a subtle smile, and then he moved on, making others feel like they were nothing more than a fleeting footnote in his story.
She watched as he navigated the crowd—never rushing, never faltering, the Winter Prince in his full glory, as if the whispers of “Russia’s Crown Jewel” were true. The man who had become something more than just a soldier—he was a symbol now, and Peggy couldn’t shake the thought that this was no accident. This was carefully crafted.
“Peggy,” Howard said, his voice low, his usual smirk now gone. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
She didn’t respond right away. Her throat felt tight, words almost impossible to say.
James Barnes—the man who had been her friend, her comrade, the one who had stood beside her during the war—was gone. And in his place stood this. This.
A stranger.
And yet—his face was the same.
“Peggy?” Howard pressed.
She tore her eyes away, unable to look at the man who had been her partner in the past, who had once fought so fiercely for something—anything—and now stood here, not just as an ally but as a symbol of Russian might.
“I don’t know what to make of this, Howard,” she murmured. “He’s... he’s not who I remember. It doesn’t make sense.”
Howard’s expression was unreadable as he followed her gaze. The murmurs of the crowd faded for a moment. He didn’t need to say anything, but his lips thinned in acknowledgment.
She could feel a twinge of something—disappointment? Sadness?—but it quickly was overridden by something colder. Something she couldn’t quite place.
James Barnes—Bucky—was dead. And what stood before her now was something far more terrifying. The Winter Prince. Russia’s Immortal Son.
And even with the years between them, even with the years of betrayal—he still remembered her. She could see it in his eyes when he glanced across the room. A faint glimmer of recognition, an acknowledgment, like they were the last two people in the room who understood what it meant to be someone else entirely.
A ghost.
A soldier.
She didn’t flinch when his eyes landed on her again. No, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She would be stronger than that.
But inside, Peggy could feel a darkness blooming. A deep, gnawing curiosity that said this wasn't over—not by a long shot.

As the evening stretched on, the gleaming chandeliers above cast an ethereal glow over the gathered guests. The murmur of conversations flowed like a river, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent to the air—one that prickled with tension, curiosity, and veiled hostility. It was no surprise that the uninvited guests had drawn attention. Peggy Carter and Howard Stark were here, after all, in the very heart of Soviet power, where none but the chosen few had a right to be.
Yasha moved effortlessly through the crowd, his presence commanding respect even without a single word spoken. He had become the embodiment of the Winter Prince, a regal figure both feared and admired. Sokolov, too, was a towering figure beside him, exuding an aura of power that matched the weight of history he had built.
As they made their way to the raised dais where the prominent figures of the night were seated, their thrones waiting, Yasha couldn’t shake the sense of amusement that simmered beneath his usual indifference. There was a certain irony in the way he moved through this world, one foot in the gilded halls of power, the other planted firmly in the violence he had long embraced. His identity had become a mask, not just to the Soviets but to himself. Bucky Barnes had been a fleeting identity, one he wore for survival, and now, he was something far more dangerous: Yasha, the Winter Prince.
They took their seats—Sokolov first, a commanding presence as always, his ironclad grip on Russian power reinforced by his status as a master strategist. Yasha sat beside him, always in a shadow of sorts, but one of his own making.
Sokolov studied the room with quiet intensity, his gaze landing on the unfamiliar faces of the Americans. His lips curled into a thin, unreadable smile as he leaned slightly toward Yasha.
"How curious," Sokolov murmured, his voice low enough that only Yasha could hear. "Our dear guests from the West have arrived uninvited, yet they seem intent on making their presence known."
Yasha followed his gaze, noting the subdued tension that surrounded Peggy and Howard. He had already seen them, of course, watched them as they arrived with a certain air of caution, their eyes flicking over the crowd like they were walking into a lion’s den. Both of them seemed somewhat out of place, but there was an undeniable air of confidence about them as well—two people who had clearly spent their lives navigating danger.
"They won’t be able to resist," Yasha replied softly, his words laced with amusement. "The lure of the Winter Prince is... irresistible."
Sokolov chuckled, a deep sound that resonated with a trace of dark satisfaction. "Indeed. But what a peculiar pair. The woman... Peggy Carter, I believe? She has a history with you, does she not?" His tone was light, but there was a sharpness beneath it, an edge that cut deeper than any casual conversation.
Yasha’s expression remained unchanged, though inwardly, he allowed himself a moment to savor the feeling of discomfort that bloomed inside him. Peggy Carter—the one who had known him when he was still James—before the serum, before the years spent as the Winter Soldier and now, the Winter Prince. She had been a constant in his memories, a remnant of a past that he had long since buried. Yet, here she was, standing before him, forcing him to confront the person he once was.
He let a faint smile touch his lips. "We have... history, yes. But she is a relic of a past I left behind long ago." His voice was soft, but there was an undeniable coldness to his words, one that mirrored the icy depths of his transformation.
"And Stark?" Sokolov’s voice was a smooth whisper, probing, like the tip of a needle searching for the truth.
"Howard Stark," Yasha repeated, his mind working through the layers of history and deception. "He’s a symbol of the West, of everything I’ve left behind. He never mattered to me—just another man in a suit." His voice was dismissive, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes. A slight hint of contempt, perhaps.
Sokolov leaned back, studying Yasha with an almost approving gaze. "You are right, of course. They are nothing now, but it is interesting to see how they linger in the shadows, waiting for something to happen. Do you think they have come here to disrupt us? To find some weakness?" His words were laced with suspicion.
Yasha glanced over at the pair again. He could sense the unease radiating from both Peggy and Howard. Their eyes were darting around, absorbing every detail, as if they were trying to make sense of a world they didn’t understand. It was clear that they were out of their element. Yet, in their confusion, there was also something else—a quiet intensity. They were searching for something, just as Yasha had once searched for answers of his own.
"No," Yasha said, his voice calm and assured. "They won’t disrupt anything. They're here because they cannot resist the pull of what’s here. The power. The history. And me."
Sokolov gave a low chuckle, clearly pleased with Yasha’s confidence. "I suspect you're right. But let them watch. Let them wonder. This is our world now, Yasha. And you? You are the jewel at the center of it. No one will take that from you."
Yasha’s lips curved into a slow smile, a hint of pride in his expression. "No one ever could."
Sokolov gave him a proud glance, before turning his attention back to the crowd, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The West always thinks they can take what isn't theirs. But what they don't understand is that power is never given freely. It is taken."
The two men sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their words hanging in the air. The room, now filled with music and conversation, seemed to fade into the background as Yasha felt the true weight of his position settle upon him. He was no longer Bucky Barnes. He was no longer just a weapon, a pawn. He was Yasha, the Winter Prince. And for all their wonder and confusion, the Americans—Peggy Carter and Howard Stark—would never understand the world he now inhabited.
The gala continued on, and as the evening wore into the night, Yasha could feel the eyes of the guests on him. And for a moment, he allowed himself to feel the power of it all—the power of being the one who had not just survived, but thrived. In the shadows of history, there was no room for weakness.
And there was certainly no room for the past.

Howard stood at the edge of the ballroom, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd, taking in the faces, the grandeur, and the unmistakable air of power that permeated the space. But there was one figure who drew his attention more than any other—the man now sitting beside Sokolov, looking every bit the regal figure, as though the very air around him had shifted to accommodate his presence.
James.
Or rather, Yasha.
The face was the same, and the resemblance to the man Howard had known a decade ago was startling. The boy who had once been Bucky Barnes, the boy who had been a friend—no, more like a son in some ways—was now a polished image of ruthless elegance, the Winter Prince in full bloom. The years had been kind to him, but it was clear that his transformation was far from just physical. His eyes, though, those same eyes that had once glimmered with mischief and a certain restless energy, now carried something else. A coldness. A distance.
Howard couldn’t help the tightness in his chest as he watched Yasha, the man James had become, take his place next to Sokolov. The chair seemed too small for him now, as though his presence was too commanding for any seat to contain. And yet, there he was, an untouchable figure, framed in gold and velvet, commanding the room without a single word.
"Peggy," Howard murmured, leaning slightly toward her as he kept his gaze fixed on the Winter Prince. "That’s him, isn’t it? It’s James."
Peggy’s expression remained unreadable as she too watched Yasha with quiet intensity. Her eyes, however, held a complexity that Howard couldn’t quite place. It was a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and perhaps something darker—a hint of sorrow that no one could miss.
"It’s him," Peggy replied softly, her voice thick with emotion. "But it’s not."
Howard’s brow furrowed as he turned to her, his voice lowering in response. "What do you mean? That’s James, Peggy. James Barnes—the man who fought beside us, who was with us through thick and thin. He... he just looks a little different now, that’s all."
Peggy shook her head, her lips pressed together in a tight line. "No, Howard. He is gone. This... this is someone else. Someone entirely different."
Howard followed her gaze back to Yasha, his heart sinking as he took in the sheer presence of the man now ruling this room, his every movement calculated, controlled. It wasn’t just the way he looked that was different—it was the way he carried himself. There was no warmth in the way he stood now, no easy smile or infectious energy. Everything about him had been honed into something darker, more dangerous. And that was when Howard understood.
This wasn’t just about the physical transformation. The serum had enhanced him, yes, but it wasn’t the serum alone that had made him into this. It was whatever had happened in the years since they had last seen each other. Whatever had broken James Barnes and remade him into Yasha, the Winter Prince.
"You’re right," Howard finally admitted, his voice a low whisper. "But we can’t just let it go, can we? We have to approach him."
Peggy’s eyes flicked to him, a sharpness in her gaze that Howard knew all too well. "We have to be careful, Howard. This is no longer the man we knew. He’s something else now—a weapon, a pawn, or worse. If we approach him, we need to be prepared for anything."
Howard’s jaw tightened, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He had thought, for so long, that he would one day find James again, that maybe they could pull him out of whatever hell he had fallen into. But this was no longer just James. This was Yasha. And that change, that transformation, meant the rules had changed too.
He looked back to Yasha, who was now speaking quietly with Sokolov, his voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd. His posture was perfect—one of quiet command, the master of every room he entered. There was no hint of the rebellious, impetuous young man Howard had once known. Instead, he was a polished figure of power, a symbol of the Soviet Union's strength.
"We’ll approach him," Howard said, his tone resolute. "But we’ll do it carefully. We have to know where we stand, what he’s become. He may be our friend, but he’s also his now. And that means we have to tread lightly."
Peggy studied him for a moment before nodding. "Agreed. But we can’t let him slip through our fingers again. We have to find out what happened to him. He’s ours too, Howard. Don’t forget that."
Howard nodded, a sharp pang of guilt striking him as he remembered how they had lost touch with James, how they had failed him in his darkest hour. And now, here he was—Yasha, a man so far removed from the young soldier he had once known.
But as much as Howard wanted to believe that there was still a chance to reach him, to pull him back from whatever abyss he had fallen into, he knew it wouldn’t be easy. Yasha—James—was no longer the same man. The Winter Prince had risen, and there was no telling if the person who had once been Bucky Barnes still existed underneath it all.
The moment of hesitation passed, and Howard set his shoulders, preparing to face the man who had once been his friend, but was now something far more dangerous.
"Let’s go," he said, and Peggy fell into step beside him. The journey ahead was uncertain, but they would approach Yasha with caution, ready to navigate whatever came next.
As they made their way across the ballroom, the whispers of the crowd swirled around them. And in the distance, Yasha’s cold eyes flicked toward them, as though he had already sensed their approach.

Chapter 20: Not Bucky

Yasha saw them coming long before anyone else did. The crowd parted for Peggy Carter and Howard Stark as if they were figures cut from a different time—a time that had died alongside Captain America. How quaint, how American.
He didn’t flinch. His posture on the dais was perfect, all angles and serenity, a prince in his element. But as the whispers rippled through the room, as eyes darted between the approaching ghosts and the Immortal Son of Russia, Yasha rose.
Smooth and unhurried.
His hand rested briefly on Sokolov’s shoulder—an unspoken message. I’ll handle this.
And then he descended.
Peggy's expression was guarded, tight with suspicion. Howard, ever the showman, wore a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Yasha offered no smile at all. His beauty was as sharp as it had ever been, only now it had been burnished into something gleaming, imperial. His face was James Barnes’s—but nothing about the man behind it belonged to Brooklyn anymore.
When they were within reach, Yasha inclined his head just enough to acknowledge them. "I’m told you weren’t on the guest list," he said smoothly, Russian accent curling around the syllables like smoke. "But it would be ungracious to make a scene."
He turned without waiting for a reply, his deep red coat trailing behind him like a royal banner. "Come," he called over his shoulder. "Let’s be civil. This floor is new."
He led them into a lounge tucked behind the ballroom, a space paneled in dark wood and filled with velvet and shadow. The fireplace crackled softly. Yasha gestured for them to sit, and the door clicked shut behind them with the softest suggestion of a lock.
A discreet servant appeared at once—of course they did. Yasha always ensured his household ran like clockwork.
"Bring tea. The Lapsang. With lemon and honey. And brandy for the gentleman," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He’ll need it."
Peggy sat stiffly, her back straight, her fingers tight on the arm of her chair. Howard took a more casual pose but glanced around as if expecting secret police behind the walls. Yasha didn’t sit immediately. He stood before them, the firelight catching in the silver thread embroidered through his high-collared jacket. No medals. He didn’t need them. The collar around his throat gleamed faintly under the fabric.
"I know why you’re here," he said, finally taking his seat opposite them. "You want to know if I’m him."
He let the question hang. Let them look at him. Let the weight of the silence build.
Peggy broke it first.
"You’re wearing his face."
Yasha smiled thinly. "How poetic." His voice didn’t waver. "You’re not wrong. But 'Bucky' was a costume. One I wore for your benefit. He smiled a lot. Said charming things. Died like a good soldier."
The tea was brought in. Cups clinked gently. Yasha thanked the servant with an absent nod and poured for all three of them with the practiced elegance of a host. "I don’t wear that name anymore."
Howard looked pale. "But you remember. You do remember, don’t you?"
Yasha’s gaze flicked to him. "I remember everything." He stirred a touch of honey into his tea. "Including the way you abandoned me. The way Steve burned alive for a country that never even told me he was dead."
Peggy leaned forward. "We didn’t know—"
"You never knew anything," Yasha cut in, his voice still calm, but sharpened now. "You knew Bucky. And Bucky was a lie I made palatable. You never once thought to wonder what the truth was beneath the smile, did you?"
He sipped his tea and exhaled. "Relax. If I were going to kill you, I wouldn’t waste the tea."
Howard shifted uncomfortably.
"What do you want, then?" Peggy asked, her voice low.
Yasha smiled then—genuinely amused. "Want? I have everything I want. A country. A throne. A Master. A purpose."
He leaned back in his chair. "But it’s funny, isn’t it? You all mourned Captain America like a saint. Built monuments. Wrote songs. And not one of you asked what became of the man who fell. Who was he, after all, without Steve to tell him who to be?"
Yasha set his cup down, gaze glittering. "Well. Now you know."
Peggy looked stricken. Howard was silent.
Outside, music swelled from the ballroom.
Yasha stood. "You’ve had your answers. You’re welcome to stay. But you’ll excuse me if I return to my guests."
And without waiting, he left them in the shadowed room, the scent of smoke and citrus hanging in the air behind him.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a long time, Peggy and Howard said nothing.
The tea sat untouched, steam curling upward like ghosts. Peggy stared into hers, her jaw tight, her eyes dry. But her throat burned.
“He remembers everything,” she said at last, her voice hoarse.
Howard didn’t answer immediately. He was still looking at the door, like maybe he expected James—Yasha—to come back. Or maybe like he was trying to figure out who, exactly, had just walked out.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He does.”
Peggy’s hands curled tighter around the porcelain cup. “That wasn’t him. That wasn’t our James.”
“It was,” Howard murmured. “That’s what makes it worse.”
She looked up sharply.
“You saw it,” he went on, still not looking at her. “The way he moved. The way he poured the tea. That little tilt of his head. That’s Bucky Barnes. That’s muscle memory.”
She didn’t want to admit he was right. She didn’t want to admit that the eyes she’d stared into—ice-pale now, hard with certainty—had once crinkled at the edges when he made Steve laugh. That same mouth had once flirted with nurses and told her she looked good in red. That same voice, now dripping with Russian consonants, had once yelled her name across the tarmac in Italy.
But the man she’d spoken to tonight hadn’t just changed.
He’d been rewritten.
“No one came for him,” Peggy whispered, bitter and stunned. “We thought he was dead. The whole time.”
Howard looked down at his drink. “We didn’t look hard enough.”
They sat in silence again, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of faraway violins from the ballroom. Peggy couldn’t shake the way he’d looked in the throne—throne—beside that silver-haired general. How easily he’d claimed the space. How adored he was. How dangerous.
She closed her eyes. “Steve died thinking it was his fault. That he’d let Bucky fall.”
Howard flinched.
And then, quietly: “If he knew this was what Bucky became… what they made him…”
Peggy opened her eyes. “He’d still try to save him.”
Howard didn’t answer. They both knew it was true.
And it didn’t matter.
Because Steve was gone.
And James Barnes—the real one—was gone too.
All that remained was Yasha Sokolov, Russia’s Winter Prince.
A prince with a wolf’s smile and no leash but the one he chose to wear.
Peggy stood. “We shouldn’t have come.”
Howard rose more slowly. “No. But we had to see it with our own eyes.”
She nodded once, then left the room with her back straight and her face unreadable.
Howard lingered a moment longer. Just long enough to knock back the brandy in one bitter swallow.
Then he followed her into the night, leaving the tea untouched and cooling.

The hush that settled over the ballroom was subtle, but unmistakable.
Heads turned. Conversations lulled. Glasses paused midway to lips.
Yasha had returned.
No sign of strain marred his features, no flicker of emotion betrayed what had passed in the lounge beyond. His mask was seamless—no, not a mask. A mantle. A role he had mastered.
He moved with the smooth, lethal grace of a panther, dressed in deepest navy silk and tailored shadows. His boots glinted with polished steel. His collar—white gold and sapphires—sat snug and proud at his throat.
And as he strode back into the ballroom, his eyes sought out one man and one man only.
Sokolov was already rising from the dais, his expression unreadable to most. But Yasha knew the flicker in his gaze: approval. Possession. Desire.
Yasha bowed low before him—not too deep, not submissive in front of the others, but reverent in a way that set tongues wagging all over again.
“My General,” he murmured.
Sokolov extended a gloved hand. “Come, moya zvezda. Dance with me.”
The musicians, as if on cue, shifted into something slow and decadent, the kind of waltz meant for high ceilings and whispered secrets.
And Yasha—Russia’s Winter Prince, Sergeant Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov, lieutenant general and crowned jewel of the Party—stepped into Sokolov’s arms like he belonged there.
Their first turn around the ballroom was slow and smooth, effortless. Eyes followed their every move, as if trying to understand how a weapon could be so graceful, how a killer could glide like a ballerina.
Sokolov’s hand pressed firm against Yasha’s lower back, the other guiding him expertly through each step.
“You didn’t kill them,” he said lowly.
“No,” Yasha replied, eyes half-lidded. “They brought tea.”
Sokolov chuckled softly. “Merciful.”
“I can afford to be,” Yasha murmured. “You’ve taught me the art of restraint.”
A pause. Then, softer, just for him: “Did you enjoy the look on their faces?”
Yasha’s smile curved like a blade. “Deeply.”
Sokolov leaned in, brushing lips just behind Yasha’s ear. “You danced beautifully tonight, kotyonok. And not just here.”
The praise slithered down Yasha’s spine like silk. He leaned in closer, relishing the warmth, the possessive pressure of Sokolov’s hand.
“May I request your bed tonight, General?” he asked sweetly, voice laced with purr and promise.
“You may request it,” Sokolov said, eyes glinting. “We’ll see if you’ve earned it.”
Another turn. Another measured step. And Yasha let the world watch as he danced like a Prince in his Master’s arms.

Chapter 21: The Only Gift That Matters

The ballroom had been transformed into something just shy of divine—light cascading through crystal chandeliers like sunlight through ice, and golden accents catching in the flare of candlelight until everything shimmered. But none of it, Yasha thought smugly, outshone him.
He sat now in his place at Sokolov’s side, throne carved from black oak and upholstered in blood-red velvet. His back was straight, chin lifted just enough to signal superiority without tipping into arrogance. His gloved fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair, posture elegant and unreadable.
Sokolov, as always, radiated restrained power beside him. Every so often, his fingers would graze Yasha’s hand—small touches that felt like brandings. Possessive. Territorial. Reassuring.
The gifting began after the third toast, with Party officials approaching one by one. Each bowed deeply before offering their tributes—polished heirlooms, artifacts, fine weapons, old vodka distilled during the Revolution, books bound in leather and secrets.
To each, Yasha offered a gracious nod, the kind of princely gratitude that made people want to offer more.
A silken scarf from a French diplomat’s wife—embroidered with his initials in Cyrillic.
A dagger with a white gold hilt from the Minister of Internal Affairs.
A portrait of him, styled as an imperial icon, haloed in lacquered gold leaf.
A red stallion bred from warhorses gifted by an Eastern general.
All beautiful. All flattering. All expected.
But none of it held his attention for long.
Not really.
Because no matter how gilded the gifts, no matter how grand the flattery, Yasha’s mind kept returning to the look in Sokolov’s eyes as they danced. That slow-burning hunger. That promise of something more.
He crossed one leg over the other, the long lines of his body lounging with poised decadence. One hand rose to toy with the end of the white gold collar at his throat.
The weight of it—ever present—felt heavier tonight.
Or perhaps more… anticipatory.
What will he do to me, for me, after the last toast has been made?
He glanced sidelong at Sokolov, catching a faint smirk curling at the corner of the General’s mouth. Yasha knew that smirk. It meant plans.
He leaned in slightly, voice purring soft beneath the clamor of music and laughter.
“Will you keep me waiting long, General?”
Sokolov didn’t look at him right away, simply sipped his vodka, deliberately slow.
Then, “Anticipation sharpens reward.”
Yasha’s breath hitched, subtle and utterly masked to anyone but Sokolov. He smiled for the room—practiced, princely, charming.
But beneath it, he squirmed like a leashed beast aching for release.
As yet another gift was presented and the crowd applauded his graciousness, Yasha felt the slow throb of want build between his ribs like a war drum. Not desperation—never that. But a potent craving laced with reverence.
The Winter Prince received the gifts of nations.
But tonight, he belonged to one man alone.
And Yasha could hardly wait to be unwrapped.

The final toast came just after midnight. Champagne flutes shimmered in every hand, crystal kissed by candlelight, the scent of roses and wax and smoke heavy in the air.
“To the Winter Prince,” Sokolov said, his voice low but commanding enough to still the room. “Russia’s Immortal Son.”
The crowd echoed the toast with murmured reverence and polite applause, though some cheered with drunken affection. Yasha raised his glass in return, smiling with just enough warmth to make them feel privileged, included, blessed by his regard.
But his eyes never left Sokolov.
The music resumed, slower now, a closing lullaby to usher the less politically important guests toward the exits. Courtiers bowed, diplomats curtsied. Farewells were murmured like liturgy as the ballroom began to empty, each departure only tightening the air between Prince and Master.
Yasha lingered with graceful patience, accepting final bows and last-minute flatteries as if he weren’t counting down the seconds with every pulse of blood in his throat.
By the time the doors were closed and locked behind the last of the party elite, only a few remained—Sokolov’s most trusted, staff moving efficiently to begin the late-night clean. Even they knew to avoid lingering near the throne dais. The stage had been cleared.
Yasha stood with slow elegance, letting the weight of the night roll off his shoulders like a discarded robe.
He stepped down the dais with the grace of a silk-clad wolf, approaching Sokolov without hesitation. Their eyes met—no masks, no titles. Just Master and pet. Prince and collar.
Sokolov held out a gloved hand.
Yasha took it.
They walked the familiar hallways in silence, the hush of the palace wrapping around them like velvet. With each step, Yasha’s breathing slowed—not in nerves, but in awareness. In readiness.
The door to the private suite closed behind them with a deep click. Yasha toed off his shoes with a sigh of satisfaction and knelt beside the hearth, fingers idly tracing the hem of his coat before looking up with deliberate obedience.
“Well?” he asked, voice soft, teasing. “Did I please you, General?”
Sokolov approached slowly, unhurried, and knelt beside him. His hand came to rest at Yasha’s nape, fingers possessive against the cool metal of the collar.
“You pleased the world tonight,” Sokolov murmured, his lips just brushing Yasha’s ear, “but you were made to please me.”
Yasha exhaled a laugh—light, beautiful, and full of hunger.
“And I plan to.”
There was no rush, no firestorm. Not yet.
Just the quiet hum of power and submission, of affection wrapped in iron, of ownership that neither chafed nor broke—but instead completed.
Sokolov rose first, and Yasha followed, already shedding layers as he was guided back into the inner sanctum. The air was warmer there, the fire already lit, the linens changed to fresh silk, the wine poured, and a small white box sat waiting on the table beside the bed.
Yasha’s breath caught slightly as his eyes landed on it. Velvet ribbon. White wax seal.
A gift from his Master.
His true gift.
He turned his head, lips parted in delighted anticipation. “May I open it now, General?”
Sokolov poured the wine with unhurried precision. “Soon.”
Yasha shivered.
The night, it seemed, was only just beginning.

Yasha approached the table with the reverence of a man opening a reliquary. His fingers toyed with the velvet ribbon, drawing the untying out like a ritual. The wax seal bore Sokolov’s crest—an eagle and a winter rose, the mark of the man who owned him in every way that mattered.
He broke the seal.
Inside, nestled in black silk, lay a beautifully crafted plug—sculpted from polished obsidian glass and rimmed in a delicate band of platinum filigree. The base bore a thin engraving in Russian: Zimniy Prints. Winter Prince.
Yasha’s lips parted in a silent inhale, fingers hovering above it as though afraid to touch.
A small remote lay beside it—sleek, minimal, almost medical in its design. A single dial, no display, no complication. Just control.
“I had it made in Prague,” Sokolov said, watching him from the chair beside the hearth. “Balanced. Quiet. Responsive. Discreet enough to be worn at court, if you so wish.”
Yasha blinked slowly, reverently. “You… always know what I need before I know it myself.”
Sokolov’s mouth curled. “It’s my duty.”
Carefully, Yasha lifted the plug from the silk. It was weighted just right, elegant but not gaudy, intimate without being crude. Not merely a toy—an heirloom in its own strange way. A tool. A symbol.
Yasha stepped closer, lowering himself to his knees again and placing the box reverently at Sokolov’s feet.
“This is a Prince’s gift,” he murmured. “And I am your Prince. Yours to train, yours to tune, yours to tame.”
Sokolov’s hand settled in his hair, slow and warm.
“And yours to keep,” Yasha whispered, voice low as a prayer. “Until Russia herself forgets my name.”

Morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of the Yalta bedroom, softened by the gauze of sea mist. The room smelled faintly of salt, silk, and the ghosts of pleasure—opulent, unhurried, and deeply satisfied.
Yasha stirred beneath the furs, muscles loose and heavy with indulgence. He didn’t open his eyes just yet. There was no need. The sheets still clung to his skin, rich with the evidence of the night before. Sokolov hadn’t even touched him—at least, not in the traditional sense—and yet…
He smiled lazily.
The plug remained nestled inside him, still warm, still humming faintly at the lowest setting. Teasing. Reminding.
A soft whimper—unintentional, reflexive—escaped him as he shifted. His thighs pressed together, sensitive and sore in the most decadent way. Sokolov hadn’t denied him. No, never that. He had mastered him—again and again, with nothing but a dial and that voice like gravel and silk.
Three times, if Yasha had counted correctly.
Possibly four.
The thought made him sigh, boneless in the sheets, the definition of a pet well-kept. There were bruises blooming low on his hips where the blankets didn’t reach, and his hair was a glorious, tangled halo across the pillow.
He was still shaking a little.
The door cracked open with a gentle knock, and a valet entered with breakfast—black tea, honeyed porridge, and shaved fruit over ice. Silent, professional, used to the evidence of such evenings.
Yasha didn’t bother to cover himself. He never did.
The valet bowed, set the tray beside the bed, and departed without a word.
Only then did Yasha roll onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow and laughing softly to himself.
“Happy birthday to me,” he murmured.

Chapter 22: Breakfast In Bed

The breakfast tray had been rearranged—porridge half-eaten, tea cups refilled twice, the sliced fruit picked over like the aftermath of a Roman feast. Yasha lounged with his head in Sokolov’s lap, silk robe slipping from one bare shoulder, revealing the pale column of his neck and the fine collar gleaming there like a crown.
Sokolov’s hand moved absently through Yasha’s hair, brushing it back with practiced fondness as he read the morning dispatch. His reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, giving him the look of a scholar rather than a general, though the lines at his mouth suggested he’d been frowning for some time.
“They’re still in the country,” he murmured finally.
Yasha hummed, eyes half-lidded. “The Americans?”
“Howard Stark and his little British shadow.”
“Still playing diplomats, are they?” He reached lazily for a sugared plum, biting into it with a sensual slowness that could’ve been mistaken for indifference—if one didn’t know Yasha. “How terribly loyal of them.”
Sokolov looked down at him. “It’s possible they’re here to negotiate something… or someone.”
“I’d almost be flattered.” Yasha licked syrup from his fingers, then sighed. “Do you want them gone?”
“I want to know if they’re trouble.”
Yasha stretched luxuriously, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at everything sore and used. He didn’t mind the ache. It reminded him of what he was. Of where he belonged.
“I’ll have them followed. If they sniff too close, we’ll handle it.”
“‘We’?”
Yasha smiled, the expression all knives and sugared venom. “I’ve never had an issue killing the friends of ghosts, Master. Especially not ones who think they knew me.”
Sokolov chuckled. “Yes, I forget sometimes how far Bucky is buried.”
“He was never real,” Yasha said simply. “Just a costume. A weakness. James Barnes died in a ravine in the Alps. I’m what rose up in his place.”
Sokolov leaned down and kissed Yasha’s temple, murmuring against his skin, “And Russia has never been more blessed.”
They sat in contented silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft clink of silverware and the wind moving the curtains.
Then Yasha asked, “Do you want them dead quietly or publicly?”
Sokolov chuckled again, his fingers threading possessively into Yasha’s hair.
“Let’s see how much noise they make first.”

Peggy stirred her tea with a trembling hand. The silver spoon clinked softly against the fine porcelain, the rhythm just slightly off—betraying her nerves even as her face remained composed. Across the small sitting room, Howard was pacing, half-dressed and entirely unsettled.
“He looked exactly the same,” he muttered, for the third time that morning. “Exactly. Like not a day had passed. Not even a wrinkle.”
Peggy nodded once, slow. “He even had the same smile. But it wasn’t him.”
Howard stopped. “It was him, Peg.”
“It wasn’t Bucky,” she corrected sharply. “That wasn’t James Barnes. That man—whoever he is now—looked through us like we were glass.”
She didn’t add what she was thinking: that when he had smiled, it had felt cruel. Calculated. There had been no spark of recognition, only a studied amusement, like a cat watching a pair of mice scurry about under glass.
“He didn’t even flinch when I said Steve’s name,” Howard said quietly. “I watched him. He didn’t even blink.”
Peggy lowered her spoon. “I’m not sure he didn’t find it funny.”
Silence fell. Howard sat down beside her, rubbing his temples. They had come to this gala chasing rumors—whispers of an immortal Soviet darling, a ghost wrapped in fur and diamonds. They hadn’t expected a resurrection.
“He’s dangerous,” Peggy finally said. “More dangerous than he ever was. And I don’t think the Party just keeps him as a pet for show.”
Howard’s mouth twitched into a grimace. “They’ve weaponized him.”
“No,” Peggy murmured. “They’ve honored him. Crowned him. Whatever that was last night, it wasn’t an asset showing off. That was a prince being worshipped.”
She leaned back in her chair, voice low and bitter. “They turned him into something… imperial. And he seems to love it.”
Howard looked toward the window, to where the spires of the estate cut the sky like daggers.
“We need to decide what to do with this information. What to tell them. Because if Barnes—if Yasha—is loyal to Sokolov and the Party…”
Peggy met his gaze, cool and sharp.
“Then we may have just waltzed into the lion’s den, and smiled while the lion licked its teeth.”

Yasha adjusted the collar of his dark coat, one finger idly brushing the fine stitching at the lapel. He stood in the gallery above the main salon, framed by velvet drapes and silence. Below, the palace still pulsed with life—guests lingering, staff busy with clean-up, murmurs echoing in alcoves. But his attention was elsewhere.
Peggy Carter and Howard Stark were seated in one of the smaller tea rooms off the eastern wing, unaware that the little vase on their table was more than porcelain. The audio feed was faint, but clear enough through the receiver nestled in Yasha’s ear.
“…they’ve weaponized him,” Howard’s voice crackled.
Yasha smirked.
No, Stark. You weaponized me first. They just refined the product.
From the shadows, Yasha watched their body language with the precision of a hunter. Carter’s restraint, tight-laced and practiced. Howard’s nervous energy, pacing like a caged animal. They spoke in hushed tones, low enough that their emotions had to carry the weight of the words they dared not say aloud.
He leaned back against the marble column, arms folded. If they thought they were uncovering some dark state secret, they were several years and several corpses too late. They didn’t understand the shape of the creature they were looking at—how deeply he had shed James Barnes.
Bucky had died long before the war ended. All that remained was Yasha.
Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov.
Zimniy Prints.
The Winter Prince who watched old ghosts tiptoe through his ballroom.
He lifted a hand and pressed a subtle command on the band around his finger. Moments later, a small feed appeared on his wrist communicator, displaying the quiet nod from a contact stationed just outside the tea room—an attendant in appearance, a loyal blade in truth.
No move yet. He wanted to know more. How far they’d dig. Whether they’d write a report, or try to make contact again.
He had every hallway bugged. Every servant briefed. The entire estate bowed to him—not just in title, but in the practical web of surveillance and influence he had spent years spinning.
Sokolov had taught him the old art of patience, of information gathering. And now, Yasha wielded it with casual elegance.
He didn’t blink when Peggy said Steve’s name. That part was true.
Because Steve Rogers had made a martyr of himself over a lie—and Yasha was living proof of how worthless that sacrifice had been.
The smile returned to his lips, slow and crooked.
He would let them stew a little longer.
And if they got too bold?
Well… even wolves like to play with their food.

Chapter 23: Put On A Show

Yasha settled into the rich velvet chair in his personal study, the lights dim and the air thick with the scent of aged tobacco and incense. The room had been carefully designed to reflect both power and decadence—a far cry from the stark world he’d known as James Barnes. Here, every detail spoke of ownership, of control, and of indulgence.
He toyed idly with a silver pen, twirling it between his fingers as he surveyed the notes spread across his desk. The map of the estate, the files on the visitors, their movements, their known histories, all of it laid out before him. Howard and Peggy were the puzzle pieces he would twist and turn to his liking. They were more than curious now—they were, without realizing it, trapped in a web of their own making.
Howard Stark’s sharp mind would eventually connect the dots. The pieces would fall into place—the whispers of a "Winter Prince" amongst the elite, the rumors surrounding the disappearance of James Barnes, the timing of the gala... Everything was pointing in one direction. They weren’t here out of curiosity—they were here because they felt a dangerous need to understand.
And that was when Yasha would give them a show. A piece of himself. A glimpse of the Winter Prince, a creature born not of the battlefield, but of political seduction, of being raised to be both feared and adored.
Yasha’s lips curled into a slow smile, and he reached for a silken red robe—the color so rich it practically screamed indulgence. Gold thread wound through it, patterns that mimicked the icy swirls of the North. It was decadent, dripping with the kind of wealth that was never meant for common men. The robe was made to be worn, not just for warmth but for attention. To be seen.
He could already picture the moment. He’d leave enough breadcrumbs to ensure they stumbled into the right part of the estate, just when they thought they had the upper hand. And then, they’d find him—lounging in his robe, practically dripping with luxury, a perfect blend of power and surrender. The collar around his neck would be the final touch—black leather, polished to a gleaming shine, with the engraved silver tag that marked him unmistakably as property of the Soviet Union.
Собственность СССР — The Winter Prince, Property of the USSR.
Yasha would be sprawled across the chaise, head resting in Sokolov’s lap. His Master—his true Master—would feed him sugared plums, gently and with care, a tender gesture that still carried weight. His mouth would be soft as he ate, eyes half-lidded, savoring each moment of the indulgence. His body would be languid, easy, the picture of someone who had long since mastered the art of both submission and dominance.
When they walked in, what would they see? A man who had become a living contradiction. One who had risen from the shadows of his old identity, who had killed and betrayed, who had embraced the lessons of control and submission, now enjoying the fruits of his power. And with Sokolov by his side, the master who had shaped him, who had made him—what could Peggy and Howard possibly think?
They had tried to paint him as someone with a past. They would see now that there was nothing left of James Barnes, nothing left of "Bucky." This man—Yasha—was born from violence and politics, sculpted into a symbol of Soviet power. He wasn’t just a soldier. He was an heir, a prince, and he belonged to the state.
His fingers traced the edge of the collar once more, considering how to position it just right before the show began. Everything about this moment had to be perfect—controlled. He wasn’t going to just give them answers. He would give them something to feel.
This was how he had been taught to rule. This was how the game was played.

The quiet murmurs of the ballroom still echoed in Peggy's mind as she and Howard moved down the winding hallways of the estate. The night of Yasha's birthday gala had been a dazzling display of wealth and power, but something had lingered in the air long after they’d retreated to their suite. The evening had been rich with questions and unspoken tension, but one question kept resurfacing in Peggy’s thoughts—who was the man that looked like James Barnes, yet wasn’t?
She hadn’t seen the Winter Soldier in years, but the memories were still sharp, vivid. She had seen him in the shadows, the ghost of a friend who had once saved her life—and yet now, in this moment, she could not shake the feeling that they were both being played.
Howard, as always, was less worried about the complexities of morality and more about the mechanics of what they were up against. His mind raced through possibilities and theories, none of which he wanted to verbalize in front of Peggy. Still, a part of him—deep down—wanted to believe that the man they saw last night could not possibly be the same as the one they’d known so long ago.
"Do you think it’s him?" Peggy asked, her voice a whisper, like speaking louder would shatter the illusion of their own thoughts.
Howard only shook his head, his mind working too quickly to offer a solid answer. His thoughts weren’t on James—Bucky—anymore. They were on the Winter Prince, this strange man who seemed so comfortable in his skin, in the power he exuded. "You saw the way he held himself," he said, his voice low. "That wasn’t Bucky. That’s someone else—someone who’s been molded into something... much more dangerous."
Peggy nodded, but she still couldn't reconcile the two versions of the man in her head. The Bucky she had known had been warm and loyal. This stranger was something else entirely.
They continued down the corridor, unaware of the careful way Yasha had laid the trail for them to follow. The slightest sign, the smallest movement, all designed to coax them into making their way deeper into the estate. The hallway curved gently, a narrow path between walls adorned with tapestries and old Soviet symbols—unmistakable markers of the place they’d entered. The floor beneath their feet was plush, the quiet thrum of their steps barely making a sound as they walked.
Peggy stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. She felt a prickling on the back of her neck, as if something—someone—was watching them. She turned to Howard, who had been unusually quiet since they left the ballroom. His brow was furrowed, his expression more intense than usual.
"Are we doing the right thing, Howard?" she asked softly, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. She had always been the one who trusted her instincts, and everything about this situation felt wrong.
"Do we have a choice?" Howard replied, voice tight. "He’s not the same man, Peggy. And the longer we wait, the more likely it is we’ll never get the chance to figure out what’s going on."
Before Peggy could respond, the door ahead of them creaked open slightly. A sliver of soft light leaked out into the hallway. The path had led them here, to this moment, this door. Howard stepped forward, instinctively, and pushed it open.
What they saw on the other side was not what they expected.

The room was warm, illuminated by golden lights that cast an almost ethereal glow over the furnishings. The soft clink of porcelain tea cups was heard as a servant withdrew, leaving the two figures alone in the room.
Yasha lounged lazily, wearing a luxurious robe that draped over his shoulders and pooled around him like liquid silk, the fabric gleaming with gold thread. The collar around his neck, black leather, gleamed faintly in the light. A silver tag attached to it, engraved with Собственность СССР — Property of the USSR — reflected in the glow. It was an unmistakable mark of ownership, and it burned like an accusation in the air between them.
His long, dark hair cascaded loosely over his shoulders, a far cry from the young man they remembered from years ago. His features were sharper now, his gaze more guarded, but his presence filled the room with an undeniable weight. There was no mistake about it—this was the same face, the same man who had once been their friend, but now... now he was something different entirely.
And there, sitting at Yasha's feet, was Sokolov. The same Sokolov who had always been a distant, looming presence. His eyes glinted with satisfaction as he watched Yasha, a content smile on his face as he fed him sugared plums from a delicate porcelain dish. It was a bizarre, almost intimate scene—one that felt far more personal than any diplomatic gathering should have been.
Yasha lifted his head from Sokolov's lap and turned his gaze toward the door. His eyes locked onto Peggy and Howard with a cold curiosity, but his lips quirked into a small smile. He didn’t stand. He didn’t move, but the shift in the air was palpable—the power, the control he held now was more evident than ever.
“Ah,” Yasha said, his voice smooth and rich, tinged with an accent that was unmistakably Russian. "I wondered when you would come."
He shifted slightly, one hand resting lazily on the arm of the chaise, the other absently reaching to take another sugared plum from Sokolov’s hand. He didn’t rush. He didn’t seem worried.
"This is a private gathering," Yasha continued, his eyes flicking between them. "And I find it curious you should have arrived at just the right time."
Peggy’s stomach twisted. Her instincts screamed that they were out of their depth, but she held her ground. Howard, on the other hand, clenched his jaw. His eyes didn’t leave Yasha as he took in the scene, trying to connect the dots, but none of it seemed to make sense.
"Yasha..." Howard began, his voice tentative. "You don’t have to do this. We can still help you. Whatever’s happened—whatever they've done to you—you don’t have to stay here. We can get you out."
Yasha only smiled wider, his gaze heavy with a mixture of amusement and something darker—something far more calculating.
"Help me?" he repeated softly, his voice dripping with mockery. "You are not the ones who decide that. I belong to the state now, Howard. To the Soviet Union. To him," Yasha gestured lazily to Sokolov. "I am his now."
The words were final, the statement undeniable.
Peggy’s heart sank as she realized what she was looking at: not the James Barnes they had known, not the friend they had tried to rescue, but a man who had long since shed his past and become a new creature entirely. This was Yasha—Winter Prince, weapon, and property of the USSR—and any trace of the boy they had once known had been buried beneath layers of power, control, and manipulation.
And Howard… Howard was already planning his next move. The question was, would it be enough?

Yasha sat back, letting the weight of their presence wash over him. He was fully aware of the disorientation he was inflicting, how the room must have felt like a strange, distorted reflection of the past for both Howard and Peggy. The way they looked at him—eyes filled with disbelief and confusion—was a delicious thing to watch. They wanted to help him, to rescue him, but what they didn’t realize was that the man they sought to save was already long gone. And the man standing before them now was something else entirely.
A part of him reveled in it—the power, the control. It wasn’t just about the physical dominance, the way Sokolov sat at his feet, or the collar around his neck marking him as property. It was the psychological game, the way he could watch their faces twist in surprise, horror, and regret, knowing full well that the man they once knew was lost to them forever.
He noticed Peggy's sharp intake of breath as her gaze flickered to the collar. Her expression faltered for just a moment before she regained her composure, trying to act like the agent she was, the hero she had always been. But Yasha could see through it. She was unraveling, the realization dawning on her that her friend—the friend she had once fought alongside, the one who had been her ally—was now gone. What remained was only a weapon, a tool of the state, and a man who had long since accepted his place in the world of power.
Yasha shifted slightly, stretching out on the chaise as he watched them, taking in the tension in their bodies, the uncertainty they couldn’t fully mask. The tiny tremor in Peggy’s hand, the way Howard’s jaw tightened with barely concealed anger—it all fed into the dark, twisted pleasure Yasha felt curling in his chest. They were helpless now. They were playing by his rules, in his world.
"You came to save me," Yasha said, the words slow and deliberate, savoring the discomfort in their eyes. "But you are too late. I have no need for saving. I belong here, now." He let the silence hang between them for a moment, relishing the way the truth landed heavily. The weight of his transformation.
Sokolov, ever the silent partner, watched the scene with quiet amusement. His fingers gently stroked the back of Yasha’s neck, a reminder of the bond they shared. Yasha’s own hand, almost instinctively, reached up to lightly touch the collar that rested around his neck, a symbolic gesture that made the subjugation all the more real.
Howard’s voice cut through the quiet, his tone barely holding together. "What happened to you, Yasha? You were a soldier, but this... this isn’t you."
Yasha’s lips curled into a dark, almost predatory smile. "You don’t understand. This is who I always was," he said softly, almost purring the words as if they were a secret he had finally let out. "Bucky was the mask, the lie I wore to fit into a world that didn’t understand me. But now? Now, I wear the truth. This is me. The Winter Prince. The one who answers to no one, but Sokolov." He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting as he met their gaze. "And you… you still think you can save me?"
He let the question linger, watching them squirm in the face of the undeniable transformation. Peggy’s lips parted, but no words came. She could see it in his eyes, the complete shift from the man she had known to the cold, ruthless figure before her. The Yasha she had once hoped to rescue wasn’t coming back. He was lost.
Yasha reveled in the realization. The more they struggled, the more he found himself sinking deeper into this role, this life he had built. He had been molded into something far beyond what they could ever comprehend. Their friendship, their attempts at rescue, it all felt so far away, as distant as the person he had once been.
His hand trailed lazily along the armrest, then down the curve of his own leg, as if the conversation was beneath him. "You should leave," he said finally, his voice quieter, but colder. "Before it gets more... complicated."
There was no malice in his voice, no need to raise his tone. But the cold finality of his words was all he needed to remind them of their place in this game. They were out of their depth.
The lingering silence stretched as Peggy’s eyes flickered with a thousand emotions, but she finally stepped back, wordless, her hand moving to rest against Howard’s arm. She knew the battle was over, and no matter how much she wanted to save him, there was no one left to save.
Howard’s voice broke the quiet. "We’ll figure this out," he muttered, though it was more to himself than anyone else. He turned, already stepping toward the door, with Peggy at his side. They both knew what they had to do, even if it meant walking away for now.
And as the door clicked shut behind them, Yasha leaned back in his chaise, his eyes never leaving the spot where they had stood. He was alone again, but this time, it was different. He was in control.
Sokolov’s fingers traced the edge of his collar, a subtle but deliberate gesture. "Well done, my Pet," he murmured.
Yasha smiled, a wicked satisfaction curling in his chest. "This is just the beginning."

The silence that followed Peggy and Howard’s exit was thick and sweet. Not oppressive, but indulgent—like silk pressing close to skin or the rich taste of dark wine clinging to the tongue. Yasha remained reclined, head tilted back against Sokolov’s thigh, eyes closed in exquisite contentment. It wasn’t merely about winning—it was about reminding them, and himself, what he had become.
Sokolov’s hand never stopped moving, a rhythm as constant as breath, carding gently through dark hair that had grown past military precision and into something intentionally elegant. He tugged at a strand now and then, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to claim.
“They looked at you like you were a ghost,” Sokolov murmured, voice as low and warm as the tea cooling on the side table.
“I might as well be,” Yasha replied, his tone light and unbothered. “A ghost in a golden cage.”
“Not a cage,” Sokolov said, brushing his thumb along the curve of Yasha’s jaw. “A palace. And you rule it like you were born to do so.”
Yasha’s smile was soft, almost dreamy. “No, Master. You rule it. I just lie at your feet and bare my teeth when you say the word.”
“Mm,” Sokolov hummed approvingly, his gaze tracing the edge of Yasha’s collar—sleek, polished leather against pale skin. “But your teeth are so very sharp. I’ve raised you well.”
And it was true. The dynamic between them was not just one of control and obedience, but of creation. Sokolov hadn’t broken Yasha—he had shaped him. Refined the brutal, hungry creature that had survived war and captivity into something elegant and terrifying. A weapon gilded in velvet and silk.
There were rules, of course. Rituals. A structure that defined their bond.
Yasha had his own wing of the palace, his own staff, his own schedule and missions. But every night, without fail, he returned to Sokolov’s quarters. He slept curled at the man’s side—never at the foot of the bed like a servant, but tucked close like a favored thing. Every morning began with a hand at his throat, a whispered command, or a kiss to the curve of his shoulder depending on Sokolov’s mood. The balance between dominance and intimacy was delicate, and they had perfected it over years.
Yasha bore it all—not out of blind submission, but because it made sense. Because the man he was now had no need to pretend to be good, or normal, or moral. The leash around his throat was one he had chosen.
And the court, the Party, the world? They bowed to the Winter Prince because they feared what would happen if he were unleashed.
Tonight had been a demonstration, yes. But also a reaffirmation.
Peggy and Howard had been reminders of the world he had left behind. And Sokolov, with his quiet presence and unwavering hand, was the proof that Yasha was exactly where he belonged.
“You were magnificent tonight,” Sokolov said, reaching for one of the sugared plums from the polished crystal dish and holding it to Yasha’s lips.
Yasha accepted it, letting the sweetness coat his tongue before murmuring, “I always am. But only for you.”
That earned him a soft chuckle and a quiet, “Good boy.”
He closed his eyes again, allowing himself the rare indulgence of stillness. For a moment, the world could spin without him. He had played the long game, and he had won—more than power, more than prestige. He had been chosen. Not by fate or by history, but by the one man whose approval mattered.
And what more could a Prince ask for?

Chapter 24: Mortality

Yasha’s spiral isn’t loud. It’s not broken glass or screaming matches or dramatic displays. No—his descent is quiet, polished, poised. Almost imperceptible if you didn’t know him well. But the staff know. They watch the way he drifts through the estate, dressed impeccably in silks he doesn’t feel. They note how the clink of his heels against marble no longer carries purpose, only habit.
He doesn’t eat. Or when he does, it’s in a manner so methodical it feels detached. He picks apart pastries with gloved fingers, never finishing a plate. He walks the gardens in perfect posture but doesn’t see the roses or hear the birds. He keeps to the schedule because he must—but no one misses the fact that he’s wearing the same crimson dressing robe four days in a row.
The bath goes cold more often than not. He lets the water run over him, staring at the tiles, unmoving. A marble statue in his own shrine.
And then, the worst: the collar.
He removes it.
Only once. Only briefly. Only to polish it himself, he tells the staff. But when he sets it down on the velvet cloth, his fingers tremble. His reflection in the silver tag stares back: hollow-eyed, gaunt, not from age, not from weakness, but from something deeper.
A fear he can’t voice. A truth he can’t shake.
He curls up on the chaise in Sokolov’s private study later that evening, the collar clutched against his chest like a talisman. He buries his face in the cushions where Sokolov’s scent still lingers. Still rich. Still warm. Still present.
But for how long?
What happens to a Pet when their Master dies?
He imagines Sokolov's funeral. The state affair. The Party in black. The Winter Prince draped in red like a relic, chained in gold, expected to stand still while everything that made him his is lowered into the earth.
He wonders if he’ll scream. Or if he’ll simply stop. If there’s even a self left behind to mourn.

The car pulled through the wrought iron gates of the Sokolov estate just as the last traces of dusk melted into the earth. The tires crunched softly on the drive, the way they always did, and Sokolov sat silently in the back seat, one hand pressed to his temple, the other curled around the worn leather strap of his briefcase.
The week had been unbearable. Politics were a symphony of vultures clawing at power and pretending it was patriotism. Not even the Kremlin walls had kept the whispers at bay—rumors of unrest, of shifting loyalties, of shadows within shadows. He had left Yasha behind with every confidence, knowing his Pet was the single constant in a world of lies.
Until he walked into the manor.
The air was too still.
A maid greeted him—tight-lipped, eyes flicking upward like she wanted to speak but had been warned. He dismissed her with a look and headed for the west wing, where the doors to his study were half-shut. That alone was wrong. Yasha was meticulous about the doors.
Sokolov pushed them open with a frown.
There, on the chaise near the fireplace, lay his Winter Prince. Curled in on himself like a child, barefoot despite the chill. His robe clung to his frame, luxurious as always, but he wore it like armor.
And on the low table beside him—gleaming in the soft firelight—rested the collar.
The world went silent.
Sokolov did not speak. Not immediately. He stepped forward quietly, careful not to startle. Yasha’s eyes were open, unfocused, staring into the fire. Not a tear. Not a twitch. But Sokolov knew grief when he saw it. Knew despair even when it wore a flawless face.
“Yasha,” he said softly.
The super soldier didn’t move. Not until Sokolov was kneeling before him, old knees protesting, hand reaching forward to touch the side of Yasha’s face.
The reaction was slow, mechanical—Yasha turned into the touch like a porcelain doll moved by invisible strings.
“You took off your collar,” Sokolov murmured. Not anger. Not accusation. Just…surprise.
“I didn’t want to,” Yasha whispered, voice low, brittle, like it had been unused for days. “But I didn’t know if I still deserved it.”
Sokolov’s breath caught. Not at the words, but at the fear beneath them.
“Foolish boy,” he said, and gently gathered Yasha into his arms, the way he had only done a handful of times. Not as a Pet. Not as property. But as something else. As his.
“You will outlive me. This we both know,” Sokolov said, pressing his lips to Yasha’s temple. “But you are not alone in that pain. I have known since the day I collared you that the day would come when I would not rise, and you would.”
He pulled back to look into Yasha’s face, still beautiful, still perfect, still his, even now.
“You are mine, Yasha. Until my last breath, and beyond it. If the world ends, it will find you at my feet.”
Yasha’s fingers curled in his sleeve.
“Then tell me again,” Yasha said, voice steadier now. “Tell me I’m yours.”
“You are mine,” Sokolov said without hesitation. “My Pet. My pride. My prince. My legacy.”
He picked up the collar with both hands, held it out like an offering.
“May I return it to you?”
Yasha nodded. Just once.
And when the cool leather slid back into place around his neck, Sokolov felt the world settle again. The leash might remain unhooked—but the bond never loosened. Not truly.

The collar clicked shut, and something inside him unclenched.
It wasn’t the sound, though that helped—mechanical and familiar, a lock fastening the world into place. It wasn’t even Sokolov’s hands, though they were steady, reverent, worn with age but never lacking power. It was the look in his Master’s eyes. Steadfast. Fierce. Unshaken.
Yasha inhaled for what felt like the first time in days.
The spiral hadn’t been dramatic. Not like in the stories, where madmen tore down walls or set fire to their own thrones. Yasha’s mind didn’t break. It calcified. Froze. He moved through the halls like a wraith, beautiful but hollow, waiting for the world to notice that something was missing.
And Sokolov… he noticed.
That mattered more than Yasha had realized.
Now, lying against his Master’s chest, curled under the thick wool throw they hadn’t even bothered removing from the armchair, Yasha let himself be small. Let his eyes drift shut and his breathing slow until the sharp edges of his thoughts dulled.
“You didn’t abandon me,” Yasha said, voice soft against Sokolov’s lapel.
“Never,” came the answer.
“You were gone for seven days.”
“And returned the moment I could.” Sokolov’s fingers stroked his hair in long, anchoring lines. “I should have known you’d suffer in silence rather than complain.”
“I didn’t know how to ask,” Yasha admitted. “Didn’t know if I had the right.”
Sokolov pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You are mine. That is all the right you will ever need.”
Yasha’s lips twitched faintly. “You’re going to die someday.”
“Yes,” Sokolov said simply.
“And I won’t.”
“You might.”
Yasha huffed. “That’s not how the serum works.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve made plans for that.” Sokolov smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind Yasha’s ear. “You’ll grieve. You’ll survive. And eventually, you’ll make your own leash for someone worthy—if they ever exist.”
Yasha shook his head. “I only want yours.”
“And mine you will remain,” Sokolov said, leaning in to press a kiss to Yasha’s brow. “Now come. We’ll have supper in bed tonight. I had the kitchen prepare sweet dumplings, and the staff’s already lit the fire upstairs. You’re not to lift a finger. That’s an order.”
Yasha let himself smile—genuine, quiet, but there.
He followed without protest, the collar gleaming at his throat like a star reborn.

Chapter 25: Khrushchev

Yasha knelt at Sokolov's feet, his posture perfectly still, the soft rustle of silk brushing against the floor as he waited. His gaze, though lowered, was sharp—always alert, even in moments of apparent stillness. Sokolov’s hand rested on his papers, a pen moving slowly across them, as he read through documents with the practiced ease of a man who had built his empire on such moments.
The room was quiet, save for the faint tick of a clock on the wall and the muted shuffle of paper. Yasha didn’t dare speak unless spoken to, and even then, his words were measured, carefully chosen. This was a dance he had come to understand well over the years, and while he was nothing if not obedient, there was a part of him—still lingering beneath the surface—that reveled in the control he’d learned to wield over himself, over the room, over Sokolov’s every glance.
But today, there was tension in the air, something unspoken, a weight that hung heavier than usual. Yasha could feel it, like the calm before a storm.
Sokolov paused in his reading, his fingers tightening around the letter he had just pulled from his briefcase. Yasha’s sharp eyes flicked upward, sensing the shift in energy before he saw the irritation flicker across Sokolov’s face.
“Damn fool,” Sokolov muttered under his breath, his gaze scanning the letter once more, though his grip on the paper seemed to grow tighter with each passing moment.
Yasha’s heart rate picked up slightly, a rush of adrenaline surging through him, though his expression remained composed, stoic. “Master?” he asked quietly, his voice soft but not submissive, merely respectful.
Sokolov’s eyes flicked toward him, a brief look of annoyance flashing across his features before it melted into something far more calculating. He folded the letter in half with precise, deliberate movements and set it aside. “It seems your beloved Party has found it fit to make a move, Yasha.” His voice was measured, even, but there was an undercurrent of something darker there—something that spoke of years of experience in manipulating the currents of power.
Yasha stayed perfectly still, knowing better than to push. He was patient, a skill honed by years of service.
“The fool is trying to claim you as his own,” Sokolov continued, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he turned the chair toward Yasha, his posture shifting to one of dominance and cold fury. “Thinks your talents belong to the State and not to me. He’s a child playing at the throne.”
Yasha’s expression didn’t falter, but internally, he felt a flicker of something more complicated. For years, Sokolov had been his Master, his protector, the man who had given him purpose, and Yasha had given everything in return. The idea that someone else would take his place, claim him as their own, was unthinkable, but it was a thought that lingered like a bitter taste in the back of his mind. His loyalty to Sokolov had never wavered, but the notion that someone else would even dare to try to manipulate him, to claim him as a tool—it soured something inside of him.
Sokolov’s voice broke through his thoughts, cold and biting. “The audacity of it, to think that you’re a resource to be hoarded. You belong to me, Yasha. You always have.”
Yasha’s heart skipped a beat, the sense of possessiveness in Sokolov’s words sinking deep into him, pulling a sense of quiet satisfaction from his chest. He nodded slightly, his voice low and composed. “I am yours, Master.”
The words felt like a truth as old as the sun.
Sokolov leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, his gaze faraway as he thought, no doubt already formulating plans. The power he had built was not something easily taken. His hand flicked to the letter again, crumpling it before tossing it aside. "Khrushchev is bold. But not clever."
Yasha could feel the weight of the moment, knowing this was only the beginning. Whatever Sokolov's plan was, it would involve him. It always did. And while Yasha would follow him to the end of the world, part of him wondered—what would happen if Sokolov’s grip ever loosened? Would there be anyone else to catch him when he fell?
The thought lingered uncomfortably, but for now, there was nothing but the present. Nothing but the commands he would follow and the man whose every decision shaped the world around them.
Sokolov’s voice broke the silence. “We move when I say we move, Yasha. Be ready.”
Yasha’s response was immediate, his voice steady, unwavering. “Always, Master.”

Khrushchev’s first move was subtle, calculated. Like a snake winding its way through the grass, it was nothing grand, nothing overt—but that made it no less dangerous. It came in the form of an invitation.
The letter was delivered with the same efficiency as all things in the Soviet Union—precise, official, wrapped in the trappings of diplomacy. A formal dinner hosted by Khrushchev, attended by the most powerful figures in the Party. A chance to speak, to meet, to discuss the future of the Motherland.
But Yasha knew this was not a simple dinner. The invitation was a message. Khrushchev was setting the stage for something more. He was testing the waters, preparing to assert his influence, and his target was Sokolov.
Sokolov had already heard the whispers. It was said that Khrushchev’s ambitions were no longer limited to his official roles. There were rumors of a coup, a reshuffling of the old guard—Sokolov’s position in the Kremlin was no longer as secure as it once had been. And Yasha, for all his skill in espionage, could sense the shifting of the political winds. The air was thick with tension.
Sokolov was quiet as he read the invitation, his sharp eyes scanning the words, pausing on each phrase with the precision of a man who had spent his life navigating the dangerous waters of politics. After a moment, he set the letter down and met Yasha’s gaze, his eyes cool and calculating.
“Dinner,” Sokolov said, his voice low but carrying the weight of finality. “Khrushchev wants to make his move, and he’s being subtle about it. He thinks he can move me with a gesture of camaraderie. But we will see how long that lasts.”
Yasha’s thoughts sharpened. He had been expecting something like this. It wasn’t like Khrushchev to act without precision, without reason. But it also wasn’t like Sokolov to sit idly by, allowing his adversary to gain ground. Yasha had a feeling that the dinner would not be a simple exchange of pleasantries. It would be a battlefield in itself.
“What is our play, Master?” Yasha asked, his voice steady, always the obedient servant, but the wheels in his mind were turning. He was already planning his role, already slipping into the mindset of being both weapon and shield, depending on what his Master required.
Sokolov’s lips curled into the slightest smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “We will attend, of course. But we will not be caught unaware. Prepare yourself, Yasha. This will not be a social gathering. The dinner is a game, and Khrushchev believes he’s already won.”
Yasha nodded, his mind already racing ahead. If Khrushchev wanted to play games, then Yasha would ensure it was a game he could not win. He would remain close to Sokolov, always in the background, a shadow in the light—his presence not one of power, but of danger. They would not show weakness. They would not show doubt. And if Khrushchev overstepped, he would be dealt with swiftly, with precision.
As Yasha moved to prepare for the evening, a quiet excitement bloomed within him. This was not just about power—it was about survival. And he knew better than anyone how to survive in the chaos of shifting alliances. He had learned the hard way, but he had learned well.
The dinner would begin with politeness, but Yasha knew that by the end of it, the room would be filled with something much darker than civility.
Sokolov would not be moved. And neither would Yasha.
The game was about to begin in earnest.

The night of the dinner arrived, and the atmosphere was thick with anticipation, though none of the attendees dared show it. The grand hall where the dinner was to take place gleamed with opulence—chandeliers casting warm golden light over the polished floors, the tables adorned with fine china and glistening crystal, an elegant setting for what would be anything but a simple affair.
Yasha stood at the threshold, now wearing a new skin. No longer was he the Winter Prince, the elegant and cold assassin that men feared and women desired. Tonight, he was Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov—Lieutenant General in the Soviet Army, son of General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov, Stalin’s Chosen. He had shed the guise of a weapon, not because he no longer wished to be one, but because in this room, he was playing a different role: a man of the system, a man of power, a man who was above the petty games of court. He would be a spectator, yes, but a deeply influential one.
His appearance was deliberate. Dressed in a sharply tailored black uniform, decorated with gold, his epaulettes and medals on full display, he exuded power—not just in appearance, but in his posture. Straight-backed, eyes steady and calculating, there was nothing in his demeanor that would suggest weakness or uncertainty. His presence alone would be enough to make most people reconsider their positions, even if they weren’t entirely sure why.
Sokolov had insisted on a final adjustment to the uniform, a discreet touch to remind others of his position and his history—just a hint of the old Winter Prince, a small silver pin at his collar, shaped like a wolf's head, a subtle yet undeniable symbol of his connection to the past, the old Russia, the power of the Winter Soldier. It was a reminder that Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov might have entered this new era, but he was still no stranger to the darker games played behind closed doors.
When Yasha stepped into the grand dining room, the chatter paused. Conversations slowed and eyes flickered toward him, a few respectful nods, others nervous glances. They had all heard of his rise, the whispers about his loyalty, his intellect, and most of all, his ruthlessness. Yet none of them had seen him like this—removed from the shadows, brought into the light in a role that demanded recognition and respect. A son of the State, of Stalin’s design.
He scanned the room, recognizing several familiar faces, most notably Khrushchev, who was holding court near the head of the long table, surrounded by Party members and allies. The air was thick with political gamesmanship, and the subtle tension was palpable. Khrushchev’s position was shaky, but he would never show it. He was a man who played the game with every ounce of his being, and this dinner would be no exception.
Yasha's eyes met Khrushchev’s, but he offered nothing—a cool, indifferent glance, not a challenge, but a reminder that he was very much aware of the political dance that was underway.
Sokolov was by his side, maintaining his composure, but Yasha could sense the slight undercurrent of nervousness in his Master, a wariness that wasn’t so much about the dinner, but the intentions behind it.
They were led to their seats, but Yasha remained standing for a moment longer, surveying the room. When he finally sat, it was with the grace of someone who had done this many times before. His eyes met Sokolov’s, and the older man gave him a subtle nod, acknowledging that the evening had begun.
The food began to arrive—exquisite, as expected—and the conversation shifted into formal pleasantries. Khrushchev was keen on establishing an air of camaraderie, making small talk with several of the senior figures around him. But Yasha noticed the glances, the barely perceptible shifts in position when Khrushchev addressed Sokolov. The dance was about to begin.
A few minutes passed, then Khrushchev turned to Yasha, breaking the silence with a question. It wasn’t directly about the present, but it was loaded with meaning. “Lieutenant General Sokolov,” he began, his tone smooth, “you’ve done much to serve the Motherland in your years. Your family’s dedication to the State is well-known. What do you think of the current political climate?”
Yasha's eyes flicked over the table, his voice cold and measured as he replied, “It is an interesting time, Comrade Khrushchev. There are many voices calling for change. Some see it as a natural evolution of our system, others as a necessary course correction.” He paused, letting the words linger for a moment longer. “But no matter the course, the goal remains the same—to ensure the stability of the Soviet Union and the strength of our people.”
The room fell silent for a moment, a subtle yet noticeable shift in the atmosphere. Yasha could feel the eyes upon him, the weight of his words sinking in. It wasn’t about the content of the answer—it was the delivery. He was no longer a weapon to be used by others, no longer a tool for Sokolov’s ambitions. He was now a man of power in his own right, a man whose words carried weight.
Khrushchev gave a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “We are all bound by that same goal, and those who remain loyal will ensure that it is achieved.”
Yasha merely nodded, the weight of his gaze unflinching.
The rest of the evening passed in a haze of diplomatic maneuvering, strategic conversations, and veiled threats masked as polite discourse. But Yasha could see the cracks starting to form—Khrushchev’s discomfort, the way the conversation shifted when Sokolov and Yasha entered the fray. The older generation still held sway, but for how much longer?
At the end of the evening, as the guests began to depart, Yasha remained with Sokolov, standing quietly by his side. The tension that had lingered all night was still there, but neither of them spoke of it yet. They had played their parts. They had made their move.
Sokolov was still a formidable force, but Khrushchev would not be easily deterred. Yasha knew this game was far from over, but he also knew that he would stand by Sokolov’s side, as always—calm, steady, and ready for whatever came next.

The evening wound down, and the guests slowly filtered out, each departing with a mixture of cautious optimism and trepidation. The words exchanged, the glances, the hidden meanings beneath every polite smile, all of it laid the groundwork for what would come next. Yasha, still seated by Sokolov’s side, remained silent, his thoughts turning inward as he watched the last few figures leave the room.
The air between them was thick with unspoken things. Sokolov had not uttered a word since Yasha's response to Khrushchev’s question, and Yasha was content with the silence. He had done his part. Now, it was Sokolov’s move.
Once the last of the guests had gone, Sokolov rose, his tall frame a silent command of authority. He turned to Yasha, his eyes calculating, his face unreadable. Without a word, he gestured for Yasha to follow him, leading him out of the grand dining room and down a hallway, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors.
“Do you feel it?” Sokolov’s voice broke the silence. “The shift in the air?”
Yasha nodded, his posture still rigid, though there was an unmistakable gleam of understanding in his eyes. “I do.”
Sokolov stopped in front of a grand set of double doors, leading to his private study. He turned to Yasha, his expression still unreadable. “Khrushchev made his move tonight. He thinks he can intimidate us. He is wrong.”
Yasha remained still, not offering a response immediately. He knew what was expected, what was required of him. He was not just a weapon in this moment—he was an ally, a partner, and a Prince in his own right.
Sokolov opened the doors and gestured for Yasha to enter before him. The study was quiet, dark except for the soft light filtering through the curtains. A massive oak desk sat in the center of the room, cluttered with papers, dossiers, and old books—symbols of Sokolov’s power and the web of influence he had spun throughout his career.
Once they were inside, Sokolov moved to his desk, pushing the papers aside as though they were little more than obstacles. His fingers traced the edge of one particular document, one with Khrushchev’s name at the top—an invitation, a polite request to negotiate terms.
Sokolov’s expression darkened as he picked up the document and let it rest on the edge of the desk. He looked up at Yasha, who had positioned himself near the door, waiting silently, as always.
“He thinks he can use the Party against us,” Sokolov said, his tone low and controlled. “But he does not understand the depths to which I’ve already buried myself in this system. This is not something he can simply take from me.”
Yasha inclined his head. He knew his Master’s loyalty to the Soviet Union, but he also knew Sokolov’s true allegiance—he had always been loyal to power itself, and as much as Sokolov had once been a servant of Stalin, he was now a ruler in his own right. The power he wielded came not from titles or honors, but from the unseen strings he pulled behind the scenes.
“It is a delicate situation,” Yasha said, stepping further into the room. His voice was calm, yet beneath the surface was the faintest trace of cold satisfaction. “Khrushchev will overreach, as they all do. But he is not a fool. He will find allies.”
“Let him,” Sokolov replied, his voice hardening. “He may think he can turn others against us, but there are still many who owe me. And you—” He paused, turning fully to face Yasha. “You are not a mere pawn in this game. You are the winter wind that chills even the most powerful. No one will take you from me.”
Yasha felt the weight of his Master’s words sink in. For all the years he had been Sokolov’s weapon, his tool, there was always this undercurrent of recognition—Sokolov’s understanding of the power that lay in Yasha’s hands. The super soldier, the Winter Prince, was never just a weapon to wield; he was an asset, a living, breathing force that could change the course of history.
Yasha’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to the desk, his presence almost predatory in its quiet intensity. “So, what is our next move?”
Sokolov leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady, calculating. “We wait. We make them come to us. Khrushchev’s move was a test, and he will try again. But he will learn something tonight.” He leaned forward, his fingers steepling together. “If he does not back down, then we will ensure he does.”
Yasha’s lips curved ever so slightly. The prospect of a battle, a true struggle for power, stirred something within him—an eagerness that hadn’t been there in a long time. But it was more than just the fight that appealed to him. It was the subtle game, the manipulation, the way he could force others into compliance without ever having to dirty his hands.
“And how do you propose we deal with him?” Yasha asked, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
Sokolov regarded him for a moment, the silence stretching between them. “We remind him of his place.” He stood abruptly, moving to the window. His voice grew colder, more focused. “Khrushchev will understand soon enough that no one is untouchable—not even him. And when the time comes, we will strike. But for now, we wait.”
Yasha nodded, his mind already working, formulating plans, considering every possible angle. The pieces were moving, and the game had only just begun.
“Understood,” Yasha said, his voice steady. “I will be ready when you need me.”
Sokolov’s eyes flicked back to him, his lips curling in the faintest of smiles. “I know you will be.”

Chapter 26: General Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov

The corridors of power were shifting again.
It began quietly, as such things always did. Committees restructured. Old orders dissolved. The NKVD, already weakened in the wake of Beria’s fall, was absorbed, reshaped, reborn. From its ashes rose the Комитет государственной безопасности—the Committee for State Security. The KGB.
Officially, Yasha’s promotion was framed as a reward for decades of loyal service, his title revised from Lieutenant General to General of the Army. Unofficially, everyone in Moscow knew what it meant: the Winter Prince had been given teeth. Real ones. Institutional. Legal.
Now he had a desk of polished walnut and a black telephone that rang only with orders too sensitive to write down. Now he had his own wing in Lubyanka. Now when he passed, lower-ranking officials stood straighter—not from patriotism, but fear.
He wore the red piping of a General with effortless precision, his medals impeccable, his boots sharp as razors. But Yasha had never needed a uniform to be terrifying. The uniform simply announced to the world what many had long suspected: that he no longer answered only to Sokolov. He was the system.
Still, he kept his collar hidden beneath his dress coat. A private loyalty, where the public one now lay exposed.
Sokolov watched all of this unfold with a flicker of bemusement and pride, though neither emotion touched his expression. He sat with Yasha one evening, far from the halls of government, in their private library at the Sokolov estate, poring over an intercepted communique Khrushchev had sent to a nervous foreign attaché.
“He thinks putting you at the helm was a concession,” Sokolov said as he lit a cigarette, voice low, amused. “That you are a weapon to be aimed. Not a master of the arsenal.”
Yasha reclined in his armchair, clad in his tailored officer’s coat, a glass of Armenian brandy held with elegant disdain.
“Then let him think it,” Yasha said, a slow smile curling on his lips. “It will hurt more when he realizes.”
Outside the room, the estate was quiet. The KGB had moved quickly under Yasha’s guidance: new recruits, new command structures, a purification of Soviet intelligence. Old names were quietly erased. Others simply vanished.
The Winter Prince made sure no one ever forgot what he was capable of. And he did it all with a diplomat’s grace.
In the Politburo, Khrushchev tried to keep up appearances. But his attempts to consolidate power now felt hollow, strained. It was hard to project strength when one’s most dangerous asset did not answer to you.
There were rumors, whispered in the shadowed corners of government buildings: that Sokolov had raised a son not in blood but in power; that Yasha had inherited more from Stalin than anyone dared say aloud. That the USSR now had a Wolf in its highest ranks—and he was loyal to no one but the one who held his leash.
And even that might change.

Moscow, 1954 – KGB Headquarters, Lubyanka Building
The new insignia had barely been hung on the walls when the first operation was set in motion. Operation Volchitsa—She-Wolf. A test of the newly forged chain of command and of Yasha's vision for the KGB: sleek, silent, surgical.
The target was a Soviet defector hiding in Istanbul, a former cryptographer with ties to American intelligence. He had been leaking classified cipher protocols for six months. Western agencies were circling, eager to extract him. But the Winter Prince would get there first.
Yasha sat at the head of the operations table, back straight, black leather gloves resting on a folio stamped совершенно секретно—Top Secret. Around him sat the first generation of officers personally selected under the new KGB charter. They were lean, competent, and unflinchingly loyal—not to Khrushchev, but to the man who now led them.
He unlatched the folio and revealed the dossier within. A photograph slid forward: a middle-aged man, balding, with thick spectacles and a soft mouth.
“His name is Dr. Andrei Morozov,” Yasha said, voice smooth as polished ice. “He once designed encryption ciphers for the GRU. Now he sells state secrets for American cigarettes and the illusion of safety. He is to be retrieved or removed.”
He glanced around the room, his dark eyes sweeping over his subordinates. “There will be no mistakes. This is not the NKVD. We are no longer thugs with badges. We are the future of the State’s invisible hand.”
There was no applause. Just the quiet scrape of chairs as his officers stood, saluted, and left to carry out their roles.
Istanbul – 5 Days Later
The extraction was clean.
Morozov never made it to the safe house. He was intercepted just outside the Grand Bazaar, sedated and placed into a shipping crate marked textiles. By the time the Americans realized what had happened, the freighter carrying Morozov was already in international waters—under Soviet protection.
When the crate was opened in a secure bunker just outside Moscow, Morozov was curled like a beetle, trembling and pale.
Yasha was waiting.
He did not raise his voice. He did not strike the man. He simply sat across from him and read aloud the names of Morozov’s former lovers, handlers, and failed investments. Each one delivered with calm, merciless precision.
Morozov confessed before the hour was out. Then he signed over every contact. Then he begged for mercy.
Yasha did not grant it.
By the time his body was quietly cremated, the KGB had already dismantled the American cell that had harbored him.
Moscow – One Week Later
Sokolov stood beside Yasha in the library once more, reading the official commendation letter that Khrushchev’s office had sent. It was glowing, formal, and clearly meant to paint the Party as the architect of the success.
Yasha was dressed in his uniform, coat undone, collar visible beneath. He didn’t rise from his seat.
“They’re already afraid,” he said softly. “And they should be.”
Sokolov chuckled. “They wanted a dog. They gave you a title. Now they’re beginning to wonder if they’ve crowned a wolf instead.”
Yasha turned his head, smiling faintly. “Let them wonder.”

Moscow, Late 1954 – The Kremlin
The lights in the upper chambers of the Kremlin burned well past midnight.
Khrushchev leaned over the report from Istanbul, fingers drumming against the lacquered wood of his desk. Operation Volchitsa had been a resounding success. Too successful. The KGB under General Yakov Sokolov was moving with the discipline and elegance of a creature far more dangerous than its predecessor.
He stared at the name stamped on every page of the operation files—Sokolov, Yakov Ivanovich. The Winter Prince.
“Too beautiful,” he muttered. “Too composed. Too close to the old guard.”
He could no longer pretend the boy was just a loyal pet of Sokolov senior or a relic of Stalin’s fading shadow. The Americans knew his face. The Party had long romanticized him as Russia’s Immortal Son. He was adored by the people, respected by the military, and feared by foreign powers.
A threat.
And so, the General Secretary signed a sealed directive. One that would test whether the Winter Prince was truly loyal to the State—or merely to those who made him.
Two Days Later – Lubyanka, KGB Headquarters
Yasha accepted the envelope without hesitation. The wax seal, imprinted with Khrushchev’s personal sigil, cracked between his gloved fingers. Inside was a single page. No names. Just an address in Brooklyn. And one word:
Barnes.
His breath caught only slightly. Not enough for anyone watching to notice.
He read the mission profile twice more before looking up. The order was simple. Retrieve or remove. No team. No support. Solo.
He folded the paper once and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat.
Later That Night – The Sokolov Estate
Yasha stood by the window, silhouetted by snow-laced moonlight, the mission order resting on the tea table. Sokolov sat nearby, an untouched glass of Armenian brandy in his hand. The old General’s expression was unreadable.
“You’ve read it?” Yasha asked softly.
Sokolov didn’t nod, but he didn’t have to. “A child,” he said after a long silence. “Or nearly. Barely twenty. Your sister’s blood.”
“She’s not my sister,” Yasha replied, eyes still on the darkened snow beyond the glass. “He never was. ‘Bucky’ died in the Alps. I buried him myself.”
Sokolov looked at him carefully. “And what does Yakov say?”
Yasha turned then, slowly, collar gleaming in the low light.
“I say Khrushchev fears me. He wants to see if I flinch. If I hesitate. If there’s a ghost left behind my eyes that he can use against me.”
Sokolov gave a slow, approving hum. “And will you?”
Yasha walked over, knelt at his Master’s feet, and placed the sealed mission envelope in his hand.
“No, Oтец. I will remind the Party what it means to wear this collar.”

Chapter 27: Edward "Eddie" Barnes

Brooklyn, 1954
He doesn’t feel anything at first. No ghost of warmth. No pang of nostalgia. Just the dull echo of a place that once tolerated a mask he wore out of necessity.
The brownstones remain the same. The rusted stoop railings. The corner where he and Steve used to linger, smoking cigarettes stolen from someone else’s mother. Where he fought because he could and smiled because it made people flinch.
Now he walks alone, dressed in an immaculate gray wool coat, civilian-issue but military in cut, with fine leather gloves and polished shoes that click with precision. His hair is longer now, tied back in a neat tail. His accent is Russian, cultured and clean. The only trace of James Buchanan Barnes is his face—and even that has hardened, re-sculpted by time, power, and purpose.
Yasha doesn’t stop walking until he sees the boy.
Edward “Eddie” Barnes, fifteen years old. Brown hair with a hint of auburn when caught by the sun, a wiry frame, and the sharp jawline of the Barnes bloodline. His father—James’ older brother George—died in the war. The boy is being raised by his mother, a tired-looking woman who walks with a limp and speaks to her son as if he were already halfway out the door.
Eddie has no idea a ghost stalks him.
Yasha watches from across the street as the boy laughs with his friends, tossing a baseball, ducking into an alley like he owns the world.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break. But something sharp coils in his chest.
It could be hatred. It could be hunger.
It could be memory.

The next week passes in a rhythm of shadows. Yasha haunts Brooklyn like a phantom stitched into its cold brick and soot-drenched wind. He memorizes Eddie’s routine with surgical precision—school, the corner deli, baseball practice, his small, battered apartment above the tailor’s shop. Every detail logged, every weakness catalogued.
He watches as Eddie slips cash to the baker with trembling fingers. Watches the bruises he doesn’t mention. Watches the way he clenches his jaw and swears he doesn’t care.
It’s familiar.
Too familiar.
And that—that’s the danger.

Yasha doesn’t act immediately, though he could. Could slip into the apartment while Eddie sleeps and smother him with a pillow. Could poison his food. Could put a bullet through his spine on the walk home and vanish before the body hits the ground.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he finds himself standing across from a payphone one night, jaw tight, fingers gloved and motionless at his sides. The wind carries the stink of the East River and the laughter of teenagers somewhere out of sight.
The file sits in his coat pocket. Khrushchev’s orders are clear: “Remove the asset if retrieval is impossible. The boy is expendable.”
Yasha lights a cigarette he doesn’t want and exhales smoke through his nose like a dragon restraining flame.
Eddie isn’t a threat. Not yet.
But he’s blood.
Barnes blood.
And for the first time in years, Yasha is seeing himself as something more than a weapon. A thing. A title. For the first time, he looks at that boy and sees not a mission—but a reflection.
James Buchanan Barnes, drowned in vodka and violence and silk sheets, stares back through time. He remembers the broken little bastard he once was—prostituting himself to older men not because he needed to, but because it gave him power. Control. Because being wanted was the closest thing to love.
He remembers a skinny kid with asthma and a death wish who called him Bucky.
He remembers the pills he stole. The beatings he handed out. The blood under his nails.
He remembers everything.
And suddenly, letting the boy live feels like a form of punishment. Or maybe mercy.
Or maybe both.

Officially, his report will state the following:
"Subject exhibits above-average intelligence, resilience, and independence. Genetic compatibility with prior enhancement candidates confirmed. Potential for super soldier viability remains untested. Retrieval recommended for further observation and controlled experimentation.”
Unofficially?
He cannot kill another version of himself.
He’ll take Eddie Barnes alive.
Because James Barnes—monster, prince, soldier—never had anyone take him alive.

Yasha plans the retrieval with the same precision he once applied to assassinations. It is, after all, just another operation. Only this time, the target breathes with Barnes blood and carries a look in his eyes that Yasha recognizes too well—cornered, but still defiant.
He sits in a dim apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, a KGB safehouse left over from older days and colder wars. Dust clings to the corners. The lock is triple-barreled, the windows shatterproof, the walls soundproofed. It will do.
Blueprints of Eddie’s neighborhood are spread across the table, weighed down by a loaded Makarov, a stack of rubles, and a brass matchbox etched with the Soviet seal. A black-and-white photo of Eddie, recent and grainy, lies beside them—school ID, unflattering lighting, haunted eyes.
Yasha traces the routes Eddie walks. The alley shortcuts. The rooftops. The fire escapes. He knows every point of vulnerability. The deli at 6:45am—one distracted cashier and no cameras. The laundromat on Sundays. The roof of the school building where Eddie sometimes hides during lunch, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes like a man with nothing left to lose.
That’s where I’ll take him, Yasha decides. Cleanest. Quietest. No need for blood.
Not yet.

He prepares a tranquilizer—a custom blend, potent enough to knock a teen unconscious without harming vital signs. Not standard issue. A gift from the laboratories back in Moscow, the kind of thing whispered about behind closed doors.
He memorizes Eddie’s teacher’s name, his landlord’s schedule, the exact model of his boots.
He chooses his clothes with care: civilian, forgettable, functional. But beneath the coat is his knife, the cold comfort of the Makarov, and in the lining, the folded collar—black leather, polished, engraved.
Not for Eddie.
For himself.
Stay focused. This is for the State.
But he doesn’t believe it. Not entirely. Not anymore.
This isn’t about Khrushchev.
This is about Barnes.
This is about the boy who got away, the one who might become something more—if someone just grabbed him before the world crushed him.
He’ll take the boy.
And after that?
Well, that depends on how Eddie wakes up.

It happens on a Tuesday. Rain slicks the rooftop in a fine sheen that reflects the weak orange of streetlamps and the dull glow of Brooklyn beyond. Yasha waits in the shadow of a rusted air duct, still as stone, cloaked in the kind of silence only true predators master.
Eddie climbs the fire escape like he does every week, cigarette tucked behind one ear, textbooks in his bag, hands stuffed into the pockets of a worn leather jacket that looks two owners past its prime. He doesn’t notice the extra shadow. Doesn’t feel the shift in air pressure that signals he’s no longer alone.
Yasha watches him crouch near the edge, lighting the cigarette with trembling fingers. Same brand James used at his age. For a moment, the image overlaps—Eddie becoming James, a younger version, just as sharp-edged and aimless. But only for a moment. James had always known how to make people look at him. Eddie doesn’t.
Yasha steps forward with no sound. His boots don’t scrape. His breath doesn’t fog. He is winter incarnate—quiet, lethal, inevitable.
Eddie startles when the hand covers his mouth. He struggles, flails, but the grip is iron and the needle slips in smoothly—just under the collarbone. Fast. Clinical.
“I’ve got you,” Yasha whispers, his voice low and quiet like snowfall. “No one else will.”
Eddie slumps in his arms a second later, the fight gone. Yasha catches him easily, cradling the boy against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow. He’s lighter than expected. Malnourished. Hollow.
Just like James had been, once.

The descent is swift. Through shadows. Down rusted fire escapes. Across rooftops slick with rain.
Yasha deposits Eddie in the backseat of an unmarked car, wraps him in a gray Soviet military coat, and secures the seatbelt gently. His own breath is tight in his chest, not from exertion, but from something else. Something older.
He touches Eddie’s hair once—just to see if it feels the same.
It doesn’t.
But it’s close enough.

By morning, Eddie Barnes will be gone.
By morning, Lieutenant General Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov will have delivered a new asset to Moscow.
And no one—not the neighbors, not the school, not the distant cousins who half-heartedly checked in—will know who took him.
Only that the boy disappeared.
Just like his uncle once did.

Chapter 28: Homecoming (Part 2)

The drive is long and silent, the kind that stretches time into ribbon. Yasha doesn’t turn on the radio. The engine’s hum and the low rattle of tires on wet roads are enough. In the rearview mirror, Eddie is slack and still beneath the military coat, his face tucked into the collar like a child seeking warmth. Yasha glances back only once, expression unreadable.
It is deep night when they arrive at the Sokolov Estate. The gates open without question—guards recognize the black car and its driver, and no one is foolish enough to delay the Winter Prince.
The tires whisper over the gravel drive, and soon the house looms, warm light spilling from the high windows. Home.
Yasha doesn’t use the main entrance. He carries Eddie in through the side, like contraband or treasure. The boy is limp in his arms, head resting against Yasha’s shoulder, a faint warmth seeping through the fabric of Yasha’s coat. He’s too soft, too light. Not built for this world, not like James had been.
Sokolov is in his study, backlit by the amber glow of desk lamps, papers spread like wings across the polished wood. He doesn’t look up immediately.
Yasha stands at the threshold for a moment, wordless.
Then:
“I brought you something,” he says. His voice is flat, but his eyes gleam with dark amusement.
Sokolov looks up slowly, his gaze sweeping from Yasha’s face to the bundle in his arms. He stands, slowly, like a man expecting to see something more exotic, perhaps more dangerous. And instead finds… a boy.
There’s a beat of silence before Sokolov crosses the room.
“A stray?” he asks, dry.
“A Barnes,” Yasha replies. “Edward. His nephew.”
Sokolov hums. One gloved hand lifts the edge of the coat, revealing Eddie’s face. His lips are parted, eyes fluttering in half-consciousness.
“And is he a gift or a warning?” Sokolov asks.
Yasha tilts his head. “Does it matter?”
A slow smile spreads over Sokolov’s face. “No. It doesn’t.”
Yasha steps forward and lays Eddie gently down on the fur-lined chaise by the fire, arranging him like a display. Then he straightens, hands behind his back, chin lifted like a soldier reporting in.
“He’s no super soldier,” Yasha says. “But he’s Barnes-blood. That will mean something, in time.”
Sokolov studies his Pet, taking in the gleam in his eyes, the faint flush of satisfaction across his cheeks.
“You’re pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
“You look like a cat dragging in a dead bird.”
“I’m yours,” Yasha murmurs. “Everything I kill, I bring to your feet.”
Sokolov steps closer, brushes a strand of hair from Yasha’s temple.
“And what shall we do with this one?”
Yasha smiles faintly, his eyes never leaving his Master’s.
“Let him wake. Let him understand. Then we decide.”

The study is quiet once again.
Eddie has been moved to a guest chamber—comfortable but windowless, guarded, the fire kept stoked. He hasn’t stirred beyond a few murmurs. Drugged, still, but stable. A lamb in the lion’s den.
Yasha sits on the arm of Sokolov’s chair, one leg curled beneath him, his collar gleaming dully in the firelight. His head tilts slightly toward Sokolov’s shoulder, but his eyes are sharp—calculating. The Wolf in silk.
“He’s soft,” Sokolov says, pouring himself a glass of brandy. “His hands are unscarred. I doubt he’s ever held a rifle.”
Yasha accepts a glass with a nod of thanks, sipping slowly. “He won’t stay soft. Barnes blood doesn’t.”
Sokolov studies him. “Is that sentiment I hear?”
“No,” Yasha answers easily. “It’s instinct. I watched him for days. He’s untrained, but he has potential. Anger. Loneliness. He’s already halfway gone. It won’t take much to break him the rest of the way.”
Sokolov leans back in his chair. “You want to replace Josef.”
“Josef is sloppy,” Yasha replies. “Emotionally erratic. Prone to drinking. His last two missions were disasters I had to clean up.”
“And Edward won’t be?”
“Edward will be mine.”
Sokolov hums, stroking his beard in thought. “The Wolf Spider Program is not for the delicate.”
“He won’t be delicate for long.”
There’s something quiet and sharp in Yasha’s tone—a memory surfacing in his mind of fists and frostbite, of Zola’s scalpel and Soviet steel. Of waking up screaming and learning not to scream at all. Of kneeling with blood on his tongue and pride in his chest.
“He’s a clean slate,” Yasha continues. “Easily molded. And if the serum ever becomes replicable, he’s our best candidate. The Barnes bloodline took it before.”
Sokolov considers this, then slowly nods. “And you’ll take responsibility for him?”
“Of course.” Yasha smiles faintly. “He’ll call me comrade. Eventually.”
Sokolov reaches out, fingertips brushing Yasha’s knee—possessive, proud.
“Then we’ll begin his training once he wakes. You’ll supervise?”
“Personally.”
Sokolov chuckles softly, voice low. “Then the Wolf Spider has found his cub.”

Eddie blinks awake, a strange heaviness weighing on his limbs. His head throbs, every inch of his body screaming in discomfort as he pushes himself into a sitting position. His surroundings are… grand—a lavish room adorned with velvet curtains, a massive fireplace crackling softly, and gold accents that look more like they belong in a museum than any place he’d ever seen. It’s silent, almost too quiet, and the oppressive weight of unfamiliarity hangs in the air. For a moment, it feels like a dream—a fever dream.
His eyes snap open fully, taking in the room. An ornate four-poster bed, a writing desk, old books lining the shelves, polished furniture that gleams like it’s never been touched. The sheets beneath him are the finest silk he’s ever felt, not the scratchy army surplus he’s used to, but something far softer. Far more… decadent.
He tries to remember how he got here, but his mind feels like it’s wrapped in fog. His last memory... wasn’t it Brooklyn? His old neighborhood, the alleyway? He’d been trying to make sense of things when everything went black. He shakes his head, attempting to clear the haze, but the pounding in his skull only deepens.
"Where the hell am I?" His voice is rough—dry—nothing like his usual steady tone.
And then he notices him.
Standing at the foot of the bed, his presence almost like a shadow lingering, is a figure. A man dressed in lavish silk and leather, a collar at his neck, his eyes sharp, predatory, with an unsettling sense of calm.
It’s him.
The man who looks exactly like the Bucky Barnes Eddie’s heard about his entire life. The one people still talk about. The one everyone says he should’ve been more like. The one his mother used to talk about in hushed tones—“Bucky was always such a sweet boy, Eddie. Why can’t you be more like him?”
Bucky Barnes, the war hero. Captain America’s best friend. The man who disappeared—who everyone used to ask about before they just stopped. The name was all but a myth, a legend. But here he was, standing right in front of him, looking exactly like the pictures Eddie had seen in his mom’s old photo albums. Like the man who had once been the shining example of everything Eddie should’ve been, but never could.
The man was real. And even though Eddie knew logically that this was impossible, part of him couldn’t help but feel a gut-wrenching twinge of something—a recognition, a familiarity.
Bucky, but not Bucky.
He swallows, trying to steady himself. His mouth is dry, and the confusion of what’s happening swells to an almost dizzying extent. “Who... are you?” Eddie rasps, though he already knows the answer. This man could only be one person.
“You don’t remember me?” The man speaks, and his voice is cold, but with a hint of something like amusement, as if the situation were more of an entertaining spectacle than an actual problem. The man’s eyes pierce through Eddie, as if he’s already sized him up and found him lacking in every way.
“I—I don’t know what the hell is going on,” Eddie stammers. “How do you know me? How the hell do you know me?”
The man steps closer, slow, deliberate. Every movement exudes a chilling confidence, like he’s used to having everything—everyone—bend to his will. His eyes never leave Eddie’s, not once, and there’s something about the way he looks at him that makes Eddie feel small. Inferior.
“You’re James Barnes’ nephew, aren’t you?” the man says, his tone dripping with distaste. “Or should I say, Edward Barnes?” He sneers slightly, as though the name itself were foreign to him.
Eddie’s pulse quickens. “Yeah, that’s me,” he mutters. “But why am I here? What’s going on?”
The man’s lips curl into a faint, almost cruel smile. “You’re here because I have a use for you.”
Eddie feels a chill run down his spine as the man turns away, heading toward a side table. A delicate tea set—gold trim, porcelain—sits on the surface. His mind, still foggy, tries to grasp the absurdity of it all. This felt like some twisted game. He wasn’t sure if he was in some kind of dream, or maybe even a nightmare.
“You’re in my house now,” the man continues. “The Winter Prince’s house, to be exact.” His eyes flicker with some unspoken meaning, as if this status—this title—should mean something to Eddie, and he’s supposed to recognize it.
Winter Prince?
The term bounces around in Eddie’s mind like a heavy stone, but he can’t quite place its significance. The room feels colder. His breath catches in his throat, and his stomach twists uneasily.
“You’re going to be trained,” the man says casually, as if discussing something trivial. “To be more than you are now. More than you could ever dream of becoming. And when you’re ready, you’ll take on the world. My world.”
And as the man turns back to him, Eddie can’t shake the overwhelming sense of deja vu, as if this moment had been set in motion long before he’d ever stepped foot in this grand house.
“Who the hell are you?” Eddie demands again, feeling a surge of anger at being so out of control. “What are you going to do to me?”
The man simply smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Chapter 29: A New Home

Eddie blinks awake, a strange heaviness weighing on his limbs. His head throbs, every inch of his body screaming in discomfort as he pushes himself into a sitting position. His surroundings are… grand—a lavish room adorned with velvet curtains, a massive fireplace crackling softly, and gold accents that look more like they belong in a museum than any place he’d ever seen. It’s silent, almost too quiet, and the oppressive weight of unfamiliarity hangs in the air. For a moment, it feels like a dream—a fever dream.
His eyes snap open fully, taking in the room. An ornate four-poster bed, a writing desk, old books lining the shelves, polished furniture that gleams like it’s never been touched. The sheets beneath him are the finest silk he’s ever felt, not the scratchy army surplus he’s used to, but something far softer. Far more… decadent.
He tries to remember how he got here, but his mind feels like it’s wrapped in fog. His last memory... wasn’t it Brooklyn? His old neighborhood, the alleyway? He’d been trying to make sense of things when everything went black. He shakes his head, attempting to clear the haze, but the pounding in his skull only deepens.
"Where the hell am I?" His voice is rough—dry—nothing like his usual steady tone.
And then he notices him.
Standing at the foot of the bed, his presence almost like a shadow lingering, is a figure. A man dressed in lavish silk and leather, a collar at his neck, his eyes sharp, predatory, with an unsettling sense of calm.
It’s him.
The man who looks exactly like the Bucky Barnes Eddie’s heard about his entire life. The one people still talk about. The one everyone says he should’ve been more like. The one his mother used to talk about in hushed tones—“Bucky was always such a sweet boy, Eddie. Why can’t you be more like him?”
Bucky Barnes, the war hero. Captain America’s best friend. The man who disappeared—who everyone used to ask about before they just stopped. The name was all but a myth, a legend. But here he was, standing right in front of him, looking exactly like the pictures Eddie had seen in his mom’s old photo albums. Like the man who had once been the shining example of everything Eddie should’ve been, but never could.
The man was real. And even though Eddie knew logically that this was impossible, part of him couldn’t help but feel a gut-wrenching twinge of something—a recognition, a familiarity.
Bucky, but not Bucky.
He swallows, trying to steady himself. His mouth is dry, and the confusion of what’s happening swells to an almost dizzying extent. “Who... are you?” Eddie rasps, though he already knows the answer. This man could only be one person.
“You don’t remember me?” The man speaks, and his voice is cold, but with a hint of something like amusement, as if the situation were more of an entertaining spectacle than an actual problem. The man’s eyes pierce through Eddie, as if he’s already sized him up and found him lacking in every way.
“I—I don’t know what the hell is going on,” Eddie stammers. “How do you know me? How the hell do you know me?”
The man steps closer, slow, deliberate. Every movement exudes a chilling confidence, like he’s used to having everything—everyone—bend to his will. His eyes never leave Eddie’s, not once, and there’s something about the way he looks at him that makes Eddie feel small. Inferior.
“You’re James Barnes’ nephew, aren’t you?” the man says, his tone dripping with distaste. “Or should I say, Edward Barnes?” He sneers slightly, as though the name itself were foreign to him.
Eddie’s pulse quickens. “Yeah, that’s me,” he mutters. “But why am I here? What’s going on?”
The man’s lips curl into a faint, almost cruel smile. “You’re here because I have a use for you.”
Eddie feels a chill run down his spine as the man turns away, heading toward a side table. A delicate tea set—gold trim, porcelain—sits on the surface. His mind, still foggy, tries to grasp the absurdity of it all. This felt like some twisted game. He wasn’t sure if he was in some kind of dream, or maybe even a nightmare.
“You’re in my house now,” the man continues. “The Winter Prince’s house, to be exact.” His eyes flicker with some unspoken meaning, as if this status—this title—should mean something to Eddie, and he’s supposed to recognize it.
Winter Prince?
The term bounces around in Eddie’s mind like a heavy stone, but he can’t quite place its significance. The room feels colder. His breath catches in his throat, and his stomach twists uneasily.
“You’re going to be trained,” the man says casually, as if discussing something trivial. “To be more than you are now. More than you could ever dream of becoming. And when you’re ready, you’ll take on the world. My world.”
And as the man turns back to him, Eddie can’t shake the overwhelming sense of deja vu, as if this moment had been set in motion long before he’d ever stepped foot in this grand house.
“Who the hell are you?” Eddie demands again, feeling a surge of anger at being so out of control. “What are you going to do to me?”
The man simply smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Yasha watches Eddie closely, his gaze sharp as the younger man struggles to process the situation. It’s almost amusing, the way the confusion twists across his features, the wariness, the denial. Yasha can see the flicker of recognition in Eddie’s eyes—a brief flash of something that makes his heart tighten, just slightly.
Of course he recognizes me, Yasha thinks with a trace of satisfaction. Even after all these years, after everything that’s happened, after the history that’s been buried under layers of lies and half-truths... there’s always a thread of familiarity. A bond, no matter how faint, between them.
He’d thought about this moment many times before—imagining how Eddie might react to meeting him, the son of a man who had been lost in time. The legend that was James Barnes. It didn’t matter that Eddie was an entirely different person from the boy who had been his partner in another lifetime; they shared the same blood, the same legacy, even if Eddie would never truly understand it.
The confusion on Eddie’s face gives way to anger and fear, a familiar mix that makes Yasha’s lips curl into a faint smile. So much like James, he muses to himself. Fighting to the end, no matter what the odds are.
“You’re in my house now,” Yasha repeats, watching Eddie’s every move. His words are deliberate, slow, as if he’s savoring the confusion on Eddie’s face. He enjoys the discomfort—it’s a reminder of his power, of the control he holds over this situation. Over Eddie.
But there's more to this than just control, something deeper, something personal. Yasha can’t deny the twinge of something that feels like... nostalgia. Or perhaps regret. He doesn’t know which. Eddie’s anger only draws Yasha in further, like a moth to a flame. He can see the fight in him, that burning desire to rebel, to lash out. It’s almost like seeing a younger version of himself, and for the briefest of moments, he wonders what it would have been like if things had gone differently, if this man standing before him was just another version of James.
His attention sharpens as Eddie demands again, the frustration rising in his voice, “Who the hell are you? What are you going to do to me?”
Yasha’s eyes narrow slightly, his lips twitching into a small, cold smile. Who am I? It’s a question he’s asked himself a hundred times—who he really is, after all that’s happened. The Winter Soldier. The Winter Prince. The killer. The pawn. The weapon.
But this, this moment... this is something different.
"You’ll find out soon enough," Yasha says softly, though there’s a trace of something darker beneath his words. He takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving Eddie. There’s something about this younger version of James that makes his pulse quicken, something that pulls at him, like a distant echo he can’t quite place.
Eddie’s not ready to understand it yet. He won’t be, for a long time. But Yasha has time. He has all the time in the world.
Eddie, on the other hand, is still caught in the web of confusion, a mix of resentment and fear flickering in his eyes. Yasha enjoys that, enjoys seeing how powerless Eddie feels, even though he knows it won’t last. The man is stronger than he thinks. But for now, he’s still just a boy, caught in a world he doesn’t understand.
“Don’t worry,” Yasha continues, his voice lower now, “You’ll be just fine. In time, you’ll learn your place.”
And as he says this, something shifts between them. Something subtle. A momentary understanding, perhaps. Eddie may not know it yet, but this will be the start of something. His training. His transformation. Into something greater than himself, something more than just James Barnes’ nephew.
The Winter Prince’s protégé.
Yasha turns, walking toward the side table where the tea set sits. He pours himself a glass, the ritual of the action grounding him in this moment, in his control.
When he speaks again, his voice is calm, almost absent. “You’ll need to be trained properly. Your uncle had potential. You? We’ll see.”
Yasha doesn't wait for Eddie to respond. He knows the reaction will be a defiant one. But that’s part of it. The fight. The resistance. It makes the eventual submission even sweeter.
He takes a sip from his glass, watching Eddie from over the rim as the weight of what’s coming settles in the room like a thick fog.

Yasha’s steps are measured as he enters the darkened room, the weight of the mission behind him and the future hanging heavy in the air. The flickering light from the overhead bulbs reflects off the polished wood of the table where Khrushchev and the other Party leaders are seated. The moment he walks in, the tension in the room becomes palpable.
He knows what they expect—an explanation. An assurance that he has followed orders, that he has acted in the best interest of the state. But for Yasha, this is about more than just following orders. This is about control. It’s about ensuring that the legacy of James Barnes, the Winter Soldier, continues on his terms. His legacy.
The room quiets as he approaches the table. Khrushchev’s eyes narrow when he sees the expression on Yasha’s face—calm, cool, detached, as if he’s just completed another task. But Khrushchev knows better. He knows what it means when Yasha is this quiet.
“You brought him back with you,” Khrushchev says, his voice betraying an edge of impatience. “Explain why.”
Yasha doesn’t sit. He stands, his posture straight and commanding. He places his hands behind his back, locking his fingers in place, as though steadying himself for a confrontation.
“I brought him back because he has potential,” Yasha begins, his voice low and steady. He’s not here to justify himself, not to Khrushchev or anyone else. “He is a Barnes, the last of the bloodline. The only living relative of the one who was the most successful of our super soldiers. My predecessor—your predecessor—was successful, but he is long gone. The other Barnes is dead, by all accounts. But this one...”
Yasha lets the words hang in the air, watching Khrushchev’s expression shift from curiosity to guarded interest.
“Eddie Barnes,” he continues, his voice taking on a darker note, “is more than just a relative. He’s a key to understanding the future of our... program. The Wolf Spider initiative needs fresh blood. A successor.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. Khrushchev, of course, doesn’t like being kept in the dark, but Yasha knows exactly how to play this. The man is obsessed with power, with domination. If Yasha can show him that Eddie Barnes is an asset, something more than just a target, he’ll have no choice but to accept it.
“By the time I’m through with him,” Yasha says, his gaze flickering to Khrushchev’s eyes, “Eddie Barnes will be the new face of the Winter Soldier program. He will replace Josef. His potential is too great to waste, and besides, this is more than just about the State’s needs. It’s about the legacy of James Barnes and the future of the Winter Soldier’s power.”
Khrushchev watches Yasha closely, the flicker of suspicion and calculation hidden beneath his stern gaze. He’s not an idiot; he knows Yasha has always played things on his own terms. But the younger man has always delivered. And as much as Khrushchev wants to believe this is all about the State, part of him understands that Yasha’s motivations are tangled with something personal. Something that may not entirely align with the Soviet agenda.
“And if Eddie Barnes doesn’t live up to expectations?” one of the other Party leaders asks, their tone sharp.
Yasha’s lips curl into the faintest of smiles. “Then he’ll be removed. But I’m confident he will rise to the occasion. He’s already shown signs of... resilience. That’s a quality I can work with.”
There’s a pause, the tension thickening in the air. Khrushchev stares at Yasha for a long moment before leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the wood of the table, considering.
“I will allow you to proceed with your plan,” Khrushchev finally says, though there’s an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “But you will report back to us. We will not have you going rogue, Yasha.”
Yasha doesn’t flinch, his gaze unwavering. “Of course, Comrade Khrushchev. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The exchange is over, but the unspoken understanding lingers in the room. Khrushchev may have given his permission, but Yasha knows the game is far from settled. The power struggle, the tension, the web of control—it all plays into a larger scheme, one that Khrushchev may not fully comprehend yet.
As Yasha turns to leave, he casts one last glance over his shoulder. His thoughts drift, for the briefest of moments, to Eddie. To the future.
The Wolf Spider is born. And I will shape him as I see fit.
And as he walks out of the room, his mind is already turning, calculating the next steps. The program will begin, the training will start, and Eddie Barnes will either become the weapon he’s destined to be... or he will fall like so many others before him.
Yasha’s path is clear, and the future is his to mold.

Eddie didn’t know what to expect when he woke up in a silk-sheeted bed, beneath a ceiling painted with gold trim and heavy chandeliers. The first few days at the estate were a blur of awe, confusion, and pain—mostly pain. The training was brutal, unrelenting, designed to break him down and remake him into something sharp and deadly. And yet…
By the third morning, when he stood at the edge of the estate’s private training grounds with the sunrise spilling over the snow-dusted trees, Eddie realized he hadn’t thought about Brooklyn once since waking up here.
The food was rich. The bed was warm. His room was bigger than the apartment he’d shared with his mother and two cousins. No one screamed at him here. No one hit him just to feel powerful. No one told him he’d never amount to anything.
Here, they looked at him like he could be something. Like he was something.
Even Yasha—silent, severe, and watching him always with those cold, unblinking eyes—had yet to raise a hand to him in punishment. Eddie had expected it. Waited for it. But instead, Yasha corrected his form with quiet precision, offered nothing more than the occasional nod of acknowledgment when he got something right.
And that—that meant the world.
He hadn’t realized how starved he was for structure, for someone to see potential in him instead of failure. No one back home had called him capable before. No one had looked at him like he was anything more than the disappointing echo of a man long dead and long sanctified by memory.
Here, no one compared him to Bucky Barnes, the sweet war hero who died too young and too perfect. Here, Yasha had looked at him with clear, sharp eyes and said, "You're not him. But you could be better."
And God, Eddie believed him.
Even the estate—the marble halls, the high ceilings, the crackling fireplaces—felt more like home than anyplace he’d ever known. He still didn’t quite know what to make of the Master, Sokolov, except that the man radiated power in a way that made the floor seem to tilt when he entered a room. He hadn’t spoken to Eddie directly yet, but he didn’t need to. His approval—or lack thereof—was filtered through Yasha’s expressions, through the slightly more bearable training days, through the subtle luxuries that hadn’t been taken away.
The clothes they gave him fit. The food was hot. And for the first time in his life, he was learning to fight for something. Maybe not freedom. Maybe not choice. But purpose.
Whatever this life was… it was better than the one he’d left behind.
And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 30: Winter's Heir

Yasha watched from the upper balcony of the training courtyard, arms folded behind his back as Eddie finished a grueling sparring session against two handlers twice his size. The boy moved with quick, brutal precision now—no longer flinching before each strike, no longer second-guessing himself. He was learning to think like a weapon. Not just to fight, but to win.
Yasha’s lips twitched faintly—pride, perhaps, though he’d never admit it aloud.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Sokolov’s voice, warm and dark, drifted from behind. Yasha didn’t need to turn to know his Master had entered the observation room; he could feel the subtle pull, the shift in the air, like gravity bending.
“He’s adapting faster than I anticipated,” Yasha said, gaze fixed on Eddie as he pinned one handler and swept the leg of the other with a near-flawless drop spin. “He learns like a street rat learns. Desperation makes excellent motivation.”
There was a pause. “But?”
Yasha finally turned, his movements quiet, controlled. “He needs something more than structure and punishment to ground him. The training works, but if we intend to mold him fully, to turn him into more than a blunt instrument… he needs identity. A tether.”
Sokolov arched a brow, thoughtful. “You propose something?”
Yasha stepped closer, lowering his voice though no one else could hear. “Let me make him mine. Legally. Fully. I want to adopt him—into the Sokolov line. He would be my son, not merely my protégé. That way, even after you—” he paused, jaw tightening, “—when the day comes that you are no longer here, he’ll have a name to stand on. A place. Purpose beyond me.”
Sokolov was silent for a long moment, eyes hooded in consideration. “You would bind yourself to him that fully? A boy with Barnes blood in his veins?”
Yasha gave a sharp nod. “He is not James. He never will be. That’s precisely why he deserves the chance to become something else. Something better. He’s already halfway there. He needs someone to see it through.”
Sokolov’s eyes softened, just slightly. “You’ve grown… fond.”
“I’ve grown aware,” Yasha corrected, though there was no real heat in his voice. “He’s valuable. And perhaps—” his eyes flicked down to the courtyard again “—perhaps there is something of myself I see in him. A flicker of the boy I used to be before Zola and war and you stripped it away.”
A long breath from Sokolov. He moved to stand beside Yasha at the balcony, watching Eddie square up again, face flushed but focused.
“You may begin the paperwork,” he said at last. “He will be yours in name. But in spirit, he will belong to the State. As we do.”
Yasha inclined his head. “Of course. As always.”
But even as he said it, he felt the smallest flicker of rebellion in his chest—quiet, dangerous.
Eddie would belong to him first.

Eddie stood outside the study door, the polished wood gleaming beneath his hand where he hesitated, just for a second, before knocking. The guards stationed down the hall didn’t look at him—they rarely did anymore—but he could still feel their presence. Watchful. Waiting.
“Enter,” came Yasha’s voice, low and even.
Eddie pushed the door open and stepped inside. The study was as impressive as ever—heavy bookshelves, dark velvet drapes, and an arched window spilling in soft morning light. Yasha sat at his desk, reading something handwritten in Cyrillic, though he looked up the moment Eddie entered.
“You summoned me, sir?”
Yasha nodded and gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Eddie obeyed, posture straight, shoulders tight. Something about the air in the room felt heavier than usual—charged, like something important was about to happen.
Yasha folded the paper in front of him and placed it aside. “You’ve proven yourself these past weeks. Discipline. Growth. Adaptability. You’ve earned the next step.”
Eddie’s heart kicked up. “Sir?”
Yasha leaned forward slightly, eyes piercing. “You are no longer Edward Barnes. That life is gone. Forgotten. The State has taken you in, shaped you, fed you. And I have chosen to claim you. You are now blood of House Sokolov. And as such, it is time for you to choose your name.”
Eddie stared, unsure he’d heard correctly. “My… name?”
Yasha inclined his head. “Your given name will be your own. The rest—Yakovovich Sokolov—is inherited. You are mine now, in name and purpose. A son of the State. A son of the House.”
Eddie felt the breath go out of him. Not out of fear—but something else. Something unfamiliar. The kind of weight that came with being seen.
He swallowed once. “Can I… have a moment to think?”
Yasha’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “You may.”
It didn’t take long. Eddie already knew.
“Pyotr,” he said, voice steady. “I want my name to be Pyotr.”
Yasha raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“There was a boy,” Eddie said. “Peter. We were kids together in Brooklyn. Poor, scrawny, smart. He was my only real friend. The only person who didn’t look at me like I was a disappointment just because I wasn’t Bucky. He died a few years ago. I never got to say goodbye.”
Yasha was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov,” he said, as if testing the shape of it. “A good name. Strong. Thoughtful.”
“Thank you,” Pyotr said—because he meant it.
Yasha stood and came around the desk, placing a firm hand on Pyotr’s shoulder. “From this day forward, that is who you are. We will handle the papers. You will be documented in the family register, your name inked in the House Book. You are no longer someone else’s shadow.”
Pyotr blinked quickly, trying to swallow the sudden knot in his throat. “Yes, General.”
“Go now,” Yasha said, releasing him. “Tell the quartermaster your new name. He’ll begin having your gear updated.”
Pyotr stood. Straightened his jacket. Gave the sharp, clean salute he’d been practicing for weeks.
And left the room feeling—for the first time in his life—like he actually belonged to something.

The study was quiet, but not still. Papers rustled beneath Yasha’s fingers as he scanned the latest communique from Moscow, the official seal of the Presidium stamped in red wax at the top. Outside the window, the Sokolov estate slumbered beneath a thin blanket of spring frost. It would melt by noon, but the chill in the air matched the tension humming under his skin.
Khrushchev’s visit to Yugoslavia had been confirmed.
Yasha sat back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at the missive without truly reading it now. The language was formal, direct—he was to oversee all aspects of the General Secretary’s security detail for the duration of the visit. It was both a compliment and a challenge. A promotion cloaked in chains.
He could smell the politics all over it.
Still, he had accepted worse assignments with far less agency. He was a General now, not a soldier waiting for orders. But what gave him pause wasn’t the politics, nor the risks of accompanying Khrushchev abroad.
It was Pyotr.
Yasha’s eyes drifted toward the small photo frame on his desk. Not of Sokolov or any official portrait, but of Pyotr—taken just weeks ago in the training yard, standing in full gear, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that reminded Yasha so powerfully of who he had once been. The boy had grown into his name like it had been waiting for him all along. No longer Eddie. No longer lost.
The progress Pyotr had made in a single year was staggering. Physically, he was now a weapon—sharp and agile, even if still a little green. Mentally, he was fiercely intelligent and loyal. The Wolf Spider program had never seen such cohesion between instinct and discipline. He was not yet Yasha’s equal, but he was close enough that the thought stirred pride in his chest.
Pride—and protectiveness.
Yasha rose, gloved hands curling loosely at his sides. Across the hall, he could sense the hum of movement from Sokolov’s rooms. His Master had risen early, as he always did, following his 55th birthday celebration the week before. The estate was still full of flowers and cigar smoke and well-wishes from other Party members too afraid to say aloud what they were surely all thinking: How much longer can he keep his hold?
And now, the question for Yasha was this—bring Pyotr, and have his most promising student experience the intricacies of international diplomacy and security firsthand? Or leave him here, as a final measure of protection for the man who had molded them both?
He didn’t trust Khrushchev. Not with his back, and certainly not with his future.
Yasha walked to the window, clasping his hands behind him. The frost had begun to recede under the growing light of day. Below, Pyotr was in the yard, sparring with one of the instructors, his movements fast and precise. He landed a clean strike, took a step back, waited. Disciplined. Focused. Watching, always watching.
Yasha smiled faintly.
He would decide soon. Either path was dangerous. But Pyotr had earned the right to stand beside him—or the duty to guard what mattered most.
Perhaps he would ask Sokolov’s opinion. Or perhaps…he already knew what his Master would say.
Protect what is ours. Always.

Sokolov’s office was warm despite the lingering chill that clung to the stone halls of the estate. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light throwing shadows across the polished hardwood and shelves lined with military memoirs, political philosophy, and works of literature that bore notes in Sokolov’s own hand.
Yasha entered without knocking—he never had to. Sokolov looked up from his desk, glasses low on his nose, a pen poised mid-sentence. His expression softened the moment he saw Yasha, that familiar indulgence sparking in his eyes.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “You’ve read the briefing.”
“I have.” Yasha sat, back straight, boots together. “They want me to lead Khrushchev’s security during the Yugoslavia visit. It’s not a request.”
“Of course not,” Sokolov said mildly. “He’s still testing your loyalty. Trying to find the fault lines. He’ll keep doing that until he feels he owns you.”
“He won’t,” Yasha said flatly.
“I know,” Sokolov replied with a faint smile. “But he doesn’t.”
They fell into silence for a moment, the weight of it familiar. Sokolov returned to his notes, finishing a line before capping his pen and folding his hands. “You’re wondering whether to bring Pyotr.”
Yasha gave a small nod. “He’s ready. Or as ready as a boy of nineteen can be. The exposure would be valuable—tactics, political theater, diplomacy. He learns fast.”
“But?” Sokolov prompted, already knowing.
“But I don’t trust Khrushchev not to see him as leverage. If I bring Pyotr into that circle, he becomes a piece on their board. If I leave him here, he can guard you.”
Sokolov leaned back, thoughtful. “And you, my bright one, would have him do both.”
“If I could split him in two,” Yasha said with the ghost of a smirk, “I would.”
Sokolov’s smile deepened, fond and quiet. “He’s not ready to be your shadow yet. Not for that world. Let him grow a little more under my roof. He trusts me. He’ll listen.”
Yasha looked down, processing. His hand brushed the edge of the desk. “He called me father yesterday. Not aloud. But in his journal.”
“You read it?”
“I collect his reports. I never told him not to hide sentiments in the margins.”
Sokolov’s gaze softened with something unspoken. “Then the decision is made.”
Yasha nodded. “He stays. He protects you. I will send dispatches when I can.”
Sokolov stood, slowly, with the weight of age and power, and crossed to Yasha’s side. One gloved hand settled on his shoulder, steadying, grounding. “Do not let Khrushchev separate you from yourself, moy volk. Remember who you are. You are mine.”
“I remember,” Yasha said. “Always.”
There was nothing else to say.
The fire crackled on.

Chapter 31: Yugoslavia

The journey to Yugoslavia was draped in the usual pomp and tension that followed Soviet high command wherever it traveled. Yasha kept close to Khrushchev, ever watchful, eyes scanning for threats even when none were obvious. The Yugoslavs greeted them with cautious diplomacy—Tito himself met them at the railway station, flanked by military guards and state photographers.
Yasha kept his face neutral, the perfect soldier, the perfect shadow. He wore his uniform like armor, his medals glinting faintly under the Balkan sun, his posture unreadable.
Khrushchev, meanwhile, was playing the affable statesman. All laughter, firm handshakes, and charming lies.
But behind closed doors, the mask slipped.
They were in the presidential residence in Belgrade when it happened. A private dinner, just the Soviet delegation and a few Yugoslav generals. Tito had retired early. Khrushchev was deep in his cups, half-drunk on plum brandy and ambition.
Yasha stood at attention behind him as Khrushchev leaned back in his chair and motioned lazily.
“Sit, General Sokolov,” Khrushchev said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. His tone was pleasant, but it was not a request.
Yasha hesitated only a moment before taking the seat. The other Soviet officials quieted slightly. They all knew something was coming.
Khrushchev poured another drink, not offering Yasha one. “You’ve done well, tovarishch. Loyal. Capable. Even charming, they say.”
Yasha gave a slight nod, silent.
Khrushchev turned toward him, eyes sharp despite the alcohol. “But let us speak plainly. You are… rare. A relic of the past and yet—essential to the future.”
“I serve the State,” Yasha replied evenly.
“Do you?” Khrushchev smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Or do you serve Sokolov?”
Yasha’s fingers curled slightly under the table. “I serve the State through General Sokolov’s direction.”
“A convenient answer.” Khrushchev set down his glass. “But you are no fool. You know I cannot allow the Party’s most powerful weapon to belong to a man too old to stand in parade formation.”
Yasha said nothing.
Khrushchev leaned in, voice quieter. “When Sokolov dies—and he will—you must already be loyal to someone else. To me. You can be more than a symbol. You can command entire programs. Become a Minister. We’ll bury your past and raise you up as the future.”
“I am already the future,” Yasha said, almost too softly.
Khrushchev’s smile twitched. “Then act like it.”
Yasha didn’t respond. Not with words. He sat back, eyes flat, and let the moment stretch between them. Let Khrushchev see that his silence was not submission—but calculation.
He knew now. Khrushchev wouldn’t wait for Sokolov to die. He would hasten it if he could. And Yasha had just been offered the knife.
But Yasha already had a Master. And Khrushchev had just made himself a threat.
He would play along—for now. But the moment would come when he decided who truly held the future of the Soviet Union in their hand.
And it would not be Khrushchev.

The train ride back from the official dinner was silent save for the rhythmic clatter of tracks and the occasional muffled conversation from down the corridor. Yasha sat alone in his compartment, gloves removed, fingers loosely steepled as he stared out into the darkened countryside. The plum brandy still lingered faintly in the air, though he hadn’t touched a drop.
The soft knock on the door came precisely at midnight.
Yasha didn’t move. “Enter.”
The door creaked open, revealing Leonid Brezhnev—young for a Central Committee member, with those heavy-lidded eyes and a smile that always seemed one second from slipping.
“May I?” Brezhnev asked, already stepping in.
Yasha inclined his head in a silent gesture of permission. Brezhnev closed the door behind him and settled across from him.
“You made an impression tonight,” he said casually. “Khrushchev is very taken with you.”
Yasha’s expression didn’t change. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
Brezhnev chuckled. “Both. He’s a man who believes in loyalty because he lacks charisma. He thinks your silence is submission.”
“It isn’t.”
“I know.” Brezhnev’s voice lowered. “That’s why I’m here.”
Yasha’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Speak.”
Brezhnev folded his hands, leaning forward. “There are those of us in the Committee who find Khrushchev’s leadership… disorganized. Opportunistic. He surrounds himself with yes-men and gives orders no one understands. But you—you're useful. You're stable. You’re a symbol. And more than that, you're feared.”
“I’m not interested in political games.”
Brezhnev smiled again. “Of course you’re not. But when the time comes—and it will—there will be a choice. Between the old guard clinging to youth and the new future that you can help shape.”
Yasha didn’t respond immediately. Then: “I serve the State.”
“Yes.” Brezhnev stood. “But one day soon, the State will ask you to decide who is worthy to lead it.”
With that, he exited, leaving the compartment in silence once more.
Yasha stared after him for a long moment before returning to the window. The lights of Belgrade had vanished. Only open land now. Vast. Empty.
**
When he returned to the Sokolov estate three days later, it was late. Snow had begun to fall in light, feathery flakes. The cold air felt like home.
Sokolov was in his study, waiting by the fire with two glasses of Armenian brandy. He looked tired but satisfied to see his Pet again. Yasha crossed the room in a few long steps and knelt before him without hesitation.
“You’re late,” Sokolov said softly, fingers brushing over Yasha’s hair.
“Khrushchev made his move.”
Sokolov’s eyes sharpened. “Explain.”
Yasha rose fluidly and accepted the glass offered to him, remaining by his Master’s side as he recounted everything—the dinner, Khrushchev’s insinuations, the veiled threats, and finally, Brezhnev’s subtle warnings.
When he finished, Sokolov was silent for a time, swirling the brandy in his glass.
“He’s afraid,” Yasha added, voice low. “He sees you as a relic and me as a prize.”
Sokolov gave a soft grunt. “He isn’t wrong about that first part. I am old. But I’m not dead. And I still hold the leash.”
Yasha looked over at him then. “You do.”
Sokolov raised his glass in a mock toast. “To relics. And to loyal wolves who bite.”
They drank. The fire crackled. And outside, the snow began to fall harder, blanketing the world in silence.

Chapter 32: First Blood

October 1956 — Budapest, Hungarian People's Republic
Yasha’s POV
The city was already smoldering by the time General Sokolov stepped off the armored transport, thick smoke rising in pillars from the university district. Tanks groaned down the cobbled streets and crowds surged like tidal waves before being broken apart by rifle fire. Budapest burned, and Yasha had never felt more cold.
He walked in silence, black greatcoat swirling behind him, flanked by KGB operatives. Orders from Moscow were clear: restore order by any means necessary. And Yasha, the Winter Prince, delivered order with surgical brutality.
For weeks prior, he had directed an intricate web of surveillance. Dissident leaders were identified, underground presses mapped and shuttered, and contact points between students and Western agitators severed. The West might cheer for revolution, but the State would not tolerate cracks in its walls.
Now came enforcement.
From a rooftop overlooking Kálvin tér, Yasha watched a crowd of young men overturn a Soviet jeep, chanting for freedom. Pyotr knelt beside him, barely breathing, rifle in hand, masked and dressed in civilian greys. His first real field assignment. His test.
Yasha’s voice was a whisper. “The one with the armband. The one doing the shouting. That’s your target.”
Pyotr gave a sharp nod, steadying his aim.
“No hesitation,” Yasha said. “He will go home tonight and send others to die in his place tomorrow. Cut off the head.”
There was silence for a breath.
Then the crack of the shot.
Below, the boy leader fell backward, skull shattered. The crowd screamed, scattered. Chaos swallowed them whole.
Yasha didn't need to look to know Pyotr was shaking. Instead, he placed a gloved hand on his son’s shoulder and said only, “Mission success. Withdraw.”
**
Later — Soviet Embassy, secure compound
Pyotr sat before a basin, washing the soot and blood from his hands. He looked up as Yasha entered.
“I killed someone,” he said, voice flat. “I know that was the point, but…”
“But you didn’t think it would feel like this,” Yasha finished.
Pyotr nodded.
Yasha crossed the room and sat beside him. “It won’t always.”
“That’s supposed to comfort me?”
“It’s not meant to comfort. It’s meant to inform.”
There was silence again, thick with the weight of history.
“Did he matter?” Pyotr finally asked. “The boy?”
Yasha looked him in the eye. “He mattered enough for someone to hand him a megaphone. That’s reason enough.”
**
By the end of November, the revolution was crushed. Thousands dead, tens of thousands arrested, and still more fled across the border. Hungary was quiet once more, beneath a fresh dusting of snow and an iron boot.
And far to the north, the Winter Prince wrote his report with a precision honed by war. Pyotr was listed not by name, but by codename: Volk-1. Approved for continued field operations.

Sokolov Estate – Early December, 1956
Pyotr’s POV
The first snowfall of the season dusted the manor’s spires like icing sugar as the car rolled to a stop beneath the front arch. The iron gates had been thrown wide open, and every light in the great estate blazed with warmth. After weeks of blood and silence, the soft glow made Pyotr blink.
He stepped out slowly, duffel over his shoulder, unsure of how to carry himself. A killer now, he supposed. A weapon. He hadn't spoken much on the train home. Yasha had been quiet too, eyes always trained on the horizon.
The great doors opened before them.
And there, waiting in the foyer with a proud gleam in his eye and dressed in his formal crimson uniform, was Sokolov.
“You’ve returned,” he said, voice low and pleased. “And victorious.”
Pyotr lowered his gaze instinctively.
Sokolov crossed to him, inspecting him briefly. “Not even a scratch.” Then, gently, he placed a hand on the back of Pyotr’s neck and pulled him into a firm embrace. “Welcome home, мой сын.”
Pyotr froze. His fingers curled into fists. Then, slowly, he allowed himself to lean in.
He wasn’t ready to say thank you. Not yet. But he wanted to be.
**
That Night – Dining Hall
The feast was decadent. Roasted duck with cranberry glaze. Blini with caviar. Pickled mushrooms. Pelmeni in a rich broth. Honey cakes layered with cream and walnuts. There was a bottle of 1941 Armenian brandy on the sideboard—one Sokolov had been saving, he said, “for something worthy.”
They dined by candlelight, the heavy chandelier flickering overhead, silver and crystal glittering. Pyotr had never seen anything like it.
“You’ll sit beside me,” Sokolov had ordered, and Pyotr obeyed, seated at the right hand of the man now publicly claiming him as heir.
Yasha sat across from them, his expression unreadable but his pride evident in the way he watched Pyotr eat. He didn’t touch the wine—he rarely did—but he poured Pyotr’s glass himself.
“I received word,” Sokolov said as he sliced into his duck, “that your actions were not only precise, but inspiring. Our dear General Tsvigun declared your first mission ‘an example for the future of covert operations.’ And Khrushchev?” Sokolov grinned. “He no longer watches the Winter Prince. He fears him.”
Pyotr flushed, unsure what to say.
Yasha leaned forward slightly. “And what of Volk-1?”
Sokolov raised his glass. “To Volk-1. A true son of Sokolov, and of the Union.”
They toasted.
And in that candlelit hall, Pyotr swallowed back the last of his guilt, replaced by something he could not name. A fire. A purpose. He was becoming something else—something worthy.
He didn’t know if it would destroy him.
But tonight, he was seen.

Chapter 33: Rewards and Debriefs

The feast had long since ended. The grand hall now lay silent, save for the occasional pop of logs in the hearth. The servants had withdrawn. Pyotr had been sent to his quarters with a final clap to the shoulder and a quiet, satisfied, “Good work, сынок.”
Yasha remained behind. He hadn’t asked to. He simply knew.
He stood now before the fire, his uniform coat unbuttoned, the collar loosened, though his spine remained straight. There was warmth in his limbs from the brandy, but his mind was sharpened by anticipation. The kind that curled low in his belly and tightened behind his ribs.
He didn’t turn as Sokolov entered. He didn’t need to. He could feel his Master’s presence like gravity.
“You’ve earned this,” Sokolov murmured behind him. There was no smile in his voice, only certainty. “You always do.”
Yasha exhaled slowly. “You’ve already given me all I need.”
“No.” The word was firm. “That was duty. This is devotion.”
Yasha turned then, just enough to face the man he had followed through war, politics, and personal storms. Sokolov had removed his jacket as well, dressed now in only shirt and suspenders, his silver hair softened by firelight.
He crossed the room.
In his hands was a box. Small, lacquered black, the Sokolov crest inlaid in gold on its lid. Yasha’s breath hitched. He hadn’t seen it before, but he knew what it was.
“Open it.”
Yasha obeyed.
Inside, nestled on velvet, was a new collar. Not black leather like his daily one. This was rich, dark crimson—dyed lambskin, polished to a near mirror sheen. The clasp was sterling silver, shaped in the form of a rose in full bloom. The tag beneath read:
Собственность Соколова
Property of Sokolov
Yasha’s throat worked.
“I had it made months ago,” Sokolov said quietly. “I knew this day would come. I knew you would lead our nation’s monsters. I knew you would train your heir. But I also knew…” He reached out, thumb brushing along Yasha’s cheekbone. “You would remain mine.”
Yasha went to his knees.
He bent his head without being told, exposing the nape of his neck.
The collar clicked into place like a key in a lock.
He inhaled through his nose, exhaled like a prayer.
Sokolov rested a hand on his head. “My good, bright boy.”
Yasha’s voice was hoarse, reverent. “Always.”

The debrief took place in the War Room, deep beneath the estate—an old Tsarist stronghold now outfitted with the best Soviet hardware and brutalist flair. The long steel table gleamed under harsh overhead lights, surrounded by maps, dossiers, and still-warm samovars of tea.
Yasha stood at the head of the table, posture perfect, his crimson collar stark against the dark wool of his uniform. Not hidden. Not subdued. Displayed.
The tag glinted under the lights as he moved—Собственность Соколова—and every man present noticed.
Khrushchev was the first to comment, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile on anyone less bitter. “A new collar, General Sokolov?”
Yasha didn’t smile. “A gift from my Master.”
Brezhnev, seated across from Khrushchev, leaned forward, eyes catching the tag. “Beautiful craftsmanship. Silver?”
Yasha inclined his head. “Yes. Custom-made. Issued upon successful conclusion of Operation RAVEN.” He let that name hang in the air. The suppression of the Hungarian Uprising had gone off nearly flawlessly—at least from Moscow’s perspective.
Khrushchev’s expression twitched, just once. “There are some,” he said idly, “who might wonder if your—display—is appropriate for a military officer of your rank.”
Yasha met his gaze evenly. “The Winter Prince is a creature of symbolism, First Secretary. I wear my victories, my loyalties, and my identity where all can see them. There is no confusion about where I stand. Or to whom I belong.”
That shut Khrushchev up.
Brezhnev chuckled lowly. “If every general were so transparent, our work would be simpler.”
Yasha turned, flipping open a dossier and beginning the debrief without another word. He moved through the Hungarian operation with precision: troop movements, intelligence leaks, Pyotr’s performance. The young soldier had exceeded expectations, executing his first sanctioned kill without hesitation and extracting a target under fire.
“A fine heir,” Brezhnev noted, brows lifting as he read Pyotr’s assessment. “Trained personally?”
“Yes,” Yasha confirmed. “Handpicked. Adopted. And loyal.”
Khrushchev didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t object.
When the debrief concluded, Yasha closed the folder and looked straight at the First Secretary. “Shall I prepare my heir for formal recognition by the Party?”
A challenge. Subtle. Blunt. Entirely Yasha.
Khrushchev’s smile was tight. “Perhaps... in time.”
“Of course.” Yasha bowed slightly at the neck. The tag glinted again. “I am patient. But not forgetful.”
The room dismissed shortly after, Brezhnev lingering just long enough to nod in Sokolov’s direction—a quiet signal of approval.
Yasha remained a moment longer in the room alone, eyes on the table, one gloved hand brushing the edge of his new collar. It was heavier than his usual one. Warmer.
Permanent.

Sokolov Estate – February 1956
Yasha’s POV
The frost clung to the windows of the estate like the bones of ghosts—sharp, brittle, and ever-watching. Yasha stood at the balcony outside his study, his red robe sweeping behind him like a banner, collar gleaming in the pale dawn light. Below, the pines of the estate stood in disciplined silence. Everything in order. For now.
But disorder rippled from Moscow.
The moment he heard of Khrushchev’s Secret Speech, Yasha had known it was no longer just a political maneuver—it was a war for legacy.
Denouncing Stalin?
Calling him a tyrant?
Yasha had gone cold, colder than the February air.
It was treason wrapped in reform.
And it was personal.

Inside, he replayed the recordings sent by one of his loyal agents hidden within the 20th Party Congress. Khrushchev's voice crackled with performance: condemning the purges, condemning the fear, condemning the man who had lifted Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov from a bastard with knives in his eyes to Stalin’s Chosen.
The same Stalin who had adopted Yasha—not with soft words, but with blood and iron.
A soft knock at the study door. Pyotr entered quietly, dressed in training blacks, sweat still shining at his temples. “The radio just confirmed it. The full transcript is circulating underground. Khrushchev gave them permission.”
Yasha turned from the window, face unreadable.
“Permission to defile a god,” he said coldly. “And they call it progress.”
Pyotr didn’t reply. He knew better than to interrupt this mood. He crossed the room instead and placed a slim file on the desk.
“What’s this?” Yasha asked without looking down.
“Names. People whispering already. Professors, minor Party figures, a few artists. They feel emboldened. They think they can tear down everything with words now.”
Yasha flipped the file open. His eyes flicked over the list like a predator scanning for weakness. “They forget who guards the shadows.”
There would be fallout. There always was.
The KGB’s reach would have to grow. He would need to root out not just dissidents, but those who believed the lie that the Party was suddenly soft. That the past could be rewritten without blood.
He would let the speech spread. Let the hopeful crawl out from their holes.
And then he would remind them—not all ghosts remain buried.

That evening, he met with Sokolov in the grand salon, where the older man sat wrapped in a heavy quilt, a glass of Armenian brandy in hand.
“They’re coming for your legacy,” Yasha murmured, kneeling by his Master’s side.
“They always do,” Sokolov said with a bitter chuckle. “The weak fear memory. They fear those of us who survived it.”
“I won’t let them touch you,” Yasha promised, resting a gloved hand atop Sokolov’s. “I’ll burn the lies before they spread.”
Sokolov looked down at him—his Prince, his sword—and smiled with something like pride. “Make them fear again, Yasha.”

And Yasha would.
He already had the list.
He already had the plan.
The Winter Prince did not forget.

Chapter 34: Damage Control & Galas

March 1956 – Moscow
Yasha’s POV
The walls of the temporary KGB command outpost were lined in iron and secrets. Yasha stood at the head of the operations table, gloved hands braced on cold steel, the newest surveillance reports scattered before him like cards in a rigged game. Around him, hand-picked officers—men loyal not to Khrushchev, but to the myth that had shaped them. To Stalin. To Sokolov. To him.
"Operation Oprichnik is active," he said, voice sharp as cut glass. "We do not counter with silence. We counter with precision. With the names of traitors. With manufactured evidence. With fear."
A few of the men shifted. Not out of doubt, but hunger. Fear was a tool they knew well.
He pointed to the board, where Pyotr had neatly pinned photos—artists, academics, low-tier Party men who’d begun to question too loudly in the wake of the Secret Speech.
"We begin with discreditation. Whispers of Western contact. Hidden homosexuality. Petty theft. Let their neighbors turn against them. Let them fall before they’re truly dangerous."
"And if they persist?" one asked.
Yasha smiled faintly. "Then they disappear."

Three days later – Pyotr’s POV
Field Report — Leningrad
The man was sweating. Professor Nikolai Vasiliev, mid-fifties, known dissident sympathizer, frequent guest speaker at underground salons. Pyotr watched him through the one-way mirror, gloves in his lap, expression unreadable.
The raid had gone as planned. The evidence—radio parts, banned texts, a forged Western visa—was planted so well it wouldn’t even seem planted.
Pyotr stood, smooth and elegant, and stepped into the interrogation room. The door closed with a hush like a guillotine.
"Professor Vasiliev," he said in Russian, voice cool and soft. "Your country is disappointed in you."
The man opened his mouth to protest, but Pyotr cut him off with a small smile. "Don’t worry. You’ll be remembered as a cautionary tale. Not a martyr."
Behind him, another agent entered with the forms. Reeducation. Labour. Quiet removal from the public mind.
Pyotr signed them without a tremor. His signature now read:
Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov
KGB Lieutenant, Son of the Winter Prince

Later – Back at the Sokolov Estate
Yasha reviewed the report with a sense of grim satisfaction. Pyotr had been surgical—no bloodshed, no noise, only precision.
He set the file aside as Pyotr entered the study, still in his uniform, face neutral but eyes searching for approval. Yasha crossed the room, reached out, and straightened the boy’s collar himself.
"You’re becoming what I always hoped," he said quietly.
"A son worthy of you?"
Yasha didn’t answer. He just gave a slight nod and turned back to the window, where the snow began to fall again, soft and silent.
Just the way he liked his purges.

Pyotr’s POV
Late 1956 – Sokolov Estate
The estate was colder now, in the dead of winter. The servants moved quietly, their footsteps muffled by thick rugs. It felt like Pyotr was becoming more of the walls than the boy who had stumbled into this life. Days passed with relentless structure: missions, training, briefings. Each one slipping away like water through fingers. His hands had long since learned to grasp without hesitation. His smile, when he showed it, was a weapon. His eyes, once bright with curiosity, now grew shadowed and still.
He no longer flinched when his hands were stained with ink from signing death warrants.
Pyotr had become efficient, but efficiency was not enough. There was something about him that Yasha had been quietly nurturing, shaping him like a sculpture of ice. It wasn’t the boy’s anger or the boy’s rebellion, but something colder—calculated, precise. Like a serpent waiting to strike.
Today, as he stood by the fireplace, watching the embers crackle in the hearth, Pyotr’s reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass. He didn’t recognize the boy who stood there anymore.
The boy who once feared the dark was long gone.
His mind wandered back to his first mission—the swift execution of Nikolai Vasiliev. The quiet certainty he had felt when signing his death sentence. There was no hesitation. There was only the cold promise of service.
And service—loyalty—was everything.

Later that evening, in the study, Yasha entered with his usual measured grace, his sharp features framed in the dim light. Pyotr was standing near the window, waiting for him, his hands folded behind his back.
"Report," Yasha commanded softly.
Pyotr turned to face him, meeting his gaze. "The mission was successful. The target has been removed. There will be no further problems."
Yasha studied him for a moment, his gaze drifting over the boy. It was colder now, Pyotr noticed. Not just the air, but Yasha's eyes. They held no warmth, no encouragement. It was... impressively efficient.
"Good," Yasha replied, the word as smooth as a blade. "You’re adapting well. Soon, you’ll be more than just an extension of my will."
Pyotr's heartbeat quickened, but his face remained neutral. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it had the ring of finality.
Yasha walked over to his desk, his fingers grazing the edge of the papers laid out there. "But, now, there is something else you must learn." His tone shifted slightly, something darker flickering in his eyes.
Pyotr raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"You are no longer a soldier, Pyotr," Yasha continued, turning to face him fully. "You are part of something much larger. Something far more fragile. Something that requires skill beyond strength. Strategy."
Pyotr straightened, waiting for the inevitable lesson.
"You will learn to play the game," Yasha said, his voice deepening with quiet authority. "The game of those who control from the shadows. The game of the powerful."
Pyotr didn’t know what Yasha meant exactly, but he felt his stomach tighten with a mix of anticipation and unease. This was a game Pyotr had yet to understand. But he would learn. He would have to.
Yasha's lips curled into a sly, dangerous smile. "And what better way to start learning than to plan your own 17th birthday gala?"
Pyotr blinked in surprise, momentarily caught off-guard. "My birthday?" he asked, though it hardly seemed important anymore. Time had become a blur.
"Yes." Yasha’s voice lowered as he leaned forward slightly, a predatory glint in his gaze. "The most important gathering in your life thus far. A test of your ability to play the role of son of the State and of House Sokolov. You’ll need to invite the right people—friends, allies, and yes, even enemies. Every detail must be perfect."
Pyotr stood there, processing the task. The boy who had once looked at the world through eyes filled with hope and curiosity was now a weapon in a game he didn’t fully understand.
"You’ll find a way to make it... memorable," Yasha added, a smile tugging at his lips. "And ensure they all know who you belong to."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, and Pyotr’s lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smile. He would do this. He would excel, as he always had.
But deep down, a part of him still felt the weight of the change in the air.

Two months.
That was the deadline. Two months to plan a celebration that would shape his future.
Pyotr stood before the large oak desk in the study, his hands folded behind his back as he stared down at the blank sheets of paper in front of him. The weight of it felt heavier than anything he’d ever experienced, a weight that gnawed at his chest like a phantom. It was more than a mere party—Yasha had made it clear that this gala was a test. A test of his intelligence, his subtlety, and his ability to command respect in a room full of the most dangerous people in the Soviet Union. It was to be his statement to the world—his first real act of power.
And failure, Pyotr knew, would cost him more than his pride.
He was alone for now—Yasha had gone on some mission of his own, leaving him to make the first move. No immediate support. Just himself and his thoughts.
His first instinct was to call in Sokolov’s staff. They had decades of experience in organizing events. They had the connections, the expertise, the history to back it up. But this was supposed to be his plan. Yasha had left him to do it alone, and Pyotr would honor that. It was the least he could do to prove himself worthy of being Sokolov’s son.
Pyotr spent the next few hours combing through the estate’s event planning records, old documents, and notes from previous gatherings. He studied the details of House Sokolov’s past galas, but what stood out was not the splendor or opulence—they were expected—but the subtlety. The moments where Sokolov’s true influence was felt. The conversations that had been hushed behind closed doors. It was clear to Pyotr that this event wasn’t just about putting on a show; it was about asserting power. Sokolov power. Winter Prince power.
He called for one of Sokolov’s aides, an experienced woman named Irina, to assist in organizing the catering. Irina’s expression didn’t change when she entered the room, but Pyotr saw the small flicker of acknowledgment. She knew what this meant. She knew what kind of stakes were at play.
"You’ll need to be careful with the guest list," Irina advised, scanning the list of potential invitees that Pyotr had drafted. "Not all the guests will be loyal to the House. Some of them will come with their own agenda."
Pyotr nodded, ignoring the small pang of doubt in his chest. He’d already seen what Irina was capable of—her ability to read people, to calculate. It was why he had called her in. "Then we’ll make sure they leave with nothing but respect for House Sokolov. And perhaps a reminder of what happens to those who don’t show it."
Irina smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes but spoke volumes. "We’ll ensure that, young Master. What else do you require?"
"Entertainment," Pyotr replied. "The kind of spectacle that will keep people talking long after the event is over."
Irina’s brow raised slightly, but she didn’t question the order. "Of course, Master Pyotr. We have contacts for such matters."

The next few weeks became a blur of meetings, phone calls, and careful decisions. Pyotr was determined to make this event his own, to demonstrate that the son of House Sokolov would not merely be a reflection of his predecessor, but a force in his own right. He wasn’t just planning a birthday party. He was laying the foundation for his own reign.
Yasha checked in periodically, offering suggestions on the finer details, but allowing Pyotr to steer the ship. The burden of the event weighed on him heavily, but it also stirred something in him. A feeling he hadn’t experienced since his first mission—the thrill of power, the quiet rush of control.
Finally, as the days dwindled down, Pyotr began to see the shape of the evening take form. The guest list had been finalized: an array of high-ranking officials, military officers, party members, and those whose loyalty to the State could be purchased—for the right price. Pyotr knew that some of these people would be enemies, thinly veiled by the guise of politeness and protocol. He would see to it that none of them left without a reminder of who ruled this house.
The theme of the night, Pyotr had decided, would be the future of the State. A celebration of not just his birth, but his place within the great Soviet machine—a symbol of power, youth, and potential. The room would be bathed in silver, the glow of future glory, a soft contrast to the dark crimson of the Sokolov family crest.
He made sure there would be no shortage of food or drink. The finest caviar, decadent meats, rich wines. But beyond the indulgence, there would be conversations held in corners, quiet glances exchanged, whispers in the ear. Those who came to pay their respects would leave with more than they bargained for.
The gala was no longer just an event. It was a statement.

Two weeks later
Night of the Gala
The Sokolov Estate was alive with the hum of activity. Staff moved like shadows, ensuring every detail was perfect. The grand ballroom glittered, its crystal chandeliers refracted the light into a thousand glimmering shards.
Pyotr stood at the top of the grand staircase, watching as the guests arrived. He wore a tailored suit, dark as night, a faint silver sheen running through the fabric. It was a far cry from the boy who had first stepped into this world. There was a calmness to him now, a composure that told anyone watching he had not just inherited his father’s name, but his blood.
The first guests arrived—Khrushchev’s allies, military officers, and foreign dignitaries. Pyotr greeted them with a smile, shaking hands, nodding politely. He was the picture of grace, the young heir to House Sokolov, the Winter Prince in waiting.
But behind his smile was something else.
A plan.
A game.
And this time, he would play to win.

Yasha’s POV
Sokolov Estate – Pyotr’s Seventeenth Birthday Gala
The ballroom was alight with controlled chaos—uniformed staff in crisp attire moved in seamless formation, the orchestra hummed its final tuning notes, and the chandeliers glittered like the frost on a Moscow morning. From the mezzanine balcony, Yasha stood still and silent, a glass of chilled vodka untouched in his hand, and watched.
There—at the top of the grand staircase—stood the boy who had once been Eddie Barnes.
Now: Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov.
His son.
Yasha had dressed deliberately tonight—black military dress uniform, medals gleaming across his chest, a nod to the role he played in the world’s eyes. But he made no attempt to hide the collar. The silver glint of it sat proudly at his throat, a quiet signal of his bond, his purpose, and his belonging. The guests could whisper if they liked. Let them. There were few left who dared question the Winter Prince.
But Pyotr—Pyotr they would not whisper about. They would speak his name in full voice, now and always.
The boy stood tall, his suit tailored in a sharp, minimalist cut that recalled old imperial elegance filtered through Soviet strength. No insignias, no medals—just silver embroidery and the Sokolov crest shining at the breast pocket. Pyotr’s eyes scanned the room with poise, his body language echoing his training: open without vulnerability, approachable without submission.
Perfect, Yasha thought. So fucking perfect.
The guests were arriving in clusters now—officers, ministers, scientists, operatives from the KGB, and more than a few foreign watchers. All eyes were on Pyotr. And Pyotr met them all.
My boy.
Yasha descended the staircase slowly, letting Pyotr take the full glory of the greeting line before stepping beside him at the base.
Pyotr glanced sideways, just a flick of his gaze, but his posture straightened slightly. Not with fear or pressure—never that—but with pride. With certainty. That he was no longer standing alone.
When the crowd’s attention dipped toward the music and drink, Yasha leaned in just enough for Pyotr to hear him over the din.
“You have done well tonight,” he said softly, the warmth in his voice clear despite the steel of his mask. “This event is flawless. Every detail, every guest, every calculated gesture. You planned this like a statesman.”
Pyotr gave the faintest smile, just at the corner of his mouth. “I had good teachers.”
Yasha shook his head once, fondness coloring his tone now. “No, lapushka. I trained you, yes. But this—” He gestured subtly toward the room, the crowd, the empire now orbiting the young man beside him. “This is yours. This is something no training could have gifted you. You built this.”
There was silence between them for a moment as the world bustled around them—clinking glasses, murmuring conversations, the lilting glide of the waltz.
“I am proud of you,” Yasha said simply. “Prouder than I imagined I could be of anyone. You are no longer the shadow of a name. You are Sokolov.”
Pyotr looked at him then, fully, and for just a moment, the pride he had masked in careful composure shone through like sunlight through stained glass.
“Thank you,” Pyotr said. “For everything.”
Yasha raised his glass then, and for the first time that evening, drank deeply.
“To you,” he murmured. “To the future you will command.”
And all around them, the court of the Winter Prince turned its eyes to its heir.

The ballroom glittered like something out of a fairy tale. Candlelight shimmered off gilt-trimmed mirrors, and the orchestra’s strings sang like sirens, but Khrushchev tasted ash on his tongue.
He sipped at his champagne, watching as Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov—the Winter Prince—spoke with two foreign ministers in crisp, polished French. The man was elegance wrapped around iron, always had been. Even now, in the prime of his immortality, Yasha moved with calculated grace, a predator pretending to be tame.
And beside him—Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov. The boy had grown well. Too well. Poised, sharp-eyed, already charming Party officials with the same cunning charisma that had once drawn Stalin’s unwavering favor.
A problem.
The Sokolovs were consolidating. They had power, loyalty, presence. They did not need the State—the State needed them.
Khrushchev set down his glass and adjusted his collar. Yasha bowed his head briefly to someone across the floor, and Khrushchev saw the thin gleam of leather and silver at his throat. The collar was symbolic, he knew, not just a private kink but a public declaration. A mockery, almost—Property of the USSR, as if he had any say in what Yasha truly belonged to.
The Sokolovs were a dynasty in all but name.
And dynasties were dangerous.
Khrushchev smiled politely as a minor official greeted him, but his mind was already elsewhere. If Pyotr was truly Yasha’s heir—truly capable—then that posed a deeper risk than Yasha ever had alone. One monster could be studied. Contained. But two?
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
No, something would have to be done. Quietly. Elegantly.
Let the Winter Prince believe he had won. Let the boy celebrate his coming of age.
And then, when the time was right—
He would break them.

Yasha noticed the look in Khrushchev’s eyes long before the man realized he was being watched. Not jealousy, no—fear. Fear dressed in the ill-fitting mask of smug disapproval. It was almost funny. Almost.
Across the ballroom, where Pyotr laughed with a group of foreign attachés, dressed in a velvet jacket that brought out his eyes and moving with all the grace of a prince born, not made, Yasha saw exactly what Khrushchev saw: a future. A threat.
The days after the gala were quiet, but in the way that the air hangs just before a thunderstorm. A few whispers in the halls of the Kremlin. Requests for reports that should never have reached the First Secretary’s desk. Bureaucratic hands moved subtly, shifting loyal aides out of Moscow, replacing them with men Yasha did not recognize.
He noticed.
And he prepared.
He sent Pyotr on more external missions—short, sharp, controlled. He tightened his own control over the KGB's internal affairs. He reassigned Pyotr’s guards, replacing them with his most trusted veterans. And still, he pretended not to see.
But Khrushchev had overplayed his hand.
Yasha had learned patience from Sokolov. And he knew now, with the cold certainty of a knife’s edge, that this would be a long game.
He would play it well.

Chapter 35: Legacy

Moscow, October 1957 – The Sokolov Estate
The first chill of Russian autumn clung to the windows, leaving delicate lace-like frost on the panes of the Winter Salon. Inside, it was warm. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn, the fire lit with logs that crackled softly in the hearth. In the corner, the old phonograph played Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings, faint and nostalgic, like the memory of a life Yasha pretended had never been his.
Pyotr was sprawled on the bear rug like a cat, one hand absently stroking the thick fur while the other clutched a pencil. His sketchpad was open to a rough concept of the gala invitations—he’d been trying to design a motif that blended the aesthetics of Soviet futurism with the elegance of Old Russia. So far, it was mostly a study in frustration.
Yasha lounged on the nearby chaise, his shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had a report from Berlin in one hand, but his eyes weren’t on the paper.
They were on Pyotr.
“You’re holding the pencil wrong again,” Yasha said without lifting his head.
“I’m holding it how I like,” Pyotr muttered.
“You’ll snap the lead.” Yasha rose, setting his glass of tea on the carved cherrywood side table. He walked over and knelt beside his son, taking the pencil from Pyotr’s fingers with that patient possessiveness he so often wielded.
“Like this,” he corrected, adjusting Pyotr’s grip. “Wrist loose, pressure at the knuckle. You’re not stabbing someone—you’re drawing them in.”
Pyotr huffed but obeyed. Yasha’s hand lingered a second too long.
Outside the frost grew thicker.
“You’re going to outlive me,” Pyotr said suddenly, the words flat, too casual to be careless.
Yasha's brows lifted. “That bothers you?”
Pyotr’s eyes flicked up. “You don’t age. You’re already over forty.”
“And you’ll be seventeen forever, if Zola’s work holds.” Yasha sat back on his heels. “Time’s going to make fools of us both.”
There was no ceremony in the words, no promise. Just inevitability. Just fate.
Pyotr said nothing, but his hand found Yasha’s, not childlike, not hesitant. Just a quiet tether.

Later that night
The laboratory under the estate buzzed with the sterile brightness of white light and glass. Pyotr Sokolov—older, slower now, but sharp as acid—was bent over a centrifuge, watching the final bonding agents integrate. The serum was weeks ahead of schedule. Sputnik had gone up, and the Americans were chasing shadows. The time was right.
Yasha leaned against the doorway, gloved hands behind his back.
“You didn’t call me down,” he said.
“I didn’t need you down,” Sokolov replied, eyes fixed on the vial. “But you came. As always.”
Yasha stepped forward, closer, the heat between them more palpable than the chemical reactions in the machines. “You’re close.”
“I’ve recreated perfection,” Sokolov said, voice distant, reverent. “For your son.”
“Our son,” Yasha said, too quiet to be corrected.
Sokolov looked up, and for once, didn’t argue.
There was history in that glance. The kind that couldn’t be written into files or whispered through KGB halls. It was in the tea set on the far table—the one Stalin had gifted Yasha. It was in the chair Pyotr had sat in while they discussed chess, revolution, and immortality. It was in every bruise Yasha had borne for the cause. Every time he’d knelt willingly.
Sokolov reached out and cupped Yasha’s jaw.
“I’ve given you an heir,” he said. “Now don’t lose him.”
Yasha closed his eyes. “I won’t.”
The serum pulsed in its vial—iridescent, beautiful, deadly.

Moscow, Late October 1957 — The Sokolov Estate
Morning: Discipline
The courtyard was blanketed in rime. Not snow—yet—but the kind of biting cold that made iron sweat frost. Pyotr was barefoot in it. Again.
“Back straight,” Yasha called from the stone steps, a black coat draped over one shoulder. “Blade higher. You’re not gutting pigs.”
Pyotr’s hand trembled just a little as he readjusted the training knife. The cold had seeped into his fingers. His breath came out in thin, angry clouds.
“You’ve trained me since I was twelve,” he muttered. “What’s left to teach?”
Yasha stepped down onto the courtyard stones, boots crunching softly, slow and deliberate. “Discipline is not a skill, Pyotr. It’s a state of being.”
He circled behind him and, with no warning, struck the back of Pyotr’s thigh with a riding crop. Not hard enough to wound—but just enough to sting.
“You flinched.”
“I did not.”
“You thought about flinching. That’s worse.”
“Asshole,” Pyotr said, but without malice.
Yasha only smirked. “Try again.”

Afternoon: Chess and Consolidation
In the grand library, firelight danced across the gold-leaf spines of forbidden books. Sokolov sat in the armchair by the hearth, legs crossed, a tumbler of Armenian brandy in hand. On the low table, a chessboard gleamed with its polished onyx and ivory pieces.
Yasha knelt at his feet, not in submission—never truly in submission—but with the kind of measured obedience that only power could teach.
“He’s moving faster than we anticipated,” Sokolov murmured, sliding a knight forward with one gloved hand. “Khrushchev’s purging the remaining Malenkov loyalists. Even Bulganin will fall soon.”
“Then you should move faster, too,” Yasha said, eyes locked on the board. “Administer the serum before the political winds shift.”
Sokolov studied him. “You’re worried.”
“I’m never worried.” Yasha’s fingers ghosted over a pawn, then slid it forward. “I’m prepared.”
“Mm. Always so American when you’re emotional.”
Yasha smiled faintly. “And you’re always cruel when you’re afraid.”
The game continued in silence—until Pyotr arrived, hair still damp from a bath, face flushed from the cold. He watched the board with the eyes of someone who'd already memorized a thousand possible outcomes.
Sokolov reached for his glass. “Sit, Petya. Learn what it means to outthink men with bigger guns.”

Evening: Father and Son
The house was quiet after dinner. Servants dismissed. The dogs asleep.
Yasha and Pyotr sat on the upper balcony, wrapped in blankets, sipping bitter black tea from china cups painted with Romanov crests long-since outlawed.
Far off, the sky was clear. No clouds. No bombs. Only stars—and a tiny, blinking dot tracing a path across the velvet dark.
“Sputnik?” Pyotr asked.
Yasha nodded.
“You think it matters?”
“It matters to them,” Yasha said. “And that’s enough.”
Pyotr leaned his head on his father’s shoulder. “You and Pyotr Sokolov—are you… lovers?”
Yasha didn’t look away from the sky. “No.”
“Liar.”
Yasha smiled.
There was a long pause. Then—
“Does he love you?”
“He’s incapable.”
“Do you love him?”
Yasha finally turned his head. “That’s the wrong question.”
“What’s the right one?”
“Do I belong to him?”
Pyotr sat up slightly. “Do you?”
Yasha tilted his head, wolfish and cold. “Yes. And one day, so will you.”
Pyotr didn’t flinch. Not this time.
He reached for Yasha’s hand and held it, cold fingers twined in colder ones.

Sokolov Estate — October 20, 1957
The drawing room was dim. The fireplace had burned low, casting long shadows against the pale wallpaper patterned with faded baroque roses. One of the old borzois was stretched out by the hearth, sleeping soundly despite the chill, and the samovar clicked quietly in the background as tea steeped in its belly.
Pyotr sat cross-legged on the velvet settee, dressed in a fine black sweater and wool trousers, not yet aware that tonight would cleave his life into two distinct halves: before the serum, and after.
Sokolov poured tea into delicate porcelain, the matching gold-rimmed set gifted by Stalin himself, and handed Pyotr a cup. Across from them, Yasha stood, arms crossed, leaning against the tall window with one shoulder. His profile was haloed faintly by moonlight.
“You’re both being strange,” Pyotr said. “Stranger than usual.”
Ivan Sokolov took his seat beside Pyotr and laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy and grounding.
“We have something to discuss with you,” he said evenly. “Something important. Something permanent.”
Yasha finally moved from the window, crossing the room with his usual languid grace. He sat in the chair across from them and let the silence hang just long enough to be unnerving.
“You remember Dr. Zola,” Yasha said.
Pyotr’s brow furrowed. “The Swiss pig with the wide face and lizard eyes. Yes.”
Yasha smirked. “His work—the serum—wasn’t lost with the war. I’ve spent the last year overseeing its recreation. With some improvements.”
“Why?” Pyotr asked, narrowing his eyes. “Why now?”
Sokolov’s hand flexed gently against his son’s shoulder. “Because the world is changing, Petya. Faster than anyone expected. Khrushchev is consolidating power. HYDRA stirs beneath the floorboards. And because—most of all—your enemies will not care that you are only seventeen.”
There was a silence. Pyotr sipped his tea, but his hands had stilled.
“You want to give it to me.”
Yasha inclined his head. “Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
Yasha’s voice was calm. “So you will never die.”
That stopped everything. The sound of the samovar faded into background noise. Even the crackle of the hearth seemed distant.
Sokolov looked down at him. “It’s your choice, Pyotr. But you should understand the full weight of that choice.”
Yasha nodded and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’ll explain. All of it.”
He began, slowly, methodically.
“The benefits are considerable. Enhanced speed, strength, reaction time. Your thoughts will move like lightning, your intelligence will outpace even the men we place in power. Your memory will become perfect—eidetic. You’ll never forget another face, another word, another detail. Ever.
“You’ll heal from nearly anything. No infections. No illness. Your cells regenerate so quickly that you’ll stop aging. Physically, you’ll always be seventeen.”
Pyotr blinked once, stunned.
“Your senses will sharpen. You’ll smell things you don’t have words for. Hear lies in people’s breathing. See a needle on the floor in the dark.”
He paused, then added, “You’ll need to eat more. A lot more. Calories are fuel, and your body will be burning hot just to keep you steady.”
“Sounds like I’m becoming a demigod,” Pyotr murmured.
Yasha shook his head, slowly. “No. It sounds like that now. But you’ll learn it’s not so simple.”
He let the silence breathe, then continued, voice softening.
“There are consequences. Most of them... psychological.”
Yasha looked away for the first time. “You’ll never get drunk again. Not really. No drugs will work the way they should—not unless they’re engineered to punch through the serum. You’ll still feel pain, but relief will be harder to come by.”
Pyotr’s expression shifted subtly—something unreadable stirring under his skin.
“The enhanced senses? Overwhelming, at first. Loud noises can cause migraines. Certain lights will make you sick. You’ll hear everything—heartbeats, footsteps, breath. Until you learn to filter it, it’ll feel like drowning in noise.”
“And the memory,” Yasha added, locking eyes with him. “It doesn’t go away. Not ever. Every mistake, every humiliation, every scream. You’ll carry it all. Perfectly preserved.”
A long pause passed.
“Will I lose control of my body?” Pyotr asked carefully.
Yasha gave a thin, nostalgic smile. “The first time I tried to open a door, I tore it clean off. First time I ran, I faceplanted into a brick wall. Broke my nose and a window. Took me months to relearn how to move without destroying everything.”
Sokolov was silent but watchful, his hand still resting on Pyotr’s back like a steady flame.
“Why me?” Pyotr asked softly. “Why not wait until I’m older?”
Sokolov finally answered.
“Because you are already stronger than most men, and already watched by the wrong people. Because Zola’s work won’t remain in our hands forever. Because I would rather you suffer young and survive long than be caught unprepared when the knives come out.”
Yasha stood and crossed the room again, perching beside the hearth. “And because I’ve seen what happens when this world finds something it wants to own.”
There was no ceremony in it. No coercion.
Just truth.
Pyotr sat in silence. Then he asked, “When?”
“Soon,” Yasha said. “But only if you say yes.”
Sokolov looked down at his son. “You are mine, Pyotr. You always will be. But this choice—this one—we give to you.”
And for a long time, Pyotr said nothing.
He simply drank his tea. Slowly. Deliberately. Thinking like a man already immortal.

Chapter 36: Decisions

Sokolov Estate – October 20, 1957, Late Night
The house was still. Long after the fire in the drawing room had died to embers and the samovar’s last clicks had gone silent, Pyotr remained awake. He stood at the tall windows of his bedroom, hands behind his back like he’d seen Yasha do so many times, gazing out at the skeletal trees and frost-glittered lawn.
The room smelled faintly of ink, books, and starched linen. Familiar. Safe.
Too safe.
His breath fogged faintly on the glass. It was getting colder now—October in Moscow pressed against the bones more insistently than autumn ever had in Brooklyn. Even so, he didn’t move to pull the drapes shut or crawl beneath the covers.
He didn’t want sleep. He wanted clarity.
He had not asked for this life.
At fifteen, he’d been skinny, brash, and bitter. Running numbers for men with names he was told never to repeat. Smoking stolen cigarettes under stoops and watching his mother fold herself into exhaustion. His uncle had died young, and no one ever told him how.
Then one day, a man with a Soviet accent and an iron presence had appeared in a polished car and taken him away.
No apologies. No explanations. Only the echo of power and the promise of something greater.
The first year had been violent in its transformation—languages, etiquette, knives, statecraft. He had learned quickly, the way hungry children do. By sixteen, he no longer flinched when enemies bled. By seventeen, he was the one designing their exits.
He touched the windowpane with two fingers.
Would that boy—the one in Brooklyn—recognize himself now?
Would he hate him?
He didn’t think so.
He missed little about America. A few songs, perhaps. The way summer stuck to your skin. The rasp of English in his mother’s voice. But most of all, he missed the illusion that time was something he could waste.
Now, time was currency. One he could soon escape altogether.
He wasn’t afraid of the serum. Not truly.
He was afraid of forgetting what it meant to be small. To lose the fragility that made tenderness meaningful. To outlive the few who had loved him not as a weapon, but as a son.
But he remembered the look in Sokolov’s eyes tonight. The weight of hope, guarded and paternal. And Yasha’s voice—flat, clear, and tinged with old pain.
They hadn’t asked this of him out of vanity or cruelty. They were preparing him for war.
And Pyotr had never been one to turn away from war.

October 21, 1957 – Morning
The scent of butter and black tea greeted him in the dining room.
The light was thin and gray through the tall windows. A light frost had crept up the glass overnight, and servants moved quietly in the background, clearing the edges of the room with discreet efficiency.
Sokolov was already seated, reading Izvestia with a furrowed brow. Yasha stood by the sideboard, black-gloved hands steady as he sliced into a blood-orange.
Neither looked up as Pyotr entered.
He took his seat without speaking.
Let the moment stretch.
Let it matter.
Finally, he said simply, “I’ll do it.”
Sokolov’s newspaper did not rustle. But his head bowed slightly.
Yasha placed the fruit onto a porcelain dish, turned, and met Pyotr’s gaze.
“You’re certain.”
“Yes,” Pyotr said. “I want to live. I want to fight. I want to remember.”
Yasha stared at him a moment longer—assessing, searching—then nodded once.
“Then we begin preparations today.”
Pyotr looked down at the plate before him. Soft cheese. Dark bread. Honey.
He spread the honey slowly, watching it pool and glisten.
Sokolov finally folded the paper and reached for his tea. “We will keep you home for two weeks after the injection. Your body will need time to adjust.”
“And after that?” Pyotr asked, taking a bite.
Sokolov’s eyes glinted. “After that, you become the future.”
Yasha sat, poured himself tea, and smiled faintly. “And you’ll be hungry. Constantly.”
Pyotr smiled too—sharp and new.
“I already am.”

Moscow – October 24, 1957 – Evening
The jazz was American, stolen off a black-market record and piped through Sokolov’s estate speakers with deliberate arrogance. Horns and brushed drums echoed off the oak-paneled walls of the drawing room. Pyotr sat sprawled across the velvet chaise like a prince who had never known poverty, a bottle of Armenian brandy in one hand and a cigarette curling in the other.
He’d already gone through three glasses and was working on a fourth, the warmth now dancing behind his eyes in a way he was learning to savor.
Yasha sat nearby in a wingback, legs crossed, gloved fingers nursing a glass he hadn’t touched.
“You’re watching me,” Pyotr said without looking.
“I’m memorizing,” Yasha replied, voice smooth as the brandy. “You’ll never look drunk again.”
Pyotr snorted and took another drink. “You say that like it’s a tragedy.”
“It is, a little.”
He looked over, amused. “Did you miss it? The burn? The haze?”
“I miss the way it used to slow the world down.” Yasha’s gaze was distant now, haunted by a memory not entirely unwelcome. “After the serum, everything stays sharp. There’s no blur. No mercy.”
Pyotr leaned back, head tilting toward the ceiling. “Then tonight, I want to forget everything. I want to be blurry.”

Moscow Underground Club – Late Night
It was hidden behind a café, through a cellar door and past a doorman who recognized Pyotr on sight. There was no password—just presence.
Smoke rolled through the dim space like fog. Colored lights flickered from behind silk screens. The crowd was tight, and the bassline heavier than anything Pyotr had ever heard on sanctioned radio.
He didn’t wear his usual tailored suit tonight—just black slacks and an open shirt, collarbone exposed, his hair messily perfect. People parted for him like instinct.
He danced until his legs ached and his lungs burned. Let them see him sweat. Let them see him alive.
Someone passed him a pill between fingers painted gold. Pyotr didn’t ask what it was. He crushed it with his teeth and chased it with vodka, grinning as his heartbeat stuttered and then soared.
A boy kissed him in the shadows, too roughly, and Pyotr let it happen. For one moment, he was no one’s weapon. No one’s legacy. Just flesh and fire and sound.

Sokolov Estate – The Next Morning
He was barefoot in the snow.
The first flurries had fallen while he slept, and now they clung to the earth like lace. Pyotr stood outside in just a thin linen shirt, his breath catching on the cold air.
He felt… hollowed. Purged. His veins still hummed, but the clarity was beginning to return, cruel and inevitable.
The door creaked open behind him.
Sokolov stepped out, already in his wool overcoat, unbothered by the chill.
“You’ll catch cold,” he said.
“No,” Pyotr replied softly. “I won’t. Not after this week.”
Sokolov came to stand beside him. For a moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Pyotr said, “I don’t regret it.”
“The club? The boy?”
“All of it.” He turned toward the older man, eyes still glassy from exhaustion and whatever had lingered in his system. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to be breakable.”
Sokolov reached out, brushing a lock of hair back from Pyotr’s forehead with an almost paternal gesture.
“You always will. It just won’t hurt as much.”
Pyotr smiled faintly, then leaned into him, resting his head against the older man’s shoulder.
“One more night,” he said.
“One more,” Sokolov agreed.

Moscow – October 25, 1957 – The Night Before
The estate was silent except for the wind scratching against the high windows. Most of the staff had retired. Even Sokolov, always composed and punctual, had gone to bed early, perhaps to avoid what this night might bring.
Yasha stood by the fireplace in Pyotr’s room, a mug of tea cooling in his hand. He wore a sweater tonight, not a suit—just wool, worn and soft at the edges. It made him look younger. Or maybe just more tired.
Pyotr sat cross-legged on his bed in pajamas far too elegant for someone barely seventeen. His hair was still damp from a bath, curling slightly at the edges. He was quiet, unusually so, and he hadn’t picked up the book he usually read before sleep.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Yasha said, his voice a near whisper.
Pyotr didn’t smile. “It’s not fear.”
“I know.”
“It’s… mourning, I think.”
Yasha came to sit beside him, slow, deliberate. He didn’t touch him. Just sat with him, looking into the fire.
“When you took me,” Pyotr began, not accusing—just stating, “I thought I’d die before I ever saw seventeen.”
Yasha’s hands tightened around the mug. “I know.”
“But I didn’t. I lived. And I changed.” Pyotr turned to him. “Because of you.”
Yasha still didn’t look at him. “I never meant to—”
“Don’t lie.” Pyotr’s voice was gentle. “You meant to take me. And you meant to make me like you.”
Yasha finally looked at him. There was no coldness in his eyes. Just a devastating weight of memory.
“I didn’t know who I’d be when I took you,” Yasha said. “I only knew I couldn’t let them have you. Not them. Not the world that used me like a blade.”
“I’m not sorry,” Pyotr said quietly. “Not about who I am now. Not about you.”
Yasha’s breath hitched. His hand came up, hesitant, before resting over Pyotr’s, thumb brushing his knuckles.
“You’ll never age,” Yasha murmured. “Never forget. Your body will become a weapon even when you don’t want it to be. You’ll never taste alcohol again. Or get high. Or get sick. Or sleep soundly without hearing every heartbeat in the house.”
“I know.” Pyotr leaned his head on Yasha’s shoulder. “But I’ll be yours.”
Yasha turned to kiss his temple, gentle and reverent. “You already are, solnyshko. You always were.”
They sat like that until the fire turned to embers, and then, silently, they climbed into the same bed. Yasha curled around him like armor.
No orders. No masks. Just father and son, preparing for the death of what had been and the rebirth of what would come.

Moscow – October 26, 1957 – Morning
The laboratory beneath the estate was sterile and softly lit. Not clinical like a hospital, nor cold like a government bunker. This was Sokolov’s domain—science wrapped in comfort, precision veiled in velvet.
Pyotr lay on the padded table, shirtless, veins prepped, eyes steady. He had not flinched when they drew his blood, nor when they placed the restraints—not to hold him down, but to protect him from himself when the serum took hold.
Sokolov stood by with a clipboard and narrowed eyes, brow furrowed in intense concentration.
Yasha held Pyotr’s hand, fingers interlaced. His gloves were gone.
“Last chance,” Sokolov said quietly.
Pyotr looked up at them both. “I’m ready.”
The syringe was glass and steel, filled with a glowing blue liquid that shimmered like ice beneath a microscope. Zola’s formula—improved, perfected, and once again unethically wielded.
Sokolov injected it into the mainline in Pyotr’s arm.
There was a beat.
Then fire.
Pyotr arched violently off the table as every nerve in his body caught flame. A scream tore from his throat before he clenched his jaw hard enough to chip enamel. His eyes rolled back, fingers spasming against Yasha’s grip.
Yasha didn’t flinch. He leaned close, whispering in Russian, then English, then Russian again—nonsense syllables, old lullabies, memories in disguise.
Sweat poured from Pyotr’s body. His pulse surged and then slowed. His spine bowed as bones realigned, muscles tore and reknitted, the serum threading through marrow and memory alike.
And then—silence.
His body fell limp.
Sokolov stepped in, checking vitals, watching for neural signs. After two long minutes, Pyotr’s eyes snapped open—clear, inhumanly bright, unblinking.
“I remember everything,” he whispered hoarsely.
Yasha smiled, but there was grief behind it. “I know.”

Moscow – Late October to Early November, 1957
The first night after the injection, Pyotr couldn’t sleep.
Every heartbeat in the house echoed like drums against the walls of his skull. The flickering of a gas lamp in the hall was a thunderclap. He heard the wires humming inside the walls—tiny, static whispers like conspirators sharing secrets in a language just beyond his comprehension.
He threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.
Yasha was already there, seated in a shadowed corner, still as a gargoyle. He hadn’t left the room since the injection.
“Can't sleep?” Yasha asked, voice soft.
“I can’t think,” Pyotr hissed. “I can’t shut anything off. The curtains are breathing, the floorboards are moaning, and your heartbeat is so loud I feel like I'm inside your chest.”
Yasha approached, slow and deliberate, and knelt in front of him.
“You’re hearing things you never noticed before,” he said gently. “That doesn’t mean they weren’t always there. It just means your brain doesn’t know how to ignore them yet.”
Pyotr clutched his head. “Then make it stop.”
“I can’t,” Yasha said. “But I can show you how to make it quieter.”
He guided Pyotr through breathing exercises—not to relax, but to control, to measure, to occupy the mind with one sound so the rest would retreat. At first it didn’t work. But by dawn, Pyotr could isolate the rhythm of his own pulse. A victory. Small, but real.

Day 3 – The Shattered Glass
Breakfast was a disaster.
Pyotr, distracted by the new sharpness in his vision, crushed the edge of a silver spoon in his hand. The bowl shattered next. Then the water glass, crushed by an innocent attempt to grab it.
Ivan muttered something about “recalibration,” but Pyotr wasn’t listening. He was staring at his hand, uninjured despite the shards, and trembling.
Yasha said nothing. He calmly reached across the table, opened Pyotr’s fist, and began to pluck the glass from his palm. There was no blood. The serum had already repaired the micro-tears.
“You’re afraid of yourself,” Yasha said. “That’s good.”
Pyotr didn’t look up. “Why?”
“Because people who aren't afraid of their strength become monsters.”

Day 5 – The Hunger
He ate six full meals in twenty-four hours.
The cravings came in waves—deep, bone-gnawing hunger that felt like starvation even minutes after eating. Sokolov monitored it clinically, remarking on metabolic shifts and caloric compensation. Yasha, on the other hand, simply made sure the pantry stayed full.
They ate together, usually in silence. Pyotr never realized how much Yasha consumed until now—how every bite was calculated to sustain, not indulge. How many eggs he went through in a day. How often he downed a protein-rich broth while reading intelligence reports.
It became their unspoken ritual: eat together, train together, recover together.
By the end of the week, Pyotr no longer felt shame for needing four steaks in a sitting.

Day 9 – The Memory Test
It started with a simple question from Sokolov.
“What was your favorite book when you were eight?”
Pyotr answered without thinking. The Phantom Tollbooth. He hadn’t read it in years.
And then he remembered—not just the title, but the smell of the book, the warmth of his mother’s arms, the precise angle of sunlight through the kitchen window on the day he first opened it.
He choked on the memory. Not because it was painful—but because it was whole. Untouched. Unfaded.
Every memory he had ever made since childhood was now a living thing. None of them would ever die.
That night, Yasha found him curled on the library floor, clutching a photograph of his mother.
“You’ll learn to choose which memories to keep near,” Yasha said softly, kneeling beside him.
“I didn’t choose this,” Pyotr said, voice cracking.
“No,” Yasha agreed. “But you chose me. And I’ll help you carry them.”

Day 14 – Balance
They ran in the snow. No guards. No distractions.
Yasha took off first—silent, powerful, agile. Pyotr followed, trying to match pace, but his feet dug too deep. His momentum became dangerous. He overcorrected and tumbled forward into the snow, flipping end over end like a ragdoll.
He landed flat on his back, blinking up at the gray sky.
Yasha was there in a heartbeat, standing over him with a crooked grin.
“I told you it would happen.”
“You said I’d eat shit, not throw myself into the stratosphere.”
Yasha chuckled. “You’ll learn. Your body is faster than your instincts right now. You’ll catch up.”
Pyotr laid there, laughing softly in spite of the bruises. Then—unexpectedly—he whispered, “Thank you.”
Yasha tilted his head. “For what?”
“For not letting me die in Brooklyn.”
Yasha knelt beside him, brushing snow from his cheek. “You didn’t die. You became.”

Chapter 37: Adapting

Moscow – November 28, 1957
The Winter Palace of the People, Yasha’s POV
The chandeliers above dripped light like stalactites—delicate, glinting, deceptive. Nothing about the grandeur of the People's Hall was meant to be subtle. Even the air had the weight of propaganda, perfumed with iron and roses, veiling the stench of blood that clung to the foundation.
Yasha stood by the window, gloved hands clasped behind his back, watching snow scatter like broken glass across the floodlit courtyard. Inside, the elite of Moscow drank and laughed and postured beneath Khrushchev’s artificial warmth.
The General Secretary stood at the center of it all, shorter than most but louder than all. He laughed like a bear in spring, brutish and bloated with his own triumph. With Malenkov exiled and Molotov disgraced, there was no one left to temper his arrogance. The lion had eaten the pack.
Yasha resisted the urge to spit.
Beside him, Sokolov moved with wineglass in hand, exchanging soft pleasantries with a passing defense attaché. Always courteous. Always forgettable. He wore his mask better than most. But Yasha could see the tightness in his jaw—he knew Khrushchev’s leash would grow shorter with every toast made in his honor.
Then came the sound that made the hairs rise on Yasha’s neck: Pyotr’s laugh.
He turned, watching the boy—no, the young man—work the room with that impossible grace. Dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit, tailored to conceal the lean bulk that had emerged since the serum. His hair was parted in the European style. A smile ghosted his lips as he poured the right blend of feigned innocence and intelligence into each conversation.
No one noticed the way his pupils dilated as he monitored each speaker’s pulse. No one caught the flash of microtremors when he adjusted to the pitch of a dozen simultaneous voices. No one realized that Pyotr, at seventeen, could read a room faster than a KGB surveillance team.
That was the miracle they’d made in silence.
Yasha felt the tug of pride pull at the hollows in his chest. Then came the usual tide of dread.
“I see the boy's made quite the impression,” Sokolov murmured, joining him at the window.
“He always does,” Yasha replied, eyes not leaving Pyotr.
“You worry too much.”
“I don’t worry. I plan.”
Sokolov smiled dryly. “Then perhaps you should plan how we’re going to keep Khrushchev’s eyes elsewhere.”
Across the ballroom, Khrushchev turned his head—drawn not to Pyotr, but to Yasha.
Their eyes met.
It was a slow blink Khrushchev gave him, the kind reserved for favored dogs and sharpened knives. A smirk touched his porcine lips. He raised a glass in salute, then turned back to his circle of generals.
Yasha exhaled through his nose.
“He knows we’re strong,” he said.
“He doesn't know how strong,” Sokolov replied. “And if we’re careful, he never will.”
They both knew better. Khrushchev trusted nothing he didn’t own, and Yasha had never belonged to anyone.

The music swelled again, a full orchestra now, and Pyotr crossed the room with the calculated ease of a predator dressed as a prince. He stopped in front of them, a glass of sparkling cider in hand—no alcohol. That door had closed.
“General Secretary wants to toast with the youth,” Pyotr said coolly. “Some performance about ‘the future of Soviet vitality.’ He’s summoned me to stand beside him.”
Sokolov’s lips thinned.
Yasha studied Pyotr’s face. The boy’s eyes were steady, heartbeat unchanged. He wasn’t nervous. He was annoyed.
“Let him talk,” Yasha said. “Just smile and nod. That’s all he really wants—his voice echoing off the skin of brighter men.”
Pyotr chuckled. “It’s so strange… being stronger, faster, clearer. And still having to play small.”
“Strength is knowing when not to show your claws,” Yasha said.
Pyotr looked at him, then added softly, “And when to remember who sharpened them.”
He turned, leaving them with his words.
Sokolov looked at Yasha. “You realize he’s more like you every day.”
“No,” Yasha said, as he watched Pyotr ascend the steps beside Khrushchev, taking his place with ease. “He’ll be better.”

February 1958
Moscow – The Lubyanka, Interior Courtyard
Snow clung to the bricks like dried bone against rust. The Lubyanka—old, familiar, ever-hungry—loomed around Yasha with its usual sickening stillness. He had stood in this courtyard many times, but today it felt tighter. Hungrier.
From the upper windows, shadows passed. Junior agents. Auditors. The new wave of men Khrushchev trusted more than the old guard.
They were reorganizing everything.
The NKVD was long gone. Now even the MGB was ashes. The Committee for State Security—the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti—had officially been born in March of the previous year, but now, in 1958, it was being fed. Purged. Strengthened. Rewritten.
Yasha felt the weight of eyes on his back and didn’t flinch.
Ivan Sokolov stood beside him in his long wool coat, breath ghosting like a dragon’s sigh.
“They want a demonstration,” Sokolov said, his voice low, sharp as ice cracking underfoot. “A performance. Something clean. Something public.”
Yasha’s eyes narrowed.
“A message?”
Sokolov nodded.
Yasha didn’t ask what kind. He already knew. This was about loyalty—his loyalty. They wanted blood. Preferably from someone with a familiar face.
Someone who would remind Moscow that even the past could bleed.

Later That Week
An undisclosed airfield outside Kursk
The snowstorm came on like judgment, all sound devoured by white. The plane had landed nearly an hour ago, but no one had yet disembarked.
Yasha waited alone at the edge of the tarmac, scarf pulled low over his face. Inside his coat, his fingers curled and uncurled. Not from cold.
From memory.
The man who stepped out of the plane wore his age like armor. His once-broad shoulders had rounded slightly, but the way he moved made Yasha’s stomach knot. It was the walk of a man who had never feared death.
Dum Dum Dugan.
One of the last of them.
His hat was Soviet now—given in surrender during one of those Cold War peace-plays that meant nothing. But Yasha saw the flicker of recognition. Saw the betrayal bloom in his old comrade’s eyes.
“…Bucky?” Dugan asked, stunned.
Yasha said nothing.
“Jesus Christ,” the older man muttered. “They told me it wasn’t true. They said you were dead.”
“I was,” Yasha said quietly, stepping forward.
The gunshot was muffled by the storm.
Dugan collapsed to his knees in the snow, eyes wide, mouth working like he still had something to say.
Yasha knelt with him.
“I told them no one would believe I’d do it,” Yasha whispered in English. “But you knew me well enough. You’d come anyway.”
Dugan reached for him—and then stilled.
Yasha stayed there a moment longer, forehead pressed to the fallen man’s.
Then rose.

Two Days Later
Lubyanka, KGB Strategic Briefing Room
“…has proven absolute loyalty,” said a man in a gray suit. “Even in the face of his past.”
They all looked at Yasha.
Khrushchev himself was not present, but his voice echoed in the mouths of the men he placed here. Dreykov included.
Sokolov sat beside Yasha. Silent. Still.
“Comrade Yasha will remain Head of the Foreign Directorate,” the Chairman said. “Effective immediately. All assets are to be redirected through him.”
There were no handshakes. Just nods. Silent acknowledgments of usefulness.
As the others filtered out, Dreykov lingered.
“I’ve seen the boy,” he said. “Pyotr. Sharp little thing. Too sharp.”
Yasha looked at him with a smile that never touched his eyes.
“You’ll never get close enough to cut him.”
Dreykov’s smile was greasy, unbothered. “Not now. But someday, perhaps.”
Yasha didn’t answer. He simply waited until Dreykov left.
Only once the door shut did he speak to Sokolov.
“From now on,” Yasha murmured, “we keep Pyotr’s name off the books.”
“Completely?”
Yasha nodded. “If anyone asks, he doesn’t exist. He’s just my shadow.”

Chapter 38: The Red Room

October 1958
Moscow – KGB Directorate Headquarters, Below Ground
The room was sterile and far too quiet for what it was meant to contain. Ten girls sat in two lines—small, serious things in threadbare uniforms and polished boots, their backs straight and eyes forward like good little machines.
None of them were older than ten.
Yasha stood behind the one-way glass, arms folded, jaw set. His posture screamed neutrality. But his fingers twitched against the cuff of his coat.
Beside him, Dreykov spoke like he was admiring architecture.
“We’ve pulled from orphanages across the Baltics. Some war refugees. Some simply… unclaimed.” He smiled faintly. “The best minds break young, don’t they?”
Yasha didn’t respond.
“The Chinese have begun similar efforts,” Dreykov went on, as if to justify it. “The Americans are centuries behind. You know this. The future belongs to those who mold it first.”
Yasha’s voice was quiet. “Children are not clay.”
Dreykov snorted. “Children are nothing but clay, Comrade. Look at you.”
Yasha turned sharply. “I chose this.”
Dreykov raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”
There it was again. That oily suspicion. The one that curled around Dreykov’s gaze every time Pyotr’s name was mentioned in passing. The way he seemed to weigh Yasha’s silence and interpret it as permission, or arrogance, or guilt.
But Dreykov wasn’t stupid. He was simply vile.
“I want the Red Room under the Foreign Directorate,” Yasha said flatly. “You answer to me.”
Dreykov laughed aloud. “Is that your condition?”
“It’s not a condition,” Yasha said. “It’s the only way this doesn’t become a graveyard.”

A Week Later
Sokolov Estate – Private Training Hall
Pyotr ducked a jab, pivoted, swept the girl’s legs out from under her, and caught her wrist before her head hit the mat. She blinked up at him, winded and scowling.
He smiled and offered her a hand.
She slapped it away and stood up on her own.
“Again,” she said in Russian. Her accent was tight. Kazakh, maybe. She was barely eight.
Pyotr exhaled, dragging a towel across his neck. “You’re going to break your arm next time if you don’t rotate the elbow.”
“You didn’t break your arm.”
“That’s because I’m not normal.”
She stared at him. “Is it true you killed a man with a spoon?”
Pyotr laughed. “No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “But could you?”
“…Yes.”
The girl gave a satisfied nod and returned to her stance.
Yasha watched from the upper balcony. His arms were crossed. He hadn’t stepped onto the mat once, not since Pyotr had begun running the girls through drills two days earlier.
“You hate this,” Pyotr had said to him the night before, sprawled on the couch with a vodka bottle he couldn’t actually feel anymore.
“I hate a lot of things,” Yasha had replied. “That doesn’t mean they stop existing.”
“You could say no.”
“And Khrushchev could put me in the ground and replace me with Dreykov.”
Pyotr had gone quiet after that.
Now, in the cool expanse of the hall, Pyotr moved between the girls like a blade being drawn. He never lost his temper. Never raised his voice. But Yasha could see the edges of something unraveling—some rope being frayed down to the last fiber.
He had told himself he could control this.
That by bringing it under his Directorate, he could stop the worst of it.
That was a lie.
The worst was inevitable.

Later That Night
Kitchen – Sokolov Estate
The tea kettle hissed.
Yasha leaned on the counter while Pyotr sat at the table with an untouched bowl of stew.
“They’re going to turn out just like me,” Pyotr muttered.
Yasha said nothing.
“They’ll forget what they were before. They’ll live in rooms with no windows and wait for orders. They’ll be praised when they don’t cry and punished when they do.”
“They’ll live,” Yasha said finally. “You’ll teach them how.”
Pyotr looked up. “That’s not enough.”
Yasha poured the tea. “It has to be.”

October 1958
Red Room – Underground Facility
Pyotr moved through the darkened halls, the faint hum of machinery and the soft scuff of his boots the only sounds in the sterile building. His enhanced senses made the faintest noise seem as loud as thunder, the flickering fluorescent lights buzzing in his ears. He hadn’t gotten used to it, not yet. But every time he thought he might snap, Yasha’s voice would echo in his mind.
Control it.
The girls were waiting in the training rooms, sparring with each other in pairs. No one was talking, no one was laughing. They moved with a precision that was unnatural for their age. The Red Room worked quickly, shaping them into soldiers, but there was an unease in the air. A simmering anger that came from being shaped into something they weren’t allowed to be.
The worst part? Pyotr felt that same anger growing inside him.
He walked past one of the training rooms, where the girls practiced unarmed combat. Dreykov stood by the doorway, observing with his cold eyes.
Pyotr paused for a moment, staring through the glass. One of the girls was pinned to the floor, but she didn't flinch. No fear. She looked up at Dreykov with an expression that might have been admiration. Or was it fear, too?
He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about it.
“Pyotr,” Dreykov’s voice cut through the moment.
Pyotr turned, eyes narrowing, already on guard. “What do you want?”
“I’ve seen you training them,” Dreykov said, his voice full of something colder than disdain—suspicion. “I thought the KGB was supposed to teach them to fight. Not the grandson of one of the most famous soldiers of the Second World War.”
Pyotr didn’t flinch at the jab. He had heard worse. He simply said, “I’ve been trained in things you don’t even understand.”
“Hmm,” Dreykov mused. “Maybe. But I’ve been watching you. You move differently. Faster. Stronger than any of them.”
Pyotr didn’t respond. He knew where this was going. Dreykov’s eyes narrowed, lips curling into a smile that made Pyotr’s skin crawl.
“I’ll be watching you closely, Pyotr,” Dreykov added with deliberate emphasis. “Khrushchev wouldn’t like it if I had to report something… inconvenient.”
Pyotr’s fists clenched, but he held his tongue. He couldn’t risk anything getting back to Yasha, especially not now. Yasha hadn’t said it outright, but Pyotr knew. Dreykov suspected. And soon, so would Khrushchev.

November 1958
Yasha’s Office – KGB Headquarters
Yasha sat behind his desk, the faintest line of exhaustion cutting through his normally implacable expression. Dreykov had been making quiet reports, implying his suspicions about Pyotr. But it wasn’t Dreykov that worried Yasha. It was Khrushchev.
The door opened, and Sokolov stepped inside, looking like the sharp, poised man he always was. But even he couldn’t hide the unease in his eyes.
“Is it true?” Sokolov asked. “Does Dreykov suspect?”
“Not yet,” Yasha answered, his voice flat, betraying no emotion. “But he will soon.”
Sokolov’s eyes flicked toward the door. “He’s making his moves. Khrushchev is aware of the Red Room’s progress, and he wants results. We both know what happens when he doesn’t get them.”
Yasha’s lips tightened. “I’ll handle it.”
“You’re too close to him. And I don’t just mean Pyotr. You’re too attached to this project, Yasha. It’ll destroy you if you don’t—”
“Don’t lecture me, Pyotr is mine,” Yasha snapped, standing up. “I’ve made sure of it.”
Sokolov didn’t flinch at the rebuke. Instead, he simply nodded, as if understanding something deeper than just the words.
“Just remember,” Sokolov said quietly, “You’ve made deals with men far more dangerous than you. Khrushchev, Dreykov… they will take whatever they can from you.”
Yasha stared at him for a moment before turning his gaze to the window, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a lone figure outside in the distance, walking toward the training halls. Pyotr.
“We won’t let them take him,” Yasha muttered. “Not now.”

January 1959
Red Room – Training Room
The winter was colder this year, and the training hall felt even colder than usual. Pyotr was fighting with one of the older girls, teaching her the moves he’d learned, moves that felt wrong now that he was something more than human. Every time he hit her, something inside him winced. Every time he won, every time he beat her to the ground, the feeling was a little more hollow.
"You're holding back," the girl said, barely able to breathe between the moves. "Why?"
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Pyotr said quietly, before stepping back, his mind racing. He was doing it again—he was human. He had to be.
But she wasn’t human. Not anymore.
He'd almost wished he hadn't agreed to the serum.
But then, a sharp voice cut through his thoughts. Dreykov stood at the edge of the training hall, eyes cold and calculating. "What’s wrong with you, Pyotr? You’ve become soft. You’re not supposed to teach them to feel. You’re supposed to teach them to kill."
Pyotr’s jaw clenched. “They’re not tools, Dreykov. You can’t teach them to fight without teaching them to live first.”
Dreykov’s lips curled into a smirk. “You think they’ll thank you for it? No, they’ll hate you for it. Just like you hate yourself. Just like everyone here does.”

Chapter 39: The Exhibition

July 1959
American Exhibition – Moscow
The building buzzed with the activity of diplomats, businessmen, and Soviet officials. Yasha stood off to the side, observing the crowd with a controlled gaze. Khrushchev had invited the world to this moment—to display Soviet ingenuity. The people in the building thought they were seeing the future, but Yasha knew better.
The Americans were here, as naive as ever. Howard Stark, mingling with the crowd like he always did, a man more concerned with showing off than looking too deeply at the mess he had helped make. But it was Zola who caught Yasha's attention.
Zola stood near Stark, watching the proceedings with a detached smirk on his face. But when Zola’s eyes turned toward Yasha, they lingered for a moment too long. The same suspicion that Dreykov had shown, but with more knowledge behind it.
Yasha forced himself to smile as he approached, careful not to let Zola sense his tension. "Arnim," Yasha greeted him with a tight, polite nod.
“Yasha,” Zola replied. “I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you’d be too busy with the Red Room.”
Yasha’s smile didn’t falter. "Even I need a moment of rest."
“I’ve heard things,” Zola said, his voice lowering slightly. "About the new recruits. You must be very proud."
“I do what I must,” Yasha replied, his gaze flicking to where Pyotr stood, talking with an American delegate, eyes scanning the room with unsettling precision.
The conversation turned, the moment passing, but Yasha knew the next time Zola came around, the tension would be thicker. Every conversation felt like a tug-of-war. One misstep could expose everything.

Howard Stark had never liked being in Soviet territory. Everything was too clean, too quiet, too controlled. The air buzzed with politeness and subtle menace—painted smiles hiding sharp edges. But the American government wanted him here, and Howard Stark didn’t say no when the President called.
He stood at the edge of a crowd of diplomats, swirling amber bourbon in a crystal glass, pretending to listen to a dull conversation about agricultural exports. His eyes scanned the room instead. Russians in ironed uniforms. Americans in stiff suits. And somewhere between them, the past.
There he was.
Yasha.
Or what was left of him.
He looked like a statue sculpted from frost and steel—tall, impassive, frighteningly beautiful. The crisp red-trimmed military dress uniform suited him perfectly, medals gleaming, every line of his posture a calculated show of dominance. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. But if you knew what to look for—and Howard did—you could just barely see it: the glint of metal at his throat, a subtle collar concealed beneath the ceremonial layers. Shined like jewelry. Not military-issue.
Howard’s throat tightened.
James, he thought. What the hell did they do to you?
Yasha’s eyes caught his across the room. For a fraction of a second, Howard expected something—recognition, maybe. Warmth. A flicker of memory.
Nothing.
Just that cold, even stare. Like looking into the eye of a storm that no longer remembered what the sun felt like.
“Mr. Stark,” came a smooth voice to his right.
Howard turned. A younger man—maybe seventeen or eighteen—extended a hand, expression cool but polite. “Pyotr Sokolov. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Sokolov.
The boy had Yasha’s bone structure. Those arctic eyes. Something in the way he moved felt... off. Too graceful. Too sure. Not just trained—engineered.
Howard shook his hand. Firm grip. Skin too smooth, too cold. “Pleasure’s mine,” he said automatically, glancing toward Yasha again, who now stood just behind the boy, unreadable as a statue of Lenin.
And suddenly, a memory clicked.
Edward Barnes. Eddie. James’ nephew. Vanished five years ago—1954. Howard remembered Peggy mentioning it in passing, grief in her voice. He’d tried to look into it at the time, quietly, but the trail had gone cold. The kid had simply disappeared.
And now this boy stood before him. A Russian surname. Fluent accent. But that face...
Howard’s eyes narrowed as he smiled, voice casual. “You’re Sokolov’s...?”
“Ward,” Pyotr answered smoothly. “And his protégé.”
“Looks like you’re doing well for yourself,” Howard replied, masking his unease. “You two even look alike.”
Pyotr tilted his head slightly, then smiled, just faintly. “Do we?”
Before Howard could dig further, Yasha stepped forward. “Howard,” he said. The voice was deeper, older, with a Russian lilt now. “It’s been a long time.”
Howard searched the face of his old friend—no, not a friend, not anymore—and said, carefully, “Too long.”
“I assume Peggy isn’t attending,” Yasha said. Not a question. A statement.
“No,” Howard said, eyes sharp. “She sends her regards.”
Something flickered in Yasha’s expression—perhaps irritation, perhaps memory—but it was gone too quickly to name.
Howard hesitated, then said, voice lowered, “Dum Dum Dugan passed. Six months ago. Liver finally gave out.”
Yasha didn’t flinch.
Not a blink. Not a breath.
Howard felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“I thought you’d want to know,” he added. “You and Dugan were close.”
“Once,” Yasha said. “That was another life.”
Pyotr looked between them, silent.
Howard nodded slowly. “So it seems.”
He took another sip of bourbon, though it didn’t sit right anymore. Not in this room. Not with those eyes watching him. “Take care of yourself, Yasha,” he said finally.
Yasha inclined his head. “You as well, Mr. Stark.”
Howard turned, walking away without another word, but his mind was already racing. That wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes. That wasn’t the boy who used to steal Steve’s cigarettes and flirt with nurses in the med tents. That wasn’t the man who held the Howling Commandos together with blood and laughter.
That was a ghost.
And if his hunch was right—if Pyotr was who he suspected—then there was something darker going on here than even he had imagined.
He needed to tell Peggy.

Late July 1959
London – Peggy Carter’s POV
Peggy read the telegram twice, then folded it shut with military precision. The words were spare, but Howard’s coded additions between the lines told her everything.
"Exhibition went smoothly. Saw our ghost. Still cold. Boy looks like family."
She sat in silence for a long while at her desk, the noise of the SHIELD outpost muffled behind the closed door. She stared at the old, worn photo she kept in a drawer—James Barnes standing between Steve and Dugan, all teeth and swagger. Eddie was just a boy back then.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the photo.
Eddie Barnes had vanished in 1954. No ransom, no clues. Peggy had always suspected foul play, but HYDRA’s activity had been too diffuse then, too hidden. And James—Yasha—had already become an urban legend whispered through Soviet intelligence channels. Every attempt to trace him had led to cold leads, frozen corpses, and silence.
Now Howard confirmed it. He saw the boy. The same bone structure. The same eyes. Not just similar—identical, she bet. And if Howard had noticed, there was no doubt others would start to.
Yasha hadn’t just vanished.
He had taken his nephew.
Peggy stood, the photo still in hand, staring out over rainy London rooftops. It wasn’t grief that settled in her chest, not this time.
It was dread.

Moscow – Sokolov Estate, the Drawing Room
Yasha’s POV
Yasha sat beneath the chandelier, the flickering firelight painting long shadows against the bookshelves. His gloves were off, hands steepled under his chin. Beside him, Pyotr sat stiffly, freshly shaven and still red-eyed from drills. Across from them, Sokolov reclined in his armchair, swirling tea instead of vodka.
“Howard Stark suspects,” Yasha said flatly. “He saw you and recognized the resemblance. He mentioned Edward Barnes. Deliberately.”
Sokolov did not flinch. “Howard’s a brilliant man. He’s also an American. Their bureaucracy moves like molasses. He’ll report to Carter—no doubt—but SHIELD has no jurisdiction here.”
Pyotr looked between them. “So what do we do?”
Yasha’s eyes didn’t leave the fire. “We do what Russians have always done. We watch.”
“There’s no action?” Pyotr asked. He sounded disappointed. Or was it fear?
“Not yet,” Sokolov said. “To act now would confirm what they only suspect. The boy is a shadow. Keep him in shadow.”
Pyotr leaned back, arms crossed. “And when Dreykov figures it out?”
“Then we deal with Dreykov.” Yasha’s voice was cool steel. “One enemy at a time.”
Silence settled between them for a long moment.
Pyotr broke it. “They think I’m a weapon. But I’m not.”
“No,” Yasha said, finally looking at him. “You’re mine.”
Sokolov smiled faintly, warm despite the chill in the room. “And that makes you more dangerous than any weapon.”
Outside the windows, Moscow was painted in moonlight and suspicion. They were watched. Always watched. But Yasha had lived in shadows for years.
Let them watch.
The Americans across the ocean. Dreykov within their borders. Khrushchev in his palace of concrete and fear.
Let them all watch.
Yasha would burn the world before he let them take Pyotr again.
And if it came to war—open or cold—he already knew how to win.

Chapter 40: Back To America

September 1959
New York City – Yasha’s POV
The tarmac shimmered beneath the late summer sun, and the moment Yasha stepped off the Soviet aircraft, he felt it like a punch to the gut.
America.
The air even smelled the same—diesel and sea-salt and smog.
He didn’t flinch, not visibly. He’d spent a decade mastering the art of not reacting. But inside, his body screamed at the familiarity. Every breath was a memory. Every echo of English made the scars under his uniform itch.
Behind him, Pyotr followed in lockstep, military precision embodied. He looked sharp in the KGB’s dark uniform, a polished badge gleaming over his breast. They had tailored his coat to draw the eye away from his youth, but the Americans would see it. They’d see him.
Let them, Yasha thought.
The motorcade arrived, black cars with chrome teeth. An escort of American soldiers, diplomatic officials, and watching eyes lined the arrival zone. Khrushchev descended first, all performative swagger and laughter, playing the harmless buffoon for the press. Yasha had once admired his cunning. Now he saw only the cruelty behind the smiles.
Pyotr fell into step beside Yasha as they followed the delegation into the city. They did not speak.
It was not until that evening, with champagne in his hand and the city skyline stretching out beyond the banquet hall’s glass wall, that Yasha finally spoke to his boy.
“Does it feel strange?” he asked in Russian, eyes never leaving the lights of Brooklyn in the distance.
Pyotr followed his gaze. “A little. It’s familiar, but I don’t belong here anymore.”
Yasha smirked faintly. “You sound like me.”
“I learned from the best.” Pyotr raised his glass. “General.”
Yasha clinked it gently. “Sergeant.”
They didn’t speak of 1954. Of the night a frightened, angry boy had been dragged from his bedroom in Brooklyn. Of the years it took to turn him into this weapon in a uniform.
This wasn’t a homecoming.
It was a warning.
Let the Americans see what they had lost.
Let them know what he had become.

September 1959
Washington, D.C. – Peggy Carter’s POV
She hadn’t expected her hands to shake.
It had been six years since the 1953 gala in Leningrad. Back then, she’d held herself together beneath the crushing weight of pearls and protocol, locking eyes with the ghost of James Barnes across a ballroom of Soviet elite.
She had not seen him since. But now—now the ballroom had moved, and the ghosts had followed.
The White House reception room glittered with crystal chandeliers and veiled menace. She stood near the edge of the mingling crowd, calm in her SHIELD dress blues, sipping her wine and watching the Soviets file in like wolves dressed for a hunt.
There he was.
General Yasha Sokolov.
Broad-shouldered, polished, and unreadable. His KGB uniform was immaculate, double-breasted, the red trim sharp as blood. His collar was high, crisp, and Peggy’s eyes caught the faintest glint beneath it—metal, dark and thin.
A collar.
Still wearing it. Still his Master’s.
Her stomach turned.
And then her eyes shifted to the boy beside him.
Tall for his age, lean like Yasha had once been. Sharper jawline, cleaner lines. But the resemblance was undeniable. Same storm-grey eyes. Same mouth. Same elegant rigidity. He wore the uniform of a Soviet Sergeant like he’d been born to it.
Peggy knew his face from photos long buried in the SSR archive.
Edward Barnes.
Pyotr, now.
A Barnes, stolen and reforged in the shadow of his uncle. She had always feared that James—no, Yasha—was beyond saving. But this… this was theft. Transformation. Legacy twisted into weapon.
She forced a breath and approached.
“General Sokolov,” she said, voice calm, steady.
Yasha turned, slow and deliberate. And for a moment, that glint of recognition sparked—an echo of smirk in steel-grey eyes. “Miss Carter,” he said, in perfect English. “Or is it Director now?”
“Agent. I like to stay field-capable.”
His eyes flicked over her. “I’m sure you do.”
The boy watched her with curiosity. Too quiet. Too careful.
“And this must be…” she let her voice trail off.
Yasha didn’t hesitate. “Sergeant Pyotr Sokolov, my protégé.”
Peggy looked the boy dead in the eye. “We’ve never met, have we?”
“No, ma’am,” Pyotr said politely. “Though you knew my uncle. Back when he was American.”
Peggy didn’t blink. “Yes. I knew him very well.”
The boy’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
So was she. But not in the way he meant.
She nodded once, coolly. “Enjoy your visit, Sergeant.”
She stepped away before she said something she’d regret, her mind already writing the report she’d send to London. Her expression remained neutral until she reached a quiet corner of the room and raised her glass to her lips.
Another Barnes had become a Sokolov.
And the war wasn’t cold at all—it was personal.

Later That Night
Washington, D.C. – Private Soviet Diplomatic Quarters
The suite was quiet save for the sound of Pyotr unfastening the buttons on his high-collared uniform coat. He tossed it over the back of a chair, undoing the top button of his undershirt with a practiced, frustrated hand. His movements were sharp, irritated.
“She looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her boot,” he said after a long silence.
Yasha remained seated by the window, one leg crossed over the other, watching the lights blink out across the Potomac. He didn’t turn.
“She looked at you,” he said evenly. “She looked through me.”
Pyotr scoffed. “I didn’t even say anything wrong.”
“You didn’t need to.” Yasha finally looked over. “You’re the ghost of a boy she probably tried to help once. A reminder that she failed. Americans don’t like reminders.”
“She knew who I was before I said anything. She knew,” Pyotr said, pacing now. “I saw it in her face. All that quiet horror behind the diplomatic smile.”
Yasha tilted his head. “And what did you feel?”
Pyotr froze.
He hadn’t been asked that. Not really. Not in those words.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice lower now. “It’s like—being in that room. Around all of them. I know I don’t belong, but I still remember things. Sounds. Smells. The way English sounds when it’s not coming from a teacher or a soldier.”
He crossed to the desk and leaned on it, fingers drumming against the wood.
“I remembered my mother’s voice,” he said quietly. “Not her words. Just the sound of her laugh. And I felt…”
Yasha waited.
“Guilty,” Pyotr whispered.
Yasha stood, approached slowly, and rested a hand on the back of Pyotr’s neck. His grip was firm, grounding.
“I’ve told you before. Regret is a luxury,” Yasha murmured. “And guilt will eat you alive if you feed it.”
“I’m not feeding it,” Pyotr muttered. “It just… found me anyway.”
There was silence again. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
“She’s not your enemy,” Yasha said finally. “But she’s not your friend either. She’s a watcher. And she’ll be watching us now.”
Pyotr leaned back against the desk. “So what do we do?”
Yasha stepped away, reclaiming his position by the window.
“We give her a reason to be afraid.”

Late September 1959
Washington, D.C. – SHIELD East Coast Office
The click of her pen echoed in the stillness.
Peggy sat alone in her office, a half-finished cup of tea cooling beside the typewriter she wasn’t using. Some things—some reports—required her own hand, not just the impersonal punch of keys. It felt more honest this way. More human.
She had to be careful with her phrasing. Truth hidden in diplomacy. The pen poised above the page, she stared down at the half-written heading:
CONFIDENTIAL – SUBJECT: General Yasha Sokolov / Sergeant Pyotr Sokolov
Observation Log – September 23, 1959
Filed By: Agent M. Carter
She took a slow breath.
General Yasha Sokolov continues to serve as a high-ranking officer within the KGB and appears to enjoy the full confidence of Nikita Khrushchev. In person, Sokolov is composed, calculating, and physically unchanged since last recorded appearance (1953, Leningrad). No signs of aging. No error in memory or response time.
Recommendation: Sokolov remains a Class A anomalous subject. Continued surveillance required.
She paused, pen hovering.
Sergeant Pyotr Sokolov, introduced tonight, bears a strong resemblance to the late Edward Barnes (MIA 1954). Estimated age consistent with Edward’s birth record. Behavior and bearing consistent with KGB grooming and indoctrination. Despite his composure, subject displayed notable hesitation during interaction. This suggests emotional memory may not have been fully suppressed.
Her jaw clenched.
Barnes has made another Barnes.
She didn’t write that. But it echoed through her head nonetheless.
James Buchanan Barnes had been buried in 1945 and resurrected in Soviet steel and statecraft. Now the Soviets had given him a son—not biologically, perhaps, but ideologically. She couldn’t shake the sense that Pyotr was a reflection in a broken mirror. Not a weapon in training. A weapon already sharpened.
Peggy set the pen down.
There were rules to her work. She knew them by heart. But tonight… tonight she thought of Steve. Of Howard’s strained voice when he’d told her about the Exhibition. Of Dugan’s funeral. Of the boy who’d vanished.
She closed the file, unsent.
Not yet, she thought. Not until I know for certain.
She poured the cold tea down the sink and went home.

Chapter 41: Return Home

Early October 1959
Moscow – Sokolov Estate, Khamovniki District
The train from Sheremetyevo pulled in just after dawn, under a slate-gray sky thick with autumn fog. The capital was still shaking off sleep, streetlights flickering out, smokestacks beginning their slow exhale.
Pyotr hadn’t said a word since they crossed the Soviet border.
Yasha watched him in the polished window of the town car: uniform crisp, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on nothing. He’d slipped back into Russian as if shedding skin, nodding to handlers with the efficiency of a blade.
“Did you feel it?” Yasha asked quietly, not looking over.
Pyotr blinked. “Feel what?”
“The pull.”
A pause.
Pyotr didn’t answer.
The car turned through the gates of the Sokolov estate, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Inside, Ivan was waiting—tea already poured, the samovar quietly whistling.
Ivan looked them both over, expression unreadable. “No trouble?”
Yasha shook his head. “No scandal. No escape attempt. No American bullets.”
“That’s what passes for success these days?” Ivan muttered, handing him a cup.
“It is when your old handler recognizes you and your nephew nearly spills his childhood name.”
Pyotr sank into the armchair nearest the fireplace and said, “She knew before I spoke.”
Ivan arched a brow. “The Carter woman?”
“Yes,” Pyotr said. “And she pitied me.”
Ivan was silent a long time. Then, without looking away, he asked, “And did she pity you… correctly?”
Pyotr didn’t answer.
Yasha placed a hand on Pyotr’s shoulder before sitting across from him. “Howard Stark suspects the truth. Carter likely does too. Our work is far from done.”
Ivan added quietly, “And Dreykov is watching. Closely.”
Yasha’s expression sharpened. “He saw Pyotr drill with the Red Room girls before we left. He’s begun to ask questions he has no clearance for.”
“We need to be careful,” Ivan said. “Dreykov is a parasite—but Khrushchev finds him useful.”
“He suspects something,” Pyotr added. “He asked me if I ever get tired. Said I moved like someone who’s always waiting for the shot to fall.”
Yasha looked to Ivan. “If he becomes a threat…”
“We neutralize him,” Ivan finished flatly. “But not yet. If we strike too early, Khrushchev will see it as sabotage.”
Yasha’s jaw clenched. He could feel the noose tightening—slowly, imperceptibly, around his neck and Pyotr’s.
“Then we wait,” he said at last.
Ivan raised his glass. “To Cold Wars and colder loyalties.”
Yasha didn’t drink. He was already calculating the next three steps. And the next three after that.

Late October 1959
Moscow – Red Room Facility
The sterile white walls of the Red Room felt suffocating, even to Yasha. It had been a necessary evil—the training program meant to prepare their assets for anything and everything. The girls in their white dresses, eyes full of resolve—or fear—exhibited the kind of loyalty that had been bred into them. But loyalty was fragile, and sometimes, the cracks would show.
Pyotr moved swiftly through the training floor, a hard edge in his movements as he sparred with a half-dozen girls. He was impressive—he had become an ideal weapon in his own right. But something felt off, even to him.
Dreykov stood in the observation deck above, a perfect vantage point, but it was his eyes, constantly flicking to Pyotr’s every move, that held weight. There was something in the way Dreykov watched him—too much interest. Too much curiosity.
After the session, Pyotr sat by the training mats, wiping his sweat with a towel. His body felt strange, even with the enhancements. His senses were sharper, and his metabolism was unrelenting. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, the blood pulsing in his veins like a constant reminder of the change he’d undergone.
Dreykov appeared moments later, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You move like someone who’s always waiting for something.”
Pyotr met his gaze without flinching. “Maybe I am. Always waiting.”
“Don’t let that wait get the better of you,” Dreykov continued, his voice cold and clinical. “Your enhancements—they’re not a guarantee of success. They won’t save you from every mistake.”
Pyotr stood, locking eyes with Dreykov. “I’m not afraid of mistakes.”
Dreykov’s lip curled into a smile, but it never reached his eyes. “We’ll see. You’ve been a very promising asset.”
There was a long silence as Dreykov studied Pyotr, and Pyotr held his ground. For the first time, Dreykov seemed to be trying to read him—every shift in his posture, every subtle change in his expression. He was trying to figure out what was beneath the surface.
And why Pyotr, who had been trained to obey, was suddenly resisting.

November 1959
Moscow – Sokolov Estate
The estate was quieter than usual. After returning from the American Exhibition, things had been tense—Khrushchev's power had solidified, but the winds of change were already blowing. It wasn’t just the government that was shifting; their world, too, was growing darker.
Yasha stood by the window, watching the city wake. The cold, harsh light of early winter filtered through the glass, illuminating his features, casting shadows across his face.
Ivan entered the room silently, as always, his presence felt more than heard.
“Dreykov’s suspicions are growing,” Ivan said, pouring himself a glass of vodka. “He’s more observant than I gave him credit for.”
Yasha didn’t turn, his fingers pressed against the cold glass. “I can feel it. He’s trying to break him. Testing the limits.”
“You mean Pyotr.” Ivan’s voice was low. “He’s not stupid. Dreykov knows something is different about him.”
Yasha’s gaze darkened, but there was a glint in his eyes. “But he doesn’t know what.”
The room was thick with silence before Ivan spoke again. “What if Dreykov begins testing him more directly? What if he demands something from Pyotr that he won’t be able to hide?”
Yasha exhaled slowly, his hand resting on the window sill. “Then we will be ready. We’ve dealt with worse. But I don’t want to risk Pyotr becoming an experiment, not yet.”

March 1960
Moscow – Sokolov Estate
The political landscape outside was tense, but inside the walls of the Sokolov estate, the family had gathered for an unspoken reason: preparation.
Yasha sat at the head of the table, Pyotr across from him. Ivan was always nearby, his sharp eyes never missing a detail.
“Dreykov has upped his game,” Yasha said flatly. “He wants more. And he’s testing us.”
“Testing you, you mean,” Pyotr said, his voice steady, but a little sharper than usual.
Yasha’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll have to take the test too. We all will.”
Ivan spoke from the side, his tone low. “The Red Room is growing more dangerous. And Dreykov has a way of making people disappear when they’re no longer useful.”
Pyotr shifted slightly in his seat. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be training me, you seem more concerned about me disappearing than I am.”
Yasha’s expression softened, but just barely. “Because I’ve seen it before. People like Dreykov don’t make threats. They act on them. If he thinks you’re a liability…” Yasha trailed off, then looked directly at Pyotr. “You can’t be a liability.”
“I’m not afraid,” Pyotr said, standing up from the table. “Not of him. Not of anyone.”
“Good,” Yasha said, his voice firm. “Because in this world, that’s the only thing you’ll have. No one else will be there to protect you.”
Pyotr didn’t look back as he left the room, the weight of the words hanging heavy in the air.

April 1960
Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The cold, polished walls of the KGB Headquarters seemed to close in on Yasha as he walked through the corridors, Pyotr following behind him, both of them walking silently. Dreykov had been maneuvering, pulling strings that Yasha didn’t quite understand.
The final step of Khrushchev’s consolidation had already begun, and with it, a new focus on loyalty. The threats to their power were multiplying. Dreykov had asked for a meeting, and Yasha knew he couldn’t avoid it forever.
As they entered the meeting room, Dreykov was already seated, his fingers steepled before him, watching them both.
“I trust you’ve heard about the changes, General Sokolov,” Dreykov said, his smile tight and calculating. “The reorganization of certain sectors is inevitable.”
Yasha’s gaze was hard. “I know. And I’m not here to discuss your political games.”
Dreykov’s smile widened, but his eyes remained cold. “No. You’re here because the KGB needs you—and your… assets—more than ever. The world is changing, General. Khrushchev’s reign is growing unstable.”
Yasha didn’t flinch. “And you need someone to take the fall when it crumbles?”
Dreykov leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. “No. I need someone who can handle what comes after.”
Pyotr’s jaw tightened as Dreykov turned his gaze on him. There was a silent understanding now, unspoken but shared: Dreykov knew too much, and the game had shifted.
Pyotr was no longer just Yasha’s asset. He was his weakness.

May 1st, 1960
Moscow – May Day Parade
The sun was out. The streets of Moscow were lined with thousands of people, chanting and waving flags. Khrushchev stood on the podium with his entourage, his speeches still filled with pride for the success of his regime.
Yasha stood on the periphery, watching from the sidelines, his hand tucked carefully behind his back as Pyotr kept pace beside him, stoic as ever.
The moment felt surreal, like the calm before a storm. But Yasha knew better than to get complacent.
They were still playing the long game.
But the long game was beginning to show its cracks. And the Sokolovs had more to lose than ever.

Chapter 42: The U-2 Incident

May 1st, 1960
Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The U-2 incident had unfolded with alarming speed. The Americans, thinking they had executed a flawless surveillance operation, had instead sent their spy plane directly into Soviet airspace. The aircraft was shot down, and the pilot, Francis Gary Powers, was captured.
It was a political bombshell.
Yasha stood in the dimly lit interrogation room, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoing in the hallway outside. Inside, the prisoner was restrained to a chair, his eyes still glazed from the shock of the crash. Powers was disoriented, perhaps from the disorienting effects of being dragged out of the wreckage. His chest heaved in shallow breaths, and the room smelled faintly of burnt wood and gasoline.
Yasha observed the scene from the shadowed corner, his face unreadable as always. Ivan stood behind him, his arms folded, ever watchful. The situation had the potential to spiral in unpredictable directions, and Yasha knew better than anyone how to shape such chaos to his advantage.
The door creaked open, and Dreykov entered, looking more confident than usual. “General Sokolov,” he said, his tone tinged with authority, “I trust everything is in place for the interrogation?”
Yasha gave a slight nod, his eyes never leaving the bound man before him. “Everything is in place. But the question is how we proceed.” His voice was soft, calculated. “The Americans think this is just an incident. I intend to make them regret thinking so.”
Dreykov’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Of course. But you know the protocol. We’ll extract what we can, then leverage it as a bargaining chip.”
Yasha’s gaze flickered to Powers, who was beginning to stir slightly. The Americans would want to save their pilot, and they would do whatever it took to get him back. That was leverage in and of itself.
“No,” Yasha said, his voice growing colder. “I have a different plan. This isn’t just about bargaining. This is about sending a message.”
Dreykov raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Yasha continued, his voice smooth like velvet. “I will oversee the interrogation. Not you. Not anyone else. I will speak to him. And I will extract far more than they expect.”
The KGB officer in the corner shifted uneasily. They had always known Yasha’s methods were unconventional, but no one had yet seen him operate in such an intimate way. His methods, however, were always effective.

Later That Day – Interrogation Room
Yasha entered the dimly lit room with slow, measured steps, his boots echoing on the cold floor. Powers was still slumped in the chair, his hands shackled to the arms. The man was finally conscious, but his eyes were clouded with a sense of defeat.
Yasha took his time, moving to the small metal table in front of Powers. He observed him silently for a long moment, taking in the foreignness of the man in this room. An American spy, no different than any other pawn in the geopolitical game. The only difference was that Powers had been foolish enough to think his mission would go unnoticed.
"Mr. Powers," Yasha began, his voice calm, controlled, "I trust you’re settling in comfortably? The accommodations are… sufficient."
Powers blinked, his head tilting slightly. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
Yasha allowed a small smile, but it didn't touch his eyes. "No. I’m not going to kill you." He paused, watching Powers squirm. "But your country might wish I had. For your own sake, Mr. Powers, I suggest you think very carefully before you answer any questions."
Powers swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I don’t have any answers for you. I was just doing my job."
Yasha leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. "That’s the problem, Mr. Powers. Your job. Your job is the reason we’re here. You see, when your country sends you to spy on us, it isn’t just a job. You’re playing a game. And when you lose, it’s not just your life that’s at risk. It’s the entire operation. Your country. Your leaders."
Powers shook his head, his voice wavering. "What do you want from me?"
Yasha leaned back, folding his arms. "What I want is simple. I want the world to know that the Americans, like the rest of the West, have no idea what they’re dealing with. Your country thinks it can invade our airspace with impunity. But what they don’t understand is that this is only the beginning. The next time they make a move, it won’t be a spy plane they send. It’ll be their worst mistake."
Powers shifted in his chair, his face pale. "I don’t know anything about the bigger plans. I was just following orders!"
Yasha’s gaze sharpened, and he stood, circling the room like a predator. "You and I both know that isn’t true. You’ve been trained, Mr. Powers. You were trained to think." He paused, allowing the weight of the words to sink in. "And that’s where you’ll be of use to me."
The pilot’s breath caught in his throat as Yasha’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "The Americans will try to downplay this. They’ll pretend nothing happened. But I’ll make sure they remember. I’ll make sure they understand the consequences of their little games."
Powers was silent now, the realization sinking in. Yasha’s manipulation had already begun. What he needed from Powers was not just information—it was fear, leverage, and control. This incident would be the spark for a new chapter in the Cold War.

Later that Evening – KGB Headquarters
Yasha stood before Khrushchev, delivering his report. "We’ve extracted everything we need from the prisoner. Powers will be sent back to the Americans under terms of our choosing. We’ll use his release as a gift—something they’ll owe us."
Khrushchev was silent for a moment, his eyes hard as stone. "And what about the other information? The plans they were after?"
Yasha smiled, the coldness never leaving his face. "That’s for us to know. The world will only see what we allow them to see. Powers will go home, but the consequences will echo far longer than he realizes."
Khrushchev nodded slowly, a small smirk appearing at the corner of his lips. "I trust you, General. You’ve played this game well."
Yasha’s eyes gleamed. "It’s not the game I’m playing, Nikita. It’s the war." He turned toward the door. "And we haven’t even begun to fight."
As he left the room, the sound of his footsteps rang out, the heavy weight of the moment settling into place. The U-2 incident was only the beginning. And Yasha Sokolov was already thinking several moves ahead.

May 2nd, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The day after the interrogation, the KGB office was a flurry of activity, with agents coming and going, reports filtering in, and the weight of the U-2 incident still hanging heavily in the air. Yasha sat at his desk, reviewing documents, his thoughts elsewhere. The interrogation of Powers had gone as expected, but the repercussions were only beginning.
Ivan entered quietly, as usual, and approached Yasha with a new report in hand. "General, there’s been a shift. The Americans are circling, trying to respond without escalating. They’re trying to keep it contained, but the pressure is mounting."
Yasha glanced up, his face as impassive as ever. "Of course they are. They always think they can control the narrative. What else?"
Ivan set the report down in front of him. "There’s been a subtle shift in their military posture—more aircraft over Europe, increased presence in Turkey and West Berlin. They’re bracing for something."
Yasha nodded thoughtfully, his fingers lightly tapping against the desk. "They’ve made their move, and now they’re waiting for us to respond. Let them think they’re in control." He looked up at Ivan. "Prepare a new strategy. This will be a long game."

May 15th, 1960 – Moscow – The Sokolov Estate
The Sokolov estate was quiet, the days stretching into a familiar rhythm. Yasha and Pyotr were alone in the study, reviewing documents related to the latest operations. Despite the mounting tension surrounding the U-2 incident, the work continued, a quiet undercurrent beneath the political storm.
Pyotr sat across from Yasha, his posture still slightly tense, though more relaxed than when he had first started training under Yasha’s watch. They had come a long way since the serum had been administered, but Pyotr was still adjusting to his enhanced abilities.
"Do you think the Americans will make a larger move?" Pyotr asked, his voice low as he skimmed through the reports.
Yasha’s eyes were sharp as he glanced at his adopted son. "They’ll make moves. But they’ll do so carefully. The last thing they want is to push us into a full confrontation. They will continue to test us, but they won’t escalate unless they have no choice."
Pyotr nodded, understanding the delicate balance they were playing. "What about Khrushchev? He’s already making waves after the U-2 incident."
Yasha’s expression hardened, his fingers stilling on the documents in front of him. "Khrushchev is a necessary player. But his ambitions often cloud his judgment. If he thinks this will earn him more favor with the West, he may push too far. And when he does, we’ll be there to remind him where his place truly lies."
Pyotr met Yasha’s gaze, understanding the underlying threat. It was a dangerous game they were playing, and despite their control, it was only a matter of time before someone tried to make their move.

July 4th, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The summer heat weighed heavily on the city, but the atmosphere inside KGB headquarters was colder than ever. Reports about the Americans' military buildup continued to flood in. There was no doubt that they were preparing for something, though what exactly was unclear.
Yasha stood in front of the massive map that dominated the back wall of his office, his eyes scanning the various points of interest. Berlin was still a flashpoint, but it was clear that the Americans were focused on positioning their forces in Europe.
Ivan entered the room, holding a new set of reports. "General, we’ve confirmed that their build-up in Berlin is more than just posturing. They’re moving more resources into the area. Something’s coming. Perhaps an attempt to influence the division of the city."
Yasha’s fingers tapped once again against the map, his mind calculating. "They won’t act without first assessing our reactions. We’ll have to move faster. We can’t afford to be blindsided by their posturing." He turned to Ivan. "Contact the Berlin station. I want all eyes on that city. Every move, every whisper."

August 1st, 1960 – Moscow – The Sokolov Estate
A rare evening out of the shadows. Yasha sat in the grand dining room with Pyotr and Sokolov, enjoying a quieter moment in the midst of the growing tensions. Despite everything, there were still these moments of calm, fleeting as they might be.
Pyotr, now more confident in his new form, spoke of the increasing pressure he felt in his role. "Dreykov’s training methods are rigorous," he said, his voice calm but with a hint of annoyance. "The girls in the Red Room—they don’t understand the importance of control. It’s... troubling."
Yasha looked at him, his gaze sharp but tempered with understanding. "You’re carrying more than just their weight now. It’s not just about them following orders. You’ve been given the responsibility to mold them into something more." He leaned back in his chair, watching Pyotr carefully. "Your enhancements make you a force, but control is what makes you dangerous."
Sokolov watched the exchange with a quiet smile. He knew how to read Yasha’s subtlety. It was clear that Yasha was pushing Pyotr not just for his own strength, but for something deeper.
"You’ve learned that lesson well, my son," Sokolov finally said. "But remember, control doesn’t just come from power. It comes from knowing when to withhold it." He turned to Yasha. "I think our boy here is still too eager."
Yasha’s lips twitched upward, just barely. "He’s learning. He will be ready when the time comes."

September 5th, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The situation had only grown more tense in the months following the U-2 incident. The Americans had yet to fully respond, but there were whispers about new intelligence gathering operations, and there was an undeniable shift in the air.
Yasha sat in the briefing room, the heavy atmosphere thick with the usual quiet intensity. Ivan stood nearby, watching as the latest reports came in.
"What do you think, General?" Ivan asked. "Will Khrushchev make a move after the U-2?"
Yasha folded his hands, his gaze never leaving the reports in front of him. "Khrushchev will wait for the right moment. But when he does move, it won’t be subtle. He’s always been a man of grand gestures."
Ivan nodded, but his gaze shifted to the door, where a few agents stood, waiting for the next orders. "We’ll be ready for him, then."
Yasha’s lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "We’ll always be ready. It’s what we do best."

October 20th, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The temperature had dropped as autumn settled over Moscow, and with it, the political climate seemed to grow colder. The United States had begun ramping up its own intelligence-gathering operations in Berlin, and tensions were starting to surface once again.
Yasha, ever the calm eye in the storm, stood before the map of Berlin, his mind calculating the next steps in this drawn-out chess match. The Americans were pushing, testing his resolve.
"Ivan," Yasha said quietly, "prepare a full counter-operation. We’ll send them a message."
Ivan glanced at Yasha, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Another one of your messages, General?"
Yasha smiled, a cold gleam in his eyes. "This time, they’ll hear it."
The Cold War was heating up, and Yasha knew it was only a matter of time before the next major move was made. But for now, he would wait, biding his time, his control tight around every single piece of this carefully orchestrated game.

Chapter 43: JFK Election

November 9th, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The election results were in, and the buzz of the news had quickly spread through Moscow, even before official confirmation had arrived. The Americans had elected a new president, John F. Kennedy, a fresh face in a sea of familiar, old enemies. Yasha stood before the large window of his office, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the grey sky. He could feel the weight of the shift in power in the West, the subtle anticipation of what it would mean for the Soviet Union, and for him personally.
"Kennedy," Yasha muttered under his breath, testing the sound of the name. "He’s not like Eisenhower. He’ll make mistakes, but he’s going to push hard."
Ivan, who had entered quietly behind him, gave a knowing glance. "The Americans are in disarray. We should capitalize on this."
Yasha turned sharply, fixing his gaze on Ivan. "And we will," he said, his voice low and precise. "But first, we need to act quickly. There are assets who’ve been compromised, and we can’t afford to let them fall into American hands."
Ivan’s expression shifted from curiosity to understanding. "Compromised how?"
"Counterintelligence has been sniffing around. We don’t have much time before they start connecting dots," Yasha replied, his gaze narrowing. "Our network in the West is too valuable to risk. The Kennedy administration will be on the lookout for Soviet sympathizers, and we need to make sure they can’t use anyone against us."
Yasha moved to his desk, retrieving a series of documents. "I’ve identified the key individuals. We’ll need to move them before they’re caught. Full extraction. No mistakes."

November 10th, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The operation had been set into motion. Yasha’s orders were clear: a rapid extraction of compromised Soviet assets across Europe before the newly elected U.S. administration’s counterintelligence could act. The clock was ticking.
Pyotr stood beside Yasha in the operations room, watching as agents received their orders and moved into position. His role had been mostly focused on training the new generation of operatives, but tonight was different. Tonight, he would see firsthand how Yasha handled this kind of delicate operation.
"How do you know they’ve been compromised?" Pyotr asked quietly, his eyes scanning the agents.
Yasha didn’t turn to answer immediately. His attention was focused on the map in front of him, his mind already calculating the moves. "I know. Counterintelligence has been tightening the noose, and there are leaks from within our own network. These are not mistakes; they’ve been discovered. Our job is to get them out, erase any trace, and cover our tracks."
Pyotr nodded, his expression unreadable. He had learned enough over the years to understand the gravity of what they were about to do. "I’ll be ready," he said simply.
Yasha glanced at him then, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "I know you will be. Watch closely. This is how we protect our people."

November 12th, 1960 – Vienna – A Hidden Safe House
The night was cold and dark, the streets of Vienna empty except for the occasional pedestrian walking quickly home. It was the perfect cover for a secret extraction.
Yasha and Pyotr were waiting in a safe house, the only sign of movement in the dimly lit apartment the occasional shadow cast against the walls as agents positioned themselves around the area. They had tracked their target—a high-ranking Soviet diplomat—to this location. There were others, too, scattered across Europe. But this one was the most crucial.
Yasha sat in a corner of the room, his face impassive as ever, though his mind was running through the operation with the precision of a machine. Pyotr, standing beside him, seemed more focused than ever, his enhancements sharpening his senses and making him hyper-aware of every detail in the room.
"Agent Ivan," Yasha called quietly. "Have the perimeter checked again. I don’t want any surprises."
Ivan, who had been stationed outside, returned swiftly. "Everything is secure, General. We’re ready for the extraction."
Yasha nodded once, his eyes narrowing. "Good. Move on my signal. We cannot afford to leave any loose ends."

November 12th, 1960 – Vienna – The Diplomat’s Apartment
The operation moved quickly. Pyotr led the team inside, his movements fluid, trained. He had been in situations like this before, but the gravity of this particular operation—extracting compromised assets before they could fall into the hands of the Americans—added an extra weight to the mission.
Yasha followed behind him, keeping a calm presence as they moved silently through the apartment, taking down any opposition with precision. The diplomat was cornered in his bedroom, fear evident in his eyes as Yasha entered.
"You should have left when you had the chance," Yasha said coldly, his voice devoid of empathy. The man, once a trusted ally, had been exposed, and now his life had no value except as a piece of information to be extracted.
"I did nothing wrong!" the diplomat protested, panic rising in his voice.
"You made a mistake," Yasha said, drawing a small device from his pocket. "Your usefulness is over."
Pyotr stood behind him, watching silently. It was a quiet reminder of what they were capable of—how quickly their enemies could be removed from the board.

November 13th, 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The operation had been a success. All compromised assets had been extracted without leaving a trace, and Yasha’s plan had unfolded as flawlessly as he had expected. But the victory was fleeting. The tension in the air was palpable, as the West would soon retaliate, and the Cold War would continue its unrelenting march.
Yasha sat at his desk, reviewing the final reports of the operation, his mind calculating the next steps. Ivan stood beside him, awaiting further orders.
"Now we wait," Yasha said quietly, his gaze distant. "The Americans will move soon. Kennedy will want to flex his muscles, to show that he’s in control."
Ivan nodded. "And we’ll be ready for them."
Yasha’s lips curved into a small smile, though it lacked warmth. "Always."

November 15th, 1960 – Moscow – The Sokolov Estate
At the Sokolov estate, Pyotr sat by the fire, his mind racing after the events of the last few days. The operation had gone smoothly, but the consequences of their actions weighed on him. The stakes had always been high, but they had just escalated, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was on the cusp of something far greater than anything they had prepared for.
Yasha entered the room, his expression unreadable as always. "Are you prepared for what’s to come?" he asked, his tone heavy with meaning.
Pyotr looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "Always."
Yasha nodded once, then turned to leave, his voice low. "Good. Because this is only the beginning."
The Cold War was entering a new phase, and Yasha and Pyotr were ready to play their parts. But even they knew—nothing was guaranteed.

December 1960 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The months following the successful extraction of compromised Soviet assets had been a tense silence in Moscow. The storm clouds of the Cold War continued to gather on the horizon, and while both sides moved cautiously, they knew that it was only a matter of time before one misstep would break the uneasy peace.
Yasha sat at his desk, the glow of a solitary desk lamp illuminating his face as he reviewed the intelligence reports. His fingers drummed absently on the surface of the desk, the quiet rhythm a reflection of his thoughts. The KGB had consolidated its position, but there was still a dangerous undercurrent—Kennedy’s presidency was still in its infancy, and Yasha knew that the West was always just one decision away from escalating tensions further.
Ivan entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. "The Americans have made a move," he said, his voice low.
Yasha’s eyes never left the papers in front of him, but his posture stiffened. "What kind of move?"
"Counterintelligence operations are ramping up. They’ve increased surveillance on Soviet diplomats and operatives within the United States. The heat is on, General."
Yasha finally looked up, his gaze sharp and calculating. "They know something is coming. They’re preparing."
"And we’re prepared as well," Ivan replied confidently. "We’ll respond."
Yasha’s lips curled slightly into a cold smile. "We will. But we must do so with discretion. Khrushchev is already watching closely. We can’t afford to give him any reason to doubt our loyalty to the Soviet cause."

January 1961 – Moscow – Sokolov Estate
Pyotr had settled into a rhythm of life in Moscow over the past few months, though the shadow of their covert operations loomed over him. He had grown used to the weight of the world constantly pressing down, a constant awareness of the lines they were treading.
Tonight, however, the quiet of the estate was different. Yasha had returned from a lengthy trip, and Pyotr could sense the tension in the air. Yasha had always been a man of few words, but tonight, his silence felt more pronounced.
Pyotr was seated by the fireplace, a glass of scotch in hand, when Yasha entered the room. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was something different in his eyes—something that Pyotr couldn’t quite place.
"You’ve been quiet," Pyotr remarked, his voice breaking the stillness.
Yasha paused, standing by the door as he surveyed the room. "It’s been a long few months," he replied, his voice low. "The West is becoming more... unpredictable. Kennedy’s moves are becoming harder to predict. He’s trying to play the game, but his moves are reckless."
"Reckless?" Pyotr asked, intrigued. "How?"
Yasha moved to the bar and poured himself a drink, the clink of the glass sharp in the otherwise quiet room. "He’s pushing for greater military presence in Europe. Already made moves with the Berlin issue. It’s only a matter of time before he forces our hand."
Pyotr considered this, his expression thoughtful. "What do we do?"
Yasha took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze meeting Pyotr’s for a moment. "We stay ahead. Always stay ahead."

March 1961 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The tension had been rising for months, but by March, it was palpable. Yasha’s eyes were sharp, his focus unyielding as he sat in his office. The walls were adorned with maps of Europe and the Middle East, tracing the growing footprint of Soviet influence. Yet, in the back of his mind, the same question lingered: how far would they push before they broke?
Ivan entered the room without knocking, his expression grim. "We’ve received intelligence that the Americans are preparing something big. The Berlin situation is escalating rapidly. They’re bringing in more military personnel to the city. Their Cold War tactics are becoming more aggressive."
Yasha straightened in his chair, the weight of the information sinking in. "So they want to make their move in Berlin? Try to seize control?"
"It’s possible," Ivan replied. "It could trigger a wider conflict, a full-on military escalation. Kennedy’s pushing for a show of strength."
Yasha’s jaw tightened. "And Khrushchev?"
"Khrushchev is already aware. He’s waiting for the right moment to respond."
Yasha considered this for a long moment, then rose from his desk, his expression colder than usual. "We don’t wait. We act first."

June 1961 – Berlin – The Frontlines
The tension in Berlin was suffocating, thick with the possibility of conflict. The East and West were at an impasse, with neither side willing to yield. Yasha had been dispatched to Berlin to oversee the KGB’s operations in the area, his sharp instincts serving him well in the cold war that was about to escalate into a very real, very dangerous battle.
Pyotr was with him, as always, shadowing his every move. It had been a long time since they’d shared an operation like this—since they had been forced to navigate the high-stakes game of espionage in a city that could explode at any moment.
Yasha’s steps were calculated as he walked through the shadowed streets of East Berlin, his mind whirring with strategy. The Berlin Wall was looming, both as a literal structure and a metaphor for the ever-growing divide between East and West.
"Are we really prepared for this?" Pyotr asked, voice low, as they passed through the darkened alleyways.
Yasha glanced at him briefly, his face a mask of calm. "No one is ever truly prepared. But we’ll manage. We always do."
The hum of activity around them, the surveillance on both sides, felt like the breath before a storm. Every move was carefully weighed. The U.S. would soon make its next move, and Yasha was determined to make sure it wasn’t their last.

July 1961 – Moscow – KGB Headquarters
The walls of the KGB Headquarters seemed to close in on Yasha as he sat at his desk, the papers in front of him spread out like a chessboard. His mind was already several steps ahead, planning for the inevitable fallout from Berlin.
Ivan entered without ceremony, a look of concern on his face. "The Americans are doubling down on Berlin," he said. "They’re sending more troops. Kennedy’s ordered a buildup in the region."
Yasha didn’t flinch. "We’ll be ready," he said, his voice steady. "The question is: how will Khrushchev respond?"
Ivan hesitated. "Khrushchev is under pressure. There are whispers in the Kremlin. Some are calling for him to escalate."
Yasha’s lips curled into a thin smile, though his eyes remained cold. "Let them talk. We will act when the time is right."

August 1961 – Moscow – The Sokolov Estate
The Sokolov estate had become a sanctuary of sorts, a place for Pyotr and Yasha to retreat from the dangers of the world outside. But even here, the tension of the Cold War was ever-present. As August rolled around, the world seemed on the cusp of another major confrontation.
Yasha stood by the window of his study, watching the skyline of Moscow as the sun set. Pyotr had grown quieter, more focused in recent weeks. His enhancements had changed him in ways that Yasha hadn’t fully anticipated. The boy—no longer the young man he’d kidnapped from Brooklyn—had become a force unto himself, his control over his abilities growing with each passing day.
Pyotr entered the room quietly, his steps soft against the polished floor. "Things are changing," he remarked, his voice low. "We’re running out of time."
Yasha turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "Yes, we are."

Chapter 44: The Berlin Wall

August 1961 – Berlin – The Division of the City
The air in Berlin had grown thick with the pressure of a city caught between two ideologies. The walls—both literal and figurative—were being constructed faster than anyone could have imagined. The division between East and West had been made concrete, a constant reminder of the Cold War that raged just beneath the surface.
Pyotr had been assigned to one of the KGB’s intelligence stations in East Berlin. The task was simple in concept: gather information, keep a low profile, and monitor the movements of the West. The reality, however, was far more complex.
Pyotr stood at the edge of the makeshift barricades, staring at the half-completed Berlin Wall. Construction workers toiled under the watchful eyes of both East German and Soviet officers, ensuring the project was completed with military precision. To the untrained eye, it was just another day in a divided city. To Pyotr, it felt like the world was being slowly, deliberately suffocated.
He wasn’t alone on the job. His eyes swept the area, landing on a few fellow agents stationed nearby, their faces a mixture of calm professionalism and palpable tension. Every glance, every move, could be the trigger for something far more dangerous. Berlin was a powder keg, and they were all holding the match.
"Comrade," a voice broke through his thoughts.
Pyotr turned to see one of the agents walking toward him, a man in his mid-thirties with sharp features and a weary look in his eyes. "We need to be careful," the agent said, glancing at the wall. "The West won’t sit still for this."
Pyotr gave a tight nod. "It’s only a matter of time before they try to do something."
The agent, whose name was Viktor, sighed. "We’ll see how long they last. The more we tighten the noose, the more desperate they become."
Pyotr wasn’t sure whether Viktor was talking about the Americans or himself, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he adjusted his coat, glancing again at the construction workers. The wall was growing higher with each passing day, and with it, the tension within him built.

September 1961 – Berlin – KGB Intelligence Station
The intelligence station in East Berlin was located in a shadowy, cramped office tucked away in a nondescript building. Despite the casual appearance of the place, Pyotr knew it was anything but ordinary. Every detail, from the hidden microphones to the reinforced walls, spoke to the lengths the Soviet Union had gone to in order to secure its secrets.
Pyotr leaned over a map of Berlin, marking the movements of NATO agents and American diplomats. His task was simple—track their movements, report back, and remain invisible. Yet, the longer he spent here, the more his thoughts seemed to spiral out of control. There was always the feeling that the walls around him were closing in, both literally and metaphorically.
Viktor appeared at his side, holding a bundle of reports in his hands. "This came in from our informants in the West. There are rumors of an American-backed insurgency trying to infiltrate East Berlin."
Pyotr’s gaze sharpened as he scanned the reports. "How reliable are the sources?"
Viktor shrugged. "We’ve had good luck with them so far, but you know how it is."
Pyotr studied the documents for a moment before nodding. "We’ll need to act fast. Keep our eyes open for anything suspicious."
Just as he was about to move toward the next task, a sudden message came through the station’s encrypted channel. The familiar clatter of the code machine reverberated through the room.
Pyotr exchanged a brief look with Viktor before approaching the machine. The message was short but clear.
"The West is making their move. Watch the border closely."
He read the message again, the weight of the words sinking in. He had expected this—there was no way the Americans would let the wall stand for long. The West would retaliate, and it would be up to him and his fellow agents to maintain control of the city.
He glanced at Viktor. "It’s starting."
Viktor’s face hardened. "We knew it would."

October 1961 – Berlin – East Side Intelligence Base
The sound of construction had reached a fever pitch by now, the wall’s construction nearly complete. Yet, the more solidified the wall became, the more unstable Berlin felt. On the West side, protests against the barrier continued to grow louder, while the East’s response had been swift, brutal, and calculating.
Pyotr stood at the window of the intelligence station, his eyes trained on the wall. The entire city seemed to pulse with the same tension that had plagued him since his arrival. He had been assigned to monitor the movements of key Western diplomats, especially those from NATO. If the Americans were planning something, it would come through them.
Viktor appeared beside him, a slight frown creasing his brow. "The Berlin Wall is one thing, but the real battle will be fought on the streets. The Americans are gathering their forces."
"We’ll be ready," Pyotr replied flatly.
He didn’t know whether he believed his own words. He had seen the West’s power firsthand, and even with the full weight of the KGB behind them, the Soviets were playing a dangerous game. The West had resources they couldn’t even begin to measure, and the Americans weren’t afraid to use them.
The door to the intelligence station opened, and another officer walked in, his face flushed with urgency.
"Comrade, we have movement near Checkpoint Charlie," the officer reported. "It looks like an American team is making a move toward the wall."
Pyotr’s pulse quickened. "Are they crossing into East Berlin?"
The officer shook his head. "Not yet. But they’re gathering intel. If we don’t act fast, they could slip through before we can stop them."
Pyotr didn’t need any further instructions. He turned on his heel and motioned for Viktor to follow. "Prepare the team. We’re not letting them get this far."

November 1961 – Berlin – East Side KGB Station
The Berlin situation had escalated far beyond anyone’s expectations. The Americans had begun making their own aggressive moves, slipping agents and informants across the border and using subterfuge to get as much information as possible.
Pyotr was once again stationed at the East Berlin KGB base, and the situation was growing increasingly volatile. The political pressure was mounting, and every day felt like a new challenge. He had been ordered to oversee intelligence gathering from East Berlin, making sure no agents from the West slipped through unnoticed.
He and Viktor had already been out on several operations, watching for signs of increased American activity. Today, though, the tension in the air was heavier than usual.
"The Americans will make their play soon," Viktor said, looking over a map of the city. "It’s only a matter of time."
Pyotr nodded, his gaze cold and focused. "We’ll be ready."
But inside, his thoughts were conflicted. He had never been comfortable in the shadows. He had never liked the secrecy and the constant game of chess that seemed to define his life. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the reality of their situation. Berlin was becoming a powder keg, and the spark could come from anywhere. They could be forced to play their hand sooner than they had planned.

November 1961 – Khrushchev's Office – Moscow
Khrushchev sat in his dimly lit office, the weight of his decisions pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. The room was quiet except for the sound of the occasional creak from the wooden furniture and the muffled echoes of distant conversations in the corridors. He had never been a man prone to quiet contemplation, but today, he was forced to give attention to the complexity of his plans.
His fingers drummed lightly on the polished surface of his desk as his mind played out the final steps of his most dangerous maneuver yet. The problem was, of course, Yasha. He was too powerful, too influential within the KGB, and too loyal to his own ideals. Khrushchev knew the only way to weaken him was to target what he loved most—what he had built in his own image.
And so, Pyotr had become the key.
Khrushchev had been biding his time, waiting for the right moment. For years, he had watched Yasha’s relationship with the boy—a relationship that seemed both coldly calculating and disturbingly paternal—and had carefully planted the seeds of dissent. He had cultivated Pyotr, using his status as a member of the Sokolov family to manipulate and control him, all the while positioning him as a tool in his greater game. Now, the time had come to sever that tie.
The decision was made.
He had reached out to his contacts within the highest echelons of HYDRA, carefully orchestrating Pyotr’s capture. No one could know that the Soviets were involved. It had to appear as though the young man had gone rogue—an agent lost to his ideals, a traitor to the motherland. But Khrushchev wasn’t blind to the risks. HYDRA had their own agenda, and if anything, they would use Pyotr for their own purposes. The thought of them gaining control over such a valuable asset didn’t concern him as much as it should have. After all, once Yasha was left vulnerable and without his “heir,” Khrushchev would finally have the upper hand.

Berlin – November 1961
The KGB station in Berlin had been on edge all day. Pyotr sat in his station, reviewing reports, his mind still lingering on the intense political climate outside the station’s walls. The tension had only increased over the past few weeks, with whispers of Western interference in East Berlin, and the constant pressure from Yasha to keep things quiet. Pyotr had been keeping his distance from the more sensitive operations, focusing on surveillance and the general duties of a KGB sergeant.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement in the hallway. At first, it was just a small disruption—a few agents walking past, exchanging hushed words. Then came the hurried footsteps, the door to the station opening with more force than usual, and the sudden shout that sent a chill down his spine.
"Comrade Barnes! Get up! Now!"
Before he could react, a group of masked agents stormed into the room, their uniforms unfamiliar. Pyotr barely had time to register what was happening before he was surrounded, restrained, and dragged from his seat.
The struggle was brief—Pyotr was strong, but the element of surprise was against him. The men who had entered the station were not Soviet agents. They were something else, something darker. HYDRA.
He fought against their grip, twisting, kicking, trying to break free, but it was no use. Within moments, they had him out of the building, through the back alleyways, and into a waiting vehicle. The door slammed shut, and everything went dark.

Moscow – Khrushchev’s Office – November 1961
Khrushchev leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He had just received the final confirmation from his contacts in Berlin. Pyotr Barnes—now nothing more than a name on a missing person’s list—had been successfully extracted. He had disappeared without a trace, the official story now being that the young man had betrayed his country, defected to the West, or perhaps joined forces with the enemy.
Khrushchev’s smile grew wider. It was a calculated move. Now, he could place the blame squarely on Pyotr’s shoulders. He would be labeled a traitor, a symbol of everything that was wrong with Yasha’s vision for the Soviet Union. The people would rally behind Khrushchev, united by the belief that Yasha’s own flesh and blood had turned against them.
The phone on his desk rang, and Khrushchev picked it up without hesitation. It was time for the next step.
"Yes?" he answered coldly.
"Comrade Khrushchev," came the voice on the other end of the line, a steady, unshakable tone. "The operation is complete. Pyotr Barnes is in our custody, and the narrative is already being set in motion."
"Good," Khrushchev replied, his voice unwavering. "We proceed as planned."

Yasha’s Office – Moscow – November 1961
Yasha stood in his office, looking out over the grey sky of Moscow. The recent reports from Berlin had made him uneasy, but there was nothing unusual in them. The city was, after all, in a constant state of flux, and while there were whispers of discontent, there was little real evidence of a major shift.
He had just returned from a meeting with the Politburo, a room full of men whose loyalty he had always questioned. But today, something gnawed at him. There was a strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing sensation that wouldn't let go.
His thoughts turned to Pyotr. The boy had been more than just an asset; he had become something of a son to him, a constant presence in his life after years of loneliness. Yasha had always known that Pyotr’s position within the KGB was precarious, but he had believed in his loyalty.
That was until the report came in.
It had started as a whisper—a message hidden among other intelligence reports. Pyotr had gone missing from his post in Berlin. There were no details, just a quick note about a sudden disappearance. At first, Yasha had assumed it was a mistake, or perhaps a misunderstanding. But the more he dug, the less clear things became.
No one had seen Pyotr since his last assignment. There were no signs of a struggle at his station, no signs of infiltration by the West. Just the emptiness.
The empty feeling in his stomach grew worse, gnawing at him as though something fundamental had slipped through his fingers.
Then came the official report: Pyotr Barnes was missing, and authorities believed he may have defected or turned traitor. The words were like a punch to the gut.
Yasha’s mind raced. A traitor? His own blood? It didn’t make sense. No. This was a lie. But who would spread such a lie? Khrushchev? Could it be that Khrushchev had orchestrated this to weaken him? It was the kind of move Khrushchev would make, a calculated strike designed to break him.
His hands balled into fists. He would find Pyotr. He had to.

December 1961 – KGB Archives, Moscow
Yasha stood in the subterranean archives of the Lubyanka like a statue carved from ice. Around him, agents scurried, rifling through folders, audio reels, mission logs—useless. Useless because he already knew what he wouldn’t find.
Pyotr hadn’t defected. Pyotr hadn’t run. Someone had taken him.
Someone had taken what was his.
He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth, eyes scanning a file that claimed to detail Pyotr’s last surveillance operation in East Berlin. Generic. Sanitized. No record of his extraction team. No witnesses. Just... vanishing.
He passed the file to a junior agent with a flick of his fingers. “Trace every informant tied to Station Berlin. Any man who so much as swept the floors is to be interviewed. If one lies, make sure he doesn’t do it again.”
The agent nodded nervously.
Yasha turned and walked away without another word. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t afraid. He was offended.
Pyotr had been taken without permission. Not by Sokolov. Not on orders. That was unacceptable.

January 1962 – Unknown HYDRA Facility, Location Classified
Pyotr awoke strapped to a chair. The restraints dug into his skin, bruises painting his ribs from endless beatings. His mouth was dry. His eyes couldn’t focus.
“Tell me your name,” said the man in the lab coat again. His voice was patient. Friendly.
Pyotr didn’t answer. He’d lost track of how long he’d been here.
The man smiled, nodded. “Very well.”
He flipped a switch.
Electricity poured into Pyotr’s skull. He screamed.
Somewhere above him, a rotating arm lowered a mechanical halo down onto his head—the memory wipe array. He knew it by now. He’d learned its rhythm. The burn of it. The silence that followed.
“You are asset designation: SOLDAT.”
“No—” Pyotr croaked.
“Winter Soldier,” the man said again, gently. “You belong to us now.”

March 1962 – Moscow Safehouse
Yasha sat beside Sokolov on a velvet fainting couch, his head pressed dutifully to the man’s thigh. Sokolov absently threaded fingers through Yasha’s hair while reading through dispatches.
“Nothing still?”
“No. They’ve scrubbed it clean. Whoever took him—whoever—has powerful backers.”
Sokolov looked down. “And how do you feel, General?”
Yasha lifted his head slightly. “I feel insulted.”
“Not hurt?”
Yasha blinked once. “He was mine. They took him without my leave. If you had asked me to put him down, I would have. You know that.”
Sokolov smiled. “I do. It’s what makes you beautiful.”
Yasha smiled faintly back. It was the only time he smiled anymore.

April 1962 – HYDRA Cell, Indoctrination Room
“Trigger words?” the handler asked.
The doctor nodded. “Test them.”
The handler leaned in close to the now-silent Pyotr—skin pallid, eyes vacant.
“Longing.”
A blink.
“Rusted.”
A shiver.
“Seventeen.”
A tremble down the spine.
“Dawn. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.”
Pyotr’s body stilled. His eyes, now utterly lifeless, locked forward.
The handler snapped his fingers. “Soldat?”
“Yes,” Pyotr replied in Russian.
“Who do you serve?”
“HYDRA.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the Winter Soldier.”

July 1962 – Yasha’s Office, Moscow
The file on Yasha’s desk was thin. A single scrap from a Red Room defector—rumors of German scientists collaborating with HYDRA cells in the East.
No names. No locations. But there was a phrase that set Yasha’s teeth on edge:
“A subject stolen from the KGB. Enhanced. Obedient. Cold.”
Yasha tapped the page with a gloved finger. "I want everything on Soviet-German collaboration projects—HYDRA-adjacent or otherwise."
“But sir—”
He looked up, dead-eyed. “If I have to come down there and dig it out myself, I will. And I will not be diplomatic.”
The agent left without another word.
Yasha leaned back in his chair. He still didn’t feel anything. But the memory of Sokolov’s fingers in his hair grounded him.
Pyotr was somewhere.
And when Yasha found him, he’d remind the boy who he belonged to.

Chapter 45: The Cuban Missile Crisis

September 1962 – The Kremlin, Late Night
Yasha stood in a marble hallway lined with portraits of dead men.
Khrushchev’s voice buzzed behind the heavy oak doors of the Politburo meeting room. The First Secretary was increasingly surrounded by flatterers and jackals—generals who didn’t trust Yasha but smiled through their teeth.
Yasha didn’t smile.
He watched the door and thought of Pyotr. It had been over a year. The trail had gone cold. No new whispers. No new leads.
Not even a body.
And that was the part that kept him awake.
He turned as Sokolov approached from a side corridor, hands folded behind his back, coat sharp and ceremonial.
“Any word?” Sokolov asked.
“No,” Yasha replied. “But something’s moving. I can feel it.”
Sokolov’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “You always say that right before a storm.”

October 13, 1962 – KGB Headquarters, Command Briefing Room
Yasha stared at the reconnaissance photos on the wall. U-2 aerials. They confirmed it: missiles in Cuba. Real. Operational.
Khrushchev wasn’t bluffing.
And now neither could the Americans.
Behind him, Dreykov was speaking to a cluster of officers, outlining contingency plans in case of American invasion or assassination attempts. Yasha didn’t listen. Not really.
The room was filled with men who thought they were playing chess.
Yasha saw the truth.
This wasn’t chess. This was a cage match. Someone had unleashed a monster and thrown the world in with it. One wrong move, and everything would end in ash.
And still, in the back of his mind, there was only one thought:
If Pyotr were here, he would be laughing.

October 19, 1962 – Yasha’s Apartment, Midnight
The walls were thick. Soundproofed. Safe.
Yasha sat in a high-backed chair beside Sokolov’s sleeping form, smoking a cigarette and reading the latest CIA cables intercepted by a Red Room courier. Kennedy had convened his ExComm. The Americans knew. A blockade was likely.
A blockade meant escalation.
And escalation meant blood.
Yasha folded the cable and set it down. He stared at Sokolov’s bare chest, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.
He whispered, almost to himself: “They took what was mine. And now they threaten what’s yours.”
Sokolov stirred faintly. “You’re talking to ghosts again.”
“No.” Yasha put the cigarette out. “Ghosts don’t breathe.”

October 23, 1962 – Red Room Observation Tower
The Red Room girls were running drills far below—perfect little machines of death.
Yasha stood beside Dreykov in the upper gallery, arms folded. The older man’s eyes were sharp, calculating.
“You’re not watching them,” Dreykov said after a moment.
“No.”
“You think Khrushchev is going to get us all killed.”
“I think he already has.”
Dreykov smirked. “That would be a shame. You’ve worked so hard building your empire.”
Yasha’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me, Dreykov. You’ll find I’m the only one who lets you breathe in this place.”
“Only because Khrushchev says so.”
“For now.”

October 26, 1962 – Moscow, Encrypted Communications Room
Yasha stood alone, listening to the hotline crackle.
The Americans were blinking.
Kennedy wanted a deal.
Yasha’s fingers hovered above the keys of a cipher pad. A response was being drafted. Something safe. Calculated.
But Yasha wasn’t thinking about Kennedy.
He was thinking about the silence from Berlin.
He was thinking about Pyotr’s eyes, how sharp they’d once been. How trusting. How easily manipulated.
He keyed in a private priority code—one few even knew existed. A direct request to deep Soviet informants embedded in old Nazi circles.
“Search again,” he wrote. “Any information on German scientists working off-grid. Keywords: ‘conditioning,’ ‘asset,’ ‘Winter.’”
He sent it.
Then leaned back and smiled to himself, cold and cruel.
“If I can’t find him alive,” he muttered, “then I will find the people who killed him. And I’ll wear their names like medals.”

October 29, 1962 — Lubyanka Prison, Sub-Basement Interrogation Cell
The walls of the cell sweated with moisture. Yasha sat across from Colonel Mikhail Baranov—once a trusted Khrushchev aide. Now he was stripped to his undershirt, trembling under the dull yellow overhead bulb.
“You think this is about missiles,” Yasha said, voice low, clinical.
Baranov bled from the nose. His eye was swelling shut.
“You think the world is about ideology. Borders. Power blocs. But this is about ownership.” He leaned forward. “Something was taken from me. And you were in the room.”
“I—I never—”
“You signed the transfer request,” Yasha interrupted. “You thought I wouldn’t find it.”
Baranov swallowed. “I didn’t know it was your—”
“You did.”
Yasha reached into his coat and laid down a thin red folder. Stamped with HYDRA’s coiled tentacle. Soviet letterhead.
“Berlin. August of last year. Khrushchev’s signature. Your authorization. The cargo manifest was redacted, but not well enough. It says: Sokolov-P, asset class.*”
Baranov’s lip quivered.
“You handed my son to HYDRA like a bargaining chip.” Yasha rose. “Do you know what I do to people who touch what’s mine?”
He left the room a minute later. Baranov didn’t scream again.

November 2, 1962 — The Dacha of General Aleksandr Konev
A fire crackled in the hearth. Konev poured himself a brandy with steady hands, hiding the sweat along his collar.
“You’ve come to threaten me,” he said plainly.
“No.” Yasha accepted the drink without drinking it. “I’ve come to give you an opportunity.”
Konev raised an eyebrow.
“Three of your closest political allies have suffered unfortunate career setbacks in the past forty-eight hours. One is being investigated for ‘corruption.’ One had a car accident. The third had a stroke—tragic.”
“You’re very efficient.”
Yasha sipped the brandy. “I prefer the term precise.”
“What do you want?”
“Your vote.” Yasha stood. “When the Central Committee calls for review of Khrushchev’s authority—as they will by spring—I want your loyalty ready.”
Konev hesitated.
Yasha smiled. “And in return, I’ll ensure your grandchildren never learn how their grandfather bartered with fascists in Berlin.”
He left the glass untouched on the mantle.

November 9, 1962 — Sokolov’s Estate, Study
Sokolov sat behind his desk, watching Yasha pace like a panther.
“I found it,” Yasha said. “I found the paper trail.”
“HYDRA?”
Yasha tossed down the folder. “Khrushchev sold Pyotr to them. Off-book. Classified it as a political defection to justify it to the Americans in case of exposure.”
Sokolov’s jaw set. “What does he gain?”
Yasha’s voice dropped to something ragged, almost human. “Me.”
He looked away. “He thought that without Pyotr, I’d unravel. Or obey. Or kill myself in grief.”
Sokolov rose and crossed to him. “Will you?”
Yasha didn’t answer at first. He turned to the window, watching the slow snowfall beyond the estate.
“No,” he said finally. “I’m going to kill him.”

Chapter 46: The Long Game

November 15, 1962 — Sokolov Estate, Midnight
The fire was dying. Shadows stretched long and flickered across the study as Yasha knelt, shirtless, head bowed between Sokolov’s legs.
Not in reverence. In submission.
He breathed slow and steady against Sokolov’s thigh as the man carded his fingers through Yasha’s dark hair. Possessive. Familiar.
“You’ve been brooding,” Sokolov murmured, voice roughened by wine and the hour.
Yasha didn’t answer.
“You know what you have to do,” Sokolov went on. “You always know. This is just the part where you feel like you’re not in control, even though you are.”
“I hate not being in control,” Yasha whispered.
Sokolov tilted his chin up, forcing Yasha to meet his eyes. “Then take it back.”
Yasha’s lips curled. “He took Pyotr. Not you.”
“No,” Sokolov agreed. “Because I know what’s mine.”

November 18, 1962 — Lubyanka Archives, Restricted Vaults
Yasha flipped through documents at a pace no human could match, memorizing everything.
Names. Numbers. Patterns.
Khrushchev’s allies. Their vices. Mistresses. Hidden bank accounts in Prague. Statements of loyalty laced with plausible deniability.
He flagged every weak link. Every soft belly.
All it would take was the right pressure at the right time.
And when they screamed, they would scream his name.

November 30, 1962 — Sokolov Estate, Upper Corridor
Yasha stood at the window, arms behind his back, clad in his dark robe. Snow fell over the orchard.
Behind him, Sokolov stirred in bed, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed, lapushka.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You never sleep.”
“I used to,” Yasha said quietly. “When he was here. When you were both here.”
A beat of silence.
Sokolov rose, wrapping the sheet around himself like a king’s mantle, and came to stand behind Yasha. “You’re dangerous when you’re alone.”
“I’m always alone.”
“Not when you’re with me.”
Yasha turned his head just slightly. Enough for Sokolov to see the edge of his expression—cold, starved, but tethered.
“I want them to know,” Yasha murmured. “I want every man who backed that little pig to know that Pyotr was mine. That they stole from me. And that I’m going to take something back from them they’ll never recover from.”
Sokolov stepped closer. “You will.”
Yasha looked down at his reflection in the darkened glass. “Do you still want me?”
Sokolov’s answer came instantly, possessively: “Always.”

December 6, 1962 — Private Meeting Room, Ministry of Defense
Three men sat around a heavy oak table. Generals. Untouchables—until now.
Yasha stood, gloves folded in his hand, perfectly pressed.
“No need to fear me,” he said with a thin smile. “You’ve always supported the Union. You’ve always supported stability.”
They said nothing.
“You’re tired of Khrushchev. His arrogance. His blundering. His little secret projects that risk war.”
He placed a thin folder on the table. Inside: documentation. Audio recordings. One photograph that couldn’t possibly exist—of one of the generals’ sons, very much alive after being listed as killed in action.
“Support me when the time comes,” Yasha said. “Or I will remind you what I am.”

December 24, 1962 — Sokolov Estate, Bedroom
Yasha lay in bed, body coiled around Sokolov’s. Like a pet. Like a weapon waiting for the leash to be tugged.
“Next year,” Yasha murmured, eyes on the ceiling, “Khrushchev falls.”
“And what happens after?” Sokolov asked.
“I take control.”
“You already have.”
Yasha’s lips quirked. “Not officially.”
Sokolov smirked in the dark. “You always did like a crown.”
“I like the collar more.”
Sokolov ran his hand down Yasha’s chest, to the silver collar beneath his shirt, kept hidden even when uniformed. “And I like reminding you you’re mine.”
Yasha sighed, content, for the first time in months. “Always.”

January 1963 — Sokolov Estate, Private Study
The samovar hissed gently in the background. Snow whispered against the windows.
Yasha sat across from Sokolov, both of them dressed casually for once—wool, leather, linen. They were men in the quiet between storms, conspirators more than lovers tonight.
"We can't leave a vacuum," Yasha said, pouring tea with steady hands. "If Khrushchev falls without a successor in place, there will be chaos."
Sokolov stirred honey into his cup. "You want the throne, lapushka?"
Yasha didn’t dignify that with a response.
Sokolov smiled. "No. You want to own the one who sits on it."
"He needs to be ours. Loyal. Predictable. Ruthless only when we tell him to be."
Sokolov’s brow arched. "And who fits that description?"
Yasha answered without hesitation. "Brezhnev."
Sokolov leaned back, thoughtful. "Ambitious. Nationalist. Doesn't ask questions if the trains run on time. And he's fond of you."
"He's fond of you," Yasha corrected. "I just made sure he owed me enough favors to burn Moscow twice."
They exchanged a quiet look. Agreement passed between them without words.
Sokolov sipped his tea. "Then it's decided. When the pig falls, the bear rises."
Yasha nodded once, eyes distant. Already calculating.

February 1963 — Moscow, KGB Operations Wing
Yasha walked the corridors of the KGB like a ghost in a cathedral. Men stepped aside. Whispers followed in his wake. None dared speak his name aloud.
Brezhnev waited in Yasha’s private office. They greeted each other as old friends—firm handshake, unspoken understanding.
Yasha poured vodka. "Things are changing. You’ll need to be ready."
Brezhnev accepted the glass. "Will Khrushchev know it's you?"
"He’ll suspect. But he won’t be able to stop it."
Brezhnev sipped. "And you? What will you be?"
Yasha gave a cold smile. "The man who whispers in the tsar’s ear."

March 1963 — Moscow–DC Hotline Preparations
The newly proposed direct line between Moscow and Washington was a security nightmare—and an opportunity.
Yasha attended the meetings, silent, eyes sharp. Sokolov sat in shadow at the back, observing every diplomat with predator’s patience.
Later that night, in bed, Yasha murmured, "We’ll use it. When the time comes. To reach Carter. To find Pyotr."
Sokolov stroked his hair. "You’re still looking."
Yasha’s voice was calm. Clinical. "I am. Because he’s mine."
Sokolov didn’t argue. He knew the rules of ownership better than anyone.

JUNE 1963
MOSCOW, KREMLIN HOTLINE ROOM
The room was soundproofed, windowless, and sparse—just a red rotary phone in the center of a desk, a silent sentinel between empires. Yasha stood in full uniform, posture impeccable, his face as blank as ever. Only the twitch of his gloved fingers betrayed the tension beneath the surface. Sokolov was not with him tonight. This was a performance Yasha would conduct alone.
He lifted the receiver.
"This is General Yasha Sokolov," he said, crisp and formal. "I would speak to Agent Margaret Carter."
The hold was brief. The Americans had been waiting for him.
"This is Carter," came the voice on the other end, low and wary.
"Margaret," he said, allowing a note of weariness to color his tone. "Thank you for answering."
There was a pause. "What do you want, Yasha?"
He allowed a sigh. "I'm calling not as a General, but as a father."
Another pause—this one sharper. "Pyotr."
"Yes. He's gone missing. Berlin. Last August. Declared a traitor by my superiors. I do not believe it. I believe he was taken."
Peggy's voice was taut with suspicion. "And you want me to believe you care for him now? That you're worried?"
Yasha pitched his voice just right—low, aching, but restrained. "You met him. You saw what he had become. That was not coincidence. He was brilliant. Loyal. Mine. They took him from me."
Peggy let out a breath that trembled at the edge of belief. "You raised him to be you, Yasha. You trained him to lie, to kill. And now you're surprised he's gone missing in that same darkness?"
"Perhaps," Yasha admitted. "But I have lost much. And I will not lose him. Not without a fight. I thought perhaps, if you had anything—any information."
She didn’t respond immediately. Her voice, when it came, was softer. "I saw what you were once. I know what they made you. I still hope there's something left of the man James Barnes used to be. And maybe—maybe there's still hope for Pyotr. I’ll look into it. No promises."
Yasha closed his eyes. Played the role perfectly. "Thank you. That is all I ask."
He replaced the receiver. Stared at the phone a moment longer.
The mask slipped away the second the line went dead. No softness lingered in his expression. Only cold calculation.
Peggy Carter’s hope was a weakness.
And Yasha would exploit it as far as it could go.

Across the city, Sokolov waited by the fire in the study, sipping cognac. Yasha returned silently and knelt before his Master without a word.
"Did she take the bait?" Sokolov asked.
"She did," Yasha murmured. "She will help us find him."
Sokolov smiled faintly and ran a gloved hand through Yasha’s hair.
"Good boy."
Yasha leaned into the touch, eyes cold.
Soon, he would have Pyotr back.
And heads would roll.

Chapter 47: JFK Assassination

Moscow, Spring 1963
Khrushchev was slipping.
The signs were everywhere—minor missteps bloated into diplomatic embarrassments, whispers behind doors now spoken aloud in closed meetings. The Party’s faith in him was thinning, and Yasha, ever the patient wolf, was quietly baring his teeth. It was almost time.
From the upper floor of the Sokolov estate, Yasha reviewed dossiers, names marked in black ink, his mind quietly pruning the Soviet hierarchy. He no longer questioned the ethics of what needed to be done—he had long since traded morality for clarity, for control. Khrushchev’s supporters would fall like dominos. The ones worth sparing would be bought. The rest, discarded like rotten meat.
The door creaked open behind him. Pyotr’s old room had been converted into a private office for Yasha—sterile, tactical, stripped of sentiment. But when the sound of approaching steps echoed in the space, the air thickened.
Sokolov entered silently, still dressed in the formal black of an advisor’s suit, but his eyes—his eyes were fixed with possession.
“You haven’t come to bed,” Sokolov murmured, voice low and full of expectation. “You forget your place.”
Yasha didn’t speak. He stood immediately, back ramrod straight. The glint of his collar, otherwise hidden by his high-buttoned tunic, caught the low light. He reached behind his neck, unfastening it silently. He didn’t need to ask what Sokolov wanted.
He knelt.
Sokolov approached with slow steps, undoing the cuffs of his shirt as he did, a slight smirk on his face—not amused, not kind. Satisfied. Possessive. He curled his fingers under Yasha’s chin and tilted the General’s face upward.
“You forget yourself when you don’t have anyone to own,” he said. “Tell me, Pet—what are you without someone to leash you?”
Yasha’s voice was soft, reverent. “I am yours, Master. Only yours.”
A flicker of pleasure crossed Sokolov’s face. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Yasha’s forehead like a priest anointing a supplicant. “Then remember that. Pyotr was never yours. His loss was not a wound to your heart—it was a disruption of my property.”
Yasha bowed his head. “Yes, Master.”
“You have a use again,” Sokolov continued, hand brushing down Yasha’s cheek. “And when Khrushchev falls, you’ll remember who built you into what you are.”
Yasha felt a flush of something akin to serenity. It wasn’t love—not in the way others meant it. It was need, absolute and total. In the quiet violence of their world, this submission was the only language that gave him peace.
—
Later That Week
Brezhnev came to the estate under the cover of darkness. The man had always been sharp, cunning, and above all, pragmatic. Yasha respected him for that—respected the way he never reached too high unless he was certain the fall wouldn’t kill him.
“We’ll install you before year’s end,” Yasha said, arms folded, posture relaxed but eyes always calculating. “You won’t owe me loyalty. You’ll owe me silence. Do we understand one another?”
Brezhnev chuckled, pouring himself a small glass of vodka he wouldn’t finish. “I never wanted the throne. But I’ll take it if it means cleaning up this mess.”
Sokolov appeared at the doorway behind Yasha, silent as ever. “And when you are Premier, Leonid, we expect cooperation. The Red Room, the KGB—our oversight continues.”
Brezhnev gave a slight nod. “Of course. You two built the infrastructure. I would be a fool to dismantle it.”
—
That Night
Yasha lay beside Sokolov on the fur-covered divan in their private quarters, head on the older man’s lap, eyes half-lidded as fingers combed through his hair. It was a moment carved out of steel and silence, something neither of them would admit they needed.
“You’ve done well,” Sokolov said softly. “You always do when I focus you.”
“I live for your focus,” Yasha murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of his Master’s wrist. “I don’t want anything else.”
“You’ll have Brezhnev,” Sokolov said. “And through him, the Soviet Union. You’ve made me proud.”
Yasha’s breath hitched. Not because he cared for the pride of others—but because Sokolov’s approval was the closest thing to heaven Yasha believed in.
He would destroy the world for that pride. He already had.

Moscow, November 22, 1963 — Nightfall
The news reached him by secure line. Shortwave buzzed and crackled as a trembling voice from the Lubyanka headquarters confirmed it.
President John F. Kennedy. Dead. Shot in Dallas.
Three shots, they said. A bolt-action rifle. Crowds. A public execution wrapped in confusion. The Americans were in chaos.
Yasha said nothing at first. He ended the transmission and remained perfectly still, lit only by the dim desk lamp in his private office at the estate. Across from him, the fire crackled in its stone hearth, and the shadows danced like ghosts.
He reached for the folder already sitting beside the phone. He hadn’t expected the timing—but he’d expected something. The internal briefings had grown increasingly bizarre in the past weeks: chatter about defectors, HYDRA remnants in Cuba, double agents whose loyalties couldn’t be confirmed.
Now this.
He opened the folder.
Photos from American intelligence. Sourced through a CIA mole Yasha had on a tight string—one who didn’t even know they were being played. Surveillance images, enhanced and grainy. Black-and-white stills from the Book Depository. Zapruder footage frames.
And then—
A figure in the crowd. Not Oswald. Clean-cut. Slavic cheekbones. Sharp eyes. A boy’s face hardened by steel.
Pyotr.
Yasha's blood ran cold—not from grief. Not from pain. From certainty.
Pyotr had been here.
He traced his finger slowly down the edge of the photo. The way the shadow bent beneath the coat. The telltale slight twitch in the right shoulder—a mark of a shattered collarbone that had never fully healed, one that Yasha remembered bandaging himself a decade ago.
They had trained Pyotr to be elegant in death.
HYDRA.
Yasha flipped to the next document—confidential intelligence obtained from a recovered satellite tap. Khrushchev’s voice. A recording barely decrypted from the NSA’s own listening posts.
“…not permanent, just to regain momentum. The Americans need to fear us again. We gave them chaos in Texas… HYDRA did what we could not…”
We.
Yasha’s jaw tightened. “We” meant Khrushchev. “We” meant betrayal.
His fingers clenched, crumpling the photo of the dead American president.
They had used Pyotr.
They had carved him open and hollowed him out. Not to break Yasha’s heart—Khrushchev never understood him well enough to aim there. No, they’d done it to reclaim power. To force Yasha into silence or complicity. But he would not be made to kneel by anyone but his Master.
Not now. Not ever.

Later That Night — Private Quarters, Sokolov Estate
Sokolov read the file slowly. He wore his reading glasses, a rare sight, and beneath them, his gaze sharpened like broken glass. He closed the folder with deliberate calm.
“So. Khrushchev used HYDRA to put a puppet on the stage. And Pyotr was their bullet.”
Yasha stood near the window, arms folded, staring into the snow-covered night. “He was mine. He was trained under our hands. That precision, that execution style… it was his.”
“But altered,” Sokolov said, moving to pour himself a drink. “There’s damage in his posture. That doesn’t come from training. That comes from the Chair.”
Yasha turned. “Memory wipe?”
“Likely. Fragmentation, trigger conditioning. HYDRA does not build men. They break them and give them a name.”
He handed Yasha the glass.
Yasha didn’t drink it. He stared down at the amber swirl and murmured, “They made my weapon their own.”
“You made the mistake of calling him your son,” Sokolov said flatly. “He was your blade. Your scalpel. And now they wield it.”
Yasha lifted his gaze, something colder than rage simmering beneath his eyes. “Then I will take him back. Piece by piece.”
“And Khrushchev?”
Yasha’s smile was a knife.
“Soon.”

Chapter 48: The Fall

Moscow, February 1964
The Winter Palace Estate – Private Quarters
The snowstorm had suffocated the city by nightfall, blanketing the Soviet capital in a hush that even the KGB’s iron heartbeat couldn’t disturb. But inside the estate—rebuilt in decadent secrecy on the bones of Romanov luxury—Yasha’s war machine never slept.
The operation was in motion.
Khrushchev’s allies were being stripped from him, their reputations quietly corroded by “undisclosed corruption,” their wives unfaithful, their sons suddenly recalled from university. Files had been leaked to Party officials just naive enough to believe they’d discovered the information themselves. It wouldn’t be long before Khrushchev stood alone atop his crumbling throne.
And then Yasha would knock it out from under him.
But tonight, for once, there was no blood to be spilled. No strings to pull. No orders to encrypt.
Tonight, he was called.
He stood before the heavy door of the eastern wing. His chest tight. Throat dry. The quiet command had come through the private signal line an hour ago: two short taps, one long. No other message.
He knocked once.
“Enter,” came the low voice from inside.
Yasha stepped through and closed the door behind him.
The lights were low, bathed in amber and gold. A fire crackled in the hearth. The walls were lined in thick velvet, muffling the world. This was the only room where the KGB General did not exist. Where the Winter Soldier’s bones could thaw without guilt. Where James Barnes was a ghost chained behind his eyes, and only Pet remained.
Sokolov stood near the fireplace, in a velvet dressing gown embroidered with black lions—imperial, commanding. His silver hair was brushed back, his expression unreadable.
“You’ve done well,” Sokolov said. “Khrushchev won’t last the year.”
Yasha bowed his head. “He is isolated. All that remains is the strike.”
Sokolov studied him for a long moment, then crossed the room slowly, deliberately. His gloved fingers grazed Yasha’s collarbone, unfastening the top buttons of his military coat. “Remove it.”
Yasha obeyed.
He shrugged out of the uniform with practiced ease, folding it precisely even as his pulse climbed. The moment the tunic left his shoulders, he felt smaller. Stripped of rank. Of power. Of illusion.
Of the lie.
Sokolov circled him like a predator inspecting his kill. “Do you know why I’ve summoned you tonight?”
Yasha’s voice was quiet. “To reward me.”
“And do you believe you deserve it?”
A pause.
“Yes, Master.”
“Then show me.”
Yasha dropped to his knees, head bowed, fingers laced behind his back. The silver collar—always worn under his uniform, always hidden—gleamed faintly in the firelight.
Sokolov tilted his chin up with one hand, inspecting him like a sculptor admiring his finest piece.
“You’ve earned a night without war,” he murmured. “But don’t mistake that for freedom.”
“I never do,” Yasha whispered.
The leash clicked into place with a soft snap.

March 1964 — A Gift Returned
Location: Winter Palace Estate, Private Office
Sokolov placed the black lacquered box on Yasha’s desk and leaned back, sipping his tea. “You left this behind in Berlin,” he said mildly.
Yasha opened the box and paused. Inside sat a worn dog tag, his old American one—Barnes, J., scratched and scorched, but unmistakable.
“I thought it destroyed,” Yasha said.
Sokolov’s lips curved. “I had it recovered. A reminder.”
Yasha closed the box slowly. “Of what?”
“That even the fiercest dogs were once something else.”
Yasha looked up, eyes unreadable. “And now?”
“Now you are mine.” Sokolov stood and brushed a kiss to Yasha’s temple. “Entirely.”

May 1964 — Behind Closed Doors
Location: State Dacha, Black Sea
They rarely touched in public. Too dangerous. Too decadent. But here, beyond prying eyes and wiretaps, they let the façade fall.
Yasha stood at the edge of the balcony overlooking the sea, still shirtless from sleep. Sokolov came up behind him and rested a hand on his waist.
“The Americans are sniffing again,” Sokolov murmured. “Langley knows something is brewing.”
“I’ll feed them a breadcrumb,” Yasha replied. “Khrushchev will look guilty. He always does.”
Sokolov hummed and kissed the nape of his neck.
“Sometimes I think they believe you're the danger,” he said against Yasha’s skin.
Yasha’s voice was quiet. “I am.”

July 1964 — The Quiet Before the Strike
Location: Moscow Safehouse
Yasha lay at his Master’s feet, head resting against Sokolov’s knee as the older man read through intelligence briefings with one hand and idly combed the other through Yasha’s hair.
“They still call me Barnes in Langley,” Yasha said, not looking up.
Sokolov didn’t pause his reading. “That name died in 1945.”
“Did it?” Yasha asked. “Or did we just bury it?”
Sokolov folded the report and placed it aside. “Your past is a ruin, Yasha. Beautiful in its decay. But a ruin, nonetheless.”
A beat passed.
“And Pyotr?”
The question hung in the room like smoke.
Sokolov's hand didn’t stop moving. “We will rebuild what was stolen.”

September 1964 — The Final Warning
Location: Kremlin Hallway
Yasha stood in full uniform, crisp and severe, his gloved hands folded behind his back as he intercepted one of Khrushchev’s remaining loyalists—General Denisov.
“You should leave Moscow,” Yasha said softly, barely above a whisper. “Tonight.”
Denisov laughed, nervous. “You can’t scare me, Barnes.”
“Of course not,” Yasha said. “But when they find you hanging from your own balcony, they’ll say I warned you.”
He walked past without looking back.
That night, Denisov fled to Kiev.

October 15, 1964 — Kremlin, Red Hall of Apparat Affairs
Khrushchev’s fall was quiet.
No grand tribunal. No public execution.
Just a letter. A vote. A reshuffling of hands behind locked doors.
But Yasha had always known: power didn’t shift with ceremony—it shifted with pressure. With threat. With loyalty purchased in blood.
He stood at the edge of the red-carpeted hall, gloved hands resting behind his back as the vote was read aloud in dry tones. “Unanimous,” the voice declared.
Khrushchev’s shoulders sagged.
Brezhnev smiled.
And Yasha, standing like the shadow of God at the head of the room, said nothing.
Until he turned.
“Dreykov.”
The Director of the Red Room froze in place. Others were already filing out, eager to distance themselves from the wreckage, but Dreykov knew better than to run. He stepped forward slowly, eyes darting.
Yasha removed one glove.
He extended the bare hand.
“Kneel.”
Dreykov’s mouth opened. “General Sokolov—”
“I said kneel, Director.”
The command struck like a whip. Dreykov’s knees hit the floor hard.
Yasha stepped forward until his polished black boots—military leather, custom-tooled—were an inch from Dreykov’s nose.
“Do you know what I am?” Yasha asked quietly.
Dreykov stared up, face tight with pride and humiliation.
“I am what comes after. I am what they created and lost control of. And you, Director, owe me more than you can ever repay.”
Yasha raised his boot slightly.
“Kiss it.”
Dreykov’s jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he bent forward and pressed his lips to the toe of the boot. Once. Twice. His breath fogged the leather.
Yasha didn’t smile.
“Again.”
And Dreykov obeyed.
When it was done, Yasha turned and walked toward Brezhnev, who stood by the tall window, already assuming the mantle of Premier. The two men exchanged a nod—brief, strategic, final.
Sokolov appeared at Yasha’s side, silent and stately.
“Well?” the Master asked under his breath.
Yasha didn’t look back.
“His mouth tasted like fear.”

Later That Night — Sokolov Estate, Winter Room
The fire crackled low, casting golden light across the silk carpets and carved panels. Snow had begun to fall again, silent against the tall windows.
Yasha was still in uniform—immaculate as always—kneeling on the fur rug between his Master’s legs. The high-collared coat was unbuttoned but still worn, his medals glinting faintly in the firelight. His gloves lay neatly folded on the ottoman. He hadn’t moved since Sokolov entered the room, his spine straight, breath steady, eyes downcast.
Sokolov poured himself a glass of vodka, then poured another. He took a seat in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and studied the General at his feet.
“My beautiful hound,” he murmured. “My obedient wolf.”
Yasha’s fingers twitched, but he remained still.
“You did well today,” Sokolov continued, running a gloved hand through Yasha’s hair, careful not to disturb the styling too much. “Dreykov will think twice before disobeying again. And Brezhnev… owes us everything.”
He brought the second glass of vodka to Yasha’s lips.
“Drink.”
Yasha obeyed. Not a drop spilled.
Sokolov set the glass aside and leaned down slowly, tracing a finger along the scar just beneath Yasha’s collar—the place no one else dared touch. The hidden collar beneath the uniform was warm, tight against Yasha’s throat. Only he knew how to unlock it. Only he would.
With practiced ease, Sokolov tugged Yasha’s medals aside and unhooked the coat, letting it slip from broad shoulders until the General was half-bare—collar still fixed, skin still hot from battle and submission.
“You’ve earned tonight,” Sokolov whispered.
He stood, letting his own robes fall from his shoulders. Black silk pooled like ink around his feet. He stepped over Yasha, nudging him down onto his elbows with one foot, holding his Pet in place with a gentle heel pressed between his shoulder blades.
Yasha sighed—a sound of relief, not protest.
“I will remind you what you are,” Sokolov said.
And then he did. Slowly. Thoroughly. Over hours. He used hands, mouth, leather, voice—every tool of pleasure and control he had mastered over the years. There were no safe words between them. There was no need. They had long since transcended language.
By the time Yasha was finally allowed to rest—his body trembling, marked, and boneless with satisfaction—he lay curled at the foot of the bed, his head resting against Sokolov’s thigh like a trained beast come home from the hunt.
“You are mine,” Sokolov said again, softer this time, running fingers along the collar’s edge.
Yasha kissed the inside of his Master’s wrist.
“Always.”

October 1964 — Undisclosed KGB Safehouse, Moscow
The room was cold. Industrial. Bare concrete walls, iron shackles, and a single hanging lightbulb that swung slightly with the draft. The hum of fluorescent electricity was the only sound, save for the labored breathing of the man slumped in the chair.
Khrushchev’s eyes were swollen nearly shut. One hand was broken. The other was missing a fingernail. His belt had been confiscated. His pride had long since bled out onto the floor.
Yasha stood across from him, immaculate in his field uniform, leather gloves still damp with sweat and blood. The red star on his shoulder gleamed. The hidden collar beneath his coat pressed warmly against his throat—a constant reminder of who he belonged to, and who Khrushchev had dared defy.
“You always were a coward,” Yasha said softly, running a scalpel down the length of the former Premier’s cheek. “Power made you stupid.”
Khrushchev spat weakly, though it didn’t reach Yasha’s boots.
“You sold my son,” Yasha continued, eyes glinting like ice, “to the one organization even Stalin feared. And why? To weaken me? To hurt him?” A pause. “Or did you just want to wound Sokolov?”
Khrushchev coughed, blood flecking his chin. “You… don’t care about the boy.”
“No,” Yasha agreed. “But he was mine. And you don’t take what belongs to the Winter Prince.”
He drew a chair across the room with a metal screech and sat, folding his legs with casual elegance.
“I want names,” he said. “Contacts. Meeting dates. Everything.”
Khrushchev gave a wheezing laugh. “You’ll kill me anyway.”
Yasha smiled.
“Of course I will. But how much I enjoy it depends entirely on you.”

Hours Later — The Same Room
The air reeked of blood, piss, and scorched flesh. Khrushchev was a ruin of a man, barely coherent. Yasha had gotten what he came for. Every whisper of HYDRA’s infiltration. Every deal brokered in the shadows. Every piece of the betrayal.
And yet, Yasha remained seated. Watching him.
“I think,” he said at last, standing slowly, “we’re done.”
He pulled a pistol from his belt. Silenced. Sleek.
Khrushchev managed a single, hoarse breath.
Yasha crouched in front of him, tilting his ruined face up with two gloved fingers. “You should feel honored. You didn’t die in disgrace, forgotten. You died punished.”
The bullet was precise. Merciful, in contrast to the hours that preceded it.

That Night — Sokolov Estate
Yasha arrived home just past midnight, blood washed clean, uniform pressed once more. He found Sokolov in the Winter Room, seated with a glass of port.
Without a word, Yasha knelt.
Sokolov’s fingers brushed his cheek, lingering on a faint smear of blood Yasha had missed.
“Is it done?”
Yasha bowed his head.
“He confessed everything. HYDRA. The American deals. Pyotr.”
Sokolov set down his glass and extended a booted foot, resting it lightly against Yasha’s thigh. A silent command.
“Good dog,” he murmured.
Yasha let out a low, satisfied exhale as he nuzzled against the polished leather. Not love. Not peace. But the only fulfillment that had ever meant anything.
Master was pleased.

Chapter 49: The Rise

Moscow, October 1964 — Central Committee Gathering, Kremlin
The heavy chamber doors swung open with a groan of iron hinges, and silence fell like ash across the Council floor. The newly appointed Premier, Leonid Brezhnev, already seated at the head of the long oaken table, lifted his head at the sound. His face remained unreadable, but his eyes flicked toward the entrance.
The man who entered did not walk—he arrived, with deliberate grace and a predator's poise. The Winter Prince.
Yasha was swathed in black silk, his long coat belted tight at the waist with silver, flaring at the hem like a shadow. His boots clicked against the polished floor, each step matched by the soft jingle of the silver chain that linked his collar to the hand of his Master.
General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov, immaculate as ever in military regalia, held the leash with the same calm dominance he held the world. He said nothing, only nodded slightly at Brezhnev in mutual understanding.
Yasha’s collar was not hidden.
It was engraved, fine script in Cyrillic:
Собственность генерала И. Я. Соколова
Property of General I.Y. Sokolov.
The sight drew visible reactions. Some of the committee—men hardened by war, espionage, and politics—averted their eyes. Others stared, trying to comprehend the sheer audacity of what they were witnessing.
Yasha, unbothered, took his place not beside the chair Brezhnev had gestured to, but behind Sokolov. He remained standing, his hands clasped neatly at the small of his back, the posture of a perfect Pet—but there was nothing meek in him. Power radiated off him in waves: cold, deliberate, and beautiful.
Brezhnev cleared his throat after a long pause.
"The Committee recognizes General Sokolov and… the Winter Prince," he said, carefully. No one dared to correct him.
A Politburo man leaned toward his neighbor and whispered, "Is that…?"
"He was never Barnes," the other muttered back. "He is his Master's creature."
The meeting began, but no one could quite focus. Not with Yasha standing there like a gothic statue—his silk cuffs falling like shadows, his collar glinting in the chandelier light, his expression passive and unreadable except for the cruel little curl at the corner of his mouth.
Sokolov spoke when he wished. Brezhnev deferred to him without hesitation. And when Yasha moved—to pour his Master’s tea, to whisper something low and private in his ear—no one dared speak.
There was no mistaking it now. The Winter Prince had returned.
Not just as a soldier.
Not just as a shadow.
But as Property—and as Power.

Soviet Inner Circle — October 1964
The room hummed with tension, even as the official meeting continued. For those few members of the Soviet inner circle who had been present during the Winter Prince’s first rise to prominence, the sight of him—draped in black silk, leash gleaming in the hands of his Master—was like a ghost returning to the halls of power, darker and more refined, but still unmistakably the same.
Among the silent observers was Nikolai Shvernik, a man whose sharp eyes had once met Yasha’s on the battlefield and in the halls of the Kremlin. Now, his lips twitched with the ghost of an old, remembered loyalty, as if Yasha’s presence had stirred something that had been buried beneath years of political maneuvering. He leaned toward Anastas Mikoyan, an aging statesman who had seen more than his fair share of revolutions.
"Do you remember?" Shvernik asked quietly.
Mikoyan’s eyes flicked to Yasha, who stood like a towering figure behind Sokolov. His lips curled into a half-smile, one that was tinged with nostalgia—and something darker.
"I remember. How could anyone forget the Winter Prince?" Mikoyan’s voice was low, almost reverent. "And this time, he is not a ghost."
Shvernik nodded, his eyes still fixed on Yasha. "The Prince was always an asset—but he was also a weapon. We all knew that. Now, we see the cost of Khrushchev’s betrayal, don’t we?"
Their conversation was interrupted as Leonid Brezhnev, who had been seated at the head of the table during the meeting, suddenly looked toward Sokolov and Yasha. He held up a hand, signaling for quiet.
"General Sokolov," Brezhnev began, his voice booming with authority, "your Pet has made a bold return. I will admit, I am intrigued by this… gala idea. Tell me, what do you have planned?"
Sokolov stood with measured grace, the weight of his authority clear in his calm voice. "My Pet desires to host a gala in celebration of your rise to Premier, Leonid. It will be a spectacle to mark the occasion—an opportunity for the elite of the Union to bask in the return of our… Winter Prince, and to express our gratitude for your leadership."
There was a murmur of approval from several members of the committee, their faces slowly shifting from suspicion to admiration. A gala. A lavish celebration in the heart of Moscow. It was something they had all expected, but they had never thought they'd witness it in the way they were now.
Mikhail Suslov, who had been silent for most of the gathering, finally spoke, his voice harsh. "You truly believe we can entertain such a spectacle after everything we've faced in the past decade? Khrushchev’s failures, the Cuban Crisis—you want to celebrate all of that?" His eyes flicked toward Yasha, then back to Sokolov. "The Union is still reeling."
Sokolov smiled, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. "A spectacle is exactly what the Union needs, Mikhail. We’ve weathered storms, yes. But now we begin anew, with the Winter Prince by our side. He will remind us of our strength, our dominance, before all the world." His words carried weight—unshakable, undeniable.
The silence in the room stretched for a moment before Andrei Gromyko, the stalwart diplomat and former ambassador to the United States, leaned in, his lips curling in a thin smile. "I think we all know the value of a spectacle, General. But this—" He gestured toward Yasha, still standing with that quiet, imperious presence. "—this is more than just politics. This is power."
Shvernik looked toward Mikoyan once again, sharing a glance with him. "I told you," he muttered, as Mikoyan smirked in return.
Sokolov stood tall, his hand still wrapped lightly around the leash, the silver chain swaying as Yasha remained poised like a statue, unmoving. "My Pet wishes for nothing less than a full return to form. For him, for us all. We will remind the world who we are, who we have always been. And who is in charge."
Brezhnev, his expression betraying a hint of amusement, nodded in agreement. "I see you’ve learned to wield more than just military might, General. Very well. The gala will proceed as planned." He turned to Yasha, his voice softer now. "Winter Prince, I welcome you to your place once again."
Yasha’s lips parted just the slightest, his eyes cold and calculating but with a hint of something darker behind them. "I will ensure the gala will be as memorable as you deserve, Premier. It will be your proper welcome into the new Union."
There was no mistaking it. The Winter Prince had returned to the Kremlin. With his collar proudly displayed, and Sokolov at his side, the Union was about to experience a revival—not of Khrushchev’s vision, but of a power far older, far darker, and far more precise.
It was time to remind everyone of their place.

The tension in the room slowly lifted, but the seeds had already been planted. Those who had lived through the first rise of the Winter Prince knew better than to question the power he wielded. And those who hadn't? Well, they were about to learn.

Moscow, Late October 1964
The Lubyanka Building – KGB Headquarters
The hallways of the KGB had never been quiet, but today, the silence was reverent. The Winter Prince had returned.
He did not arrive in uniform.
Silk clung to his form like worship—midnight black, fluid as smoke, tailored to exaggerate his impossible grace. The collar at his throat was a deep, lustrous red, matching the crimson insignia once sewn onto Soviet banners. Gold filigree decorated the edges, the stitching invisible, hand-sewn by Sokolov himself the night prior. A silver tag rested just above Yasha's collarbone: Property of General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov.
The leash, for now, was absent. He was working.
But every agent who passed him in the corridors averted their eyes as though they feared being swallowed whole by the darkness in his gaze. They should. Those who had only heard the stories found them tame. The man himself radiated a beauty that was dangerous—inhuman. Cold.
And at the heart of that chill was command.
Yasha stepped into the command briefing chamber. The air stilled. No one dared speak until he lowered himself onto the velvet-lined throne-like chair that had been installed at Sokolov’s request. A symbol of the Prince’s rightful place. There was no desk. He had no need to work in the traditional sense. He issued orders. He did not take minutes.
Across the table sat General Dreykov, now acting overseer of the Red Room program. His face twitched as Yasha studied him like one would a misbehaving hound.
"Dreykov," Yasha purred, voice smooth as oil and twice as dangerous. "You haven’t kissed my boots yet. Was that an oversight, or are you confused about your place?"
Dreykov swallowed hard. He hadn’t forgotten. His knees cracked as he stood, hesitated, and then dropped in front of Yasha. The silence in the room was absolute.
Yasha extended one polished leather boot.
"Go on. Show me you're capable of learning."
And Dreykov, gritting his teeth behind a strained smile, lowered his lips to the toe of Yasha’s boot.
Yasha leaned back, satisfied.
"Good dog. You’ll remember that I hold your leash, not the other way around. Your girls belong to the Red Room. The Red Room belongs to the KGB. And the KGB," he smiled slowly, "belongs to me."
Dreykov looked up, a tight nod his only reply.
"You’ll receive a formal summons to the gala. My Master is particular about the guest list," Yasha continued. "You will arrive precisely at the hour indicated. Not a minute before. Not a second late. If you touch the dancers, you die. If you question my dress, you die slower."
Yasha stood.
"You are dismissed."

Sokolov Estate – That Evening
The moment Yasha returned to the estate, the shift in energy was palpable. The faithful staff, many of whom had served for years—some even decades—paused their work to catch a glimpse of him. Their Prince. He had been gone far too long.
Anya, the estate’s head maid, waited in the foyer with the calm of a woman holding back emotion. As Yasha passed, she dipped her head low—not just in deference, but reverence.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” she whispered.
He tilted his head, offering her the faintest smile. “Thank you, Anya. It’s good to be seen again.”
The servants had been preparing for weeks now—quietly, reverently—whispers of the Prince’s return spreading through the estate like an old hymn rediscovered. With the gala officially announced, preparations surged with elegant precision. Every servant was touched by the weight of his return. Every corner of the house now gleamed with fresh polish, every floral arrangement bore Yasha’s favored black orchids. The kitchens smelled of things long forgotten: French pastries, cured meats from Hungarian recipes, Italian wines Sokolov had imported during the golden years of the early '50s.
Back in the Winter Wing, Yasha stood by the wardrobe, waiting.
Sokolov approached, already dressed in his dark crimson command robe, silver piping precise. He stepped behind his Pet, fingers grazing down Yasha’s back as he surveyed the array of collars laid out on velvet.
"You wore the black ring collar today," Sokolov murmured. "Did it please you?"
Yasha leaned back into the touch. "I like the weight. It reminds them who I belong to."
"And do they remember?" Sokolov’s fingers lifted Yasha’s chin delicately, possessively.
"They never forgot," Yasha whispered, eyes lidded. “They were just waiting to kneel again.”
Sokolov smiled, a rare and dark thing. He selected a collar of wine-red velvet with gold embellishments and the house crest of Sokolov set into the leather. A ceremonial piece, one Yasha hadn’t worn since 1953.
“Then wear this for me tonight, moy prints,” Sokolov said. “You have earned it.”
Yasha bowed his head instantly, arms folding behind his back in perfect posture. “Yes, Master.”
As the collar was buckled around his throat with deliberate care, Yasha exhaled a long breath. This was what he had missed—what he had always fought for beneath the chaos and blood and politics. Not a crown, not medals or titles.
Only this.
The touch of his Master.

Chapter 50: Return of the Winter Prince

Front Page, Pravda — December 1964
THE WINTER PRINCE RETURNS: AN ERA OF SPLENDOR REBORN IN THE HEART OF THE UNION
By Anya Zaitseva
MOSCOW — The Winter Prince has returned.
After more than a decade shrouded in mystery, General Yasha—known to those loyal to him as the Winter Prince—has made a triumphant reemergence into the public eye. Attending the first official Politburo gathering under the new Premier, Leonid Brezhnev, the Prince arrived not in military uniform but as something otherworldly: a gothic vision clad in tailored silk, dark velvet, and silver accents, bearing the mark of his patron, General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov. The collar around his throat—a breathtaking piece of craftsmanship—sparkled beneath the grand chandelier of the Kremlin’s upper hall, its engraved inscription unmistakable: Property of Sokolov.
Led by a silver leash, the Winter Prince stood proud and composed, a regal yet subservient figure whose bearing left no doubt—he had reclaimed his place.
The reaction within the halls of power has been swift and telling. The old guard—those who remember the glory of his birthday gala in 1953—have emerged from their enforced silence, embracing the return of the Prince they once adored. Whispers turned to declarations as plans were confirmed: the Winter Prince himself will host a grand gala in honor of Comrade Brezhnev, a night to welcome the new era and thank the Premier for restoring the Prince to his rightful station.
Across the Union and far beyond its borders, the response has been explosive. Western correspondents, always hungry for intrigue, are spinning tales of dark seduction and untouchable aristocracy behind Soviet walls. The elite of Paris, Berlin, New York, and Rome are tripping over themselves in search of invitations to the coming gala. Socialites, diplomats, and celebrities alike have sent telegrams and emissaries. The Winter Prince, it seems, has not lost his mystique.
Yet even amidst the pageantry and celebration, the Winter Prince has resumed his duties as the head of the KGB. Gone is the uniform he once wore daily; it is now reserved for special occasions and at his Master's command. In its place are cloaks and gloves, finely embroidered robes, and whichever collar Sokolov selects for him each morning. Within the walls of Lubyanka, Prince Yasha exerts his quiet dominion—not through medals, but with the weight of history, mystery, and mastery.
And those who once doubted him? Men like Dreykov now bow their heads when the Prince enters. They speak only when spoken to. The message is clear: the Winter Prince may have been silent, but he was never gone.
As the date of the gala draws near, Moscow holds its breath in anticipation. The Winter Court will soon rise again.

The Winter Prince Prepares His Court
The ballroom echoed with the murmur of hammering and the soft scuff of polished shoes on fresh black marble. Gleaming and cold, the new floors stretched beneath Yasha’s feet like a sea of obsidian, swallowing and reflecting the flickering light of temporary construction lanterns. Crimson drapes already hung from the ceiling like ceremonial banners, each one heavy as blood and nearly as sacred.
Yasha stood at the heart of it, bare-chested beneath a fur-lined robe, his throat adorned with that morning’s chosen collar—a rich oxblood leather inset with silver filigree. His fingers traced the newly upholstered edge of the velvet throne on the central dais, his nails just long enough to catch in the fibers. It was decadent, yes, but not overly so. He had insisted on restraint—power was not gaudy. It was deliberate. It loomed.
Behind the throne, the second platform was only half-finished, but its symbolism was already clear. The Master’s seat. Higher, yet less adorned. Sokolov did not need grandeur; his presence alone was command. The elevation was for ceremony, not ego.
Yasha's gaze softened—slightly—at the thought of his Master seated there, one gloved hand resting on the silver leash, observing his Pet’s domain. This wasn’t a return. This was a restoration.
“Prince Yasha,” came a familiar voice, crisp and cheerful.
Anya Rostov, who wore the starched uniform of the estate’s headmaid with an ease no one else could, offered him a small bow as she stepped around a crate of imported crystal. Her black hair was pinned high, and her clipboard was already covered in notes. “I’ve confirmed the string quartet’s arrival in three days’ time. I took the liberty of assigning them to the red guest wing.”
“Good,” Yasha murmured, still inspecting the dais. “And the chandelier?”
“The modeler in Saint Petersburg finished it last night. It’s being packed now. It’ll arrive tomorrow by train, per your instruction.”
Yasha gave a slow, approving nod.
“Have you chosen your entrance piece?” Anya asked, lips twitching in amusement.
Yasha tilted his head thoughtfully, then offered a slow smirk. “Something Vivaldi. Subtle. I don’t want the American ambassador to faint before I can humiliate him.”
Anya chuckled as she jotted that down. “And the foreign dignitaries? We’ve already received seventy-two separate requests for invitations, including a very pushy telegram from the Duchess of Devonshire.”
“They’ll have to wait.” Yasha turned to face her, the silken hem of his robe trailing behind him. “This is not their court. Not yet.”
“Understood.” She smiled, not bothering to hide her delight. She had served this estate under Stalin, watched it fall into silence under Khrushchev, and now, here she stood again—draped in privilege and precision, standing beside her Winter Prince. “The gala will be perfect, sir. I promise you.”
He leaned in then, voice soft and conspiratorial. “Perfection is expected, Anya. But indulgence… is earned.”
Her eyes glittered, and she bowed again.
As she departed to oversee the arrival of the wine casks, Yasha turned back to the dais. A hush had begun to fall in the space, as if the walls themselves were beginning to remember who they belonged to.
He imagined the room filled: diplomats in full regalia, Red Room officers in civilian glamour, foreign journalists reduced to stunned silence, and above them all—Sokolov, seated like a god behind him, leash in hand.
And Yasha—his Pet, his Prince, his weapon—would reign from velvet and silver, surrounded by music, devotion, and dread.
It was good to be home.

The Leash and the List
The study was dimly lit, aglow with the warm hush of firelight and the soft tick of an antique clock. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink—Sokolov’s scent, sharpened by tobacco from his unlit pipe. Across from the hearth, a tall-backed leather chair sat occupied, its occupant relaxed but unmistakably dominant: General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov, jacket unbuttoned, boots polished, gaze imperial.
At his feet, on a thick rug of sable fur, knelt his Pet.
Yasha was draped in a robe of deep blue silk that bared the line of his back and the pale expanse of his shoulders. His collar—tonight, black with a silver D-ring at the throat—gleamed with polished reverence. The silver leash trailed from it to Sokolov’s gloved hand, a casual loop around his knuckles as he reviewed the guest list in his lap.
“I see the Duchess of Devonshire’s name made the final cut,” Sokolov said, amused, tapping a silver pen to the paper. “You do enjoy watching her pretend not to stare at your throat.”
“I enjoy watching her husband pretend not to ask for permission to kneel,” Yasha replied with a purr. His hands were resting on his thighs, palms up, perfectly still.
Sokolov’s eyes didn’t leave the list. “And Howard Stark?”
Yasha’s mouth curled into a cruel smile. “He showed up drunk to the last one and tried to flirt with the pianist. And I believe Agent Carter was wearing French perfume and American arrogance.”
“She slapped a Red Army General before the first course was even served.”
Yasha looked up through his lashes, posture unchanging. “He tried to grope her. She was terribly restrained.”
Sokolov finally looked down at his Pet. “So we punish them… or we reward them?”
Yasha tilted his head. “They are entertaining. And the Americans are desperate to be relevant again.”
Sokolov hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll allow their names on the list. But they sit near the musicians. Far enough to be decorative. Close enough to be watched.”
“As you wish, Master.”
The gloved hand holding the leash gave a firm tug, and Yasha obeyed instantly, crawling forward to rest his head against Sokolov’s knee. A hand dropped into his hair, stroking slow and possessive.
“Anything else, my Prince?”
“Yes,” Yasha murmured, voice low and honeyed. “I want to place the Americans beneath the chandeliers. If she flinches when the light catches the crystal, I want to see it.”
Sokolov chuckled, his grip tightening in Yasha’s hair, tilting his head back. “Cruel little dog.”
“Yours,” Yasha whispered, lips parted.
“Always.” Another tug. “Now sit pretty while I approve the French delegation. I want them reminded that Versailles is dead, and Russia is eternal.”
Yasha purred, spine straightening, his posture nothing short of reverent.
The fire cracked. Ink dried. And between the flickers of light and shadow, the gala began to take shape in the mind of the Union’s dark and glittering royalty.

Chapter 51: Invitations & Preparations

The Invitations
They arrived as though borne by czars—on heavy parchment, wrapped in blood-red silk, and sealed with wax pressed by the Winter Prince’s own signet ring: a crowned wolf flanked by the twin-headed eagle of Russia.
No courier dared deliver them without ceremony.

LONDON — S.H.I.E.L.D. OFFICE
Peggy Carter looked up from her desk at the precise moment the brass doors of her office creaked open. A Soviet attaché in full regalia stepped inside, flanked by two stone-faced Red Army guards. Without a word, he placed a long black box—lacquered, gilded, absurd—onto her desk.
She arched a brow. “You’ve got some nerve bringing that here.”
The attaché bowed slightly. “An invitation, Comrade Carter. From the Winter Prince.”
Peggy’s hand hovered over the seal, reluctant and curious in equal measure. She broke it with a controlled breath. Inside, on thick black parchment trimmed with gold, the words shimmered in silver ink:
To Agent Margaret Carter—
By the pleasure of His Royal Grace, the Winter Prince of the Soviet Union, Head of the KGB and Loyal Property of General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov, you are cordially invited to attend the Winter Court Gala in honor of Premier Brezhnev, to be held at the Grand Palace of the Prince in Moscow on the 14th of January, 1965.
Attendance is not mandatory—but it is expected.
The collar glitters. The leash is silver. Come see what has become of your war dogs.
Peggy stared at the words for a long time.
Then she stood and walked to the bar in her office, pouring two fingers of Scotch. One for herself. One for the ghost of James Barnes.
“He’s back,” she whispered. “And he’s showing off.”

MANHATTAN — STARK INDUSTRIES
Howard Stark choked on his bourbon when the box was placed on the mahogany table of his penthouse suite.
He had half a mind to throw it in the fireplace—until he saw the seal.
“Son of a—no. No way.”
He broke the wax and read. Then read it again.
“Oh, he really means it.”
He dropped into a chair and laughed. Loud, wild, half-horrified. “He’s wearing the collar in public now. Leash and everything. And Sokolov’s got him back on a throne? Hell, the bastard's never looked better.”
Then quieter, to himself:
“You better know what you’re doing, Buck. Because if you fall again… I don’t know if we can pull you out this time.”

ROME — PRIVATE PARLOR OF COUNT ROSSI
The Count accepted the invitation with trembling fingers and kissed the seal before daring to break it.
“The Winter Prince…” he whispered. “He lives.”
Beside him, his lover gasped. “You were there. In ’53. You saw him.”
“He was divinity in human form,” the Count said reverently. “And if he’s returned… then we must prepare. Our finest suits. Our best diamonds. Everything. We go to Moscow.”

MOSCOW — A LESSER GENERAL'S OFFICE
Dreykov paled when the box was delivered to his desk.
It sat there for a full hour before he touched it. His fingers were damp.
The message was clear. The Prince did not forget. He never forgot.

SOKOVIA — CASTLE ZEMO, NEAR ZLIN
The air in the war-damaged great hall was cold. Snow pressed against the stained-glass windows, muted colors reflecting off the long banquet table where Baron Heinrich Zemo sat alone, a half-finished letter to a contact in East Germany forgotten beside his brandy snifter.
He had just broken the wax seal—black with the silver crown-wolf crest—and now read in silence.
His knuckles whitened as his fingers tightened around the parchment.
“The Winter Prince…” he muttered in a sharp exhale, thick with something between disgust and reverence. “So, the rumors were true.”
He stood, the letter trembling in his gloved hand. “He was a ghost. A myth. A weapon dressed in silk.” He paced to the hearth, eyes wild.
“That whore-dog of a Russian general thinks he can parade his Pet around again like it’s 1953? Like the world has not changed?”
He threw the invitation into the fire—but then pulled it back a moment later, half-scorched, brushing ash from the curling edge with frantic care.
“No. No. I must see him. I must see what they have made of him now.”
He stared down at the inscription again—You are cordially invited…
And something in him stirred. Curiosity. Jealousy. Obsession. Old hunger.
He rang the bell for his manservant. “Prepare the jet. We’re going to Moscow.”

VIENNA — BALLROOM OF THE GRAND HOTEL WIEN
Baroness Sophia von Wülfing ran her gloved fingers across the thick red silk wrapping, savoring its weight.
Her companion, a diplomat from the Austrian Foreign Ministry, blinked in disbelief. “You knew him, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” she said with a faint smile, her accent as crisp as the edge of her emerald dress. “Every woman in Vienna did. And a great many men.”
She peeled the parchment open and read it aloud in a dramatic whisper.
At the end, she sighed wistfully. “He was… unforgettable.”
Her companion gave her a skeptical look. “He’s a Soviet. A killer. A—”
“He is art,” she snapped. “And art must be seen.”

HAVANA — PRIVATE ROOM ABOVE A NIGHTCLUB
The Cuban General lit a cigar slowly as his assistant read the invitation aloud.
When the word collar was uttered, he snorted. “So the rumors are true. Khrushchev kept him leashed in shadows, but this new one—Brezhnev—he sets the beast free and calls him royalty.”
The assistant hesitated. “Shall I send your regrets, Comrade General?”
“No,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Send my acceptance. I want to see the leash. And the throne.”
He tapped ash into his glass of rum. “More importantly—I want to see if that Pet bites.”

MOSCOW — A SMALL APARTMENT NEAR TAGANSKAYA
Anya, the estate’s head maid, paused on her way home from gathering materials for the gala. Outside a bakery, she heard two older women gossiping in hushed tones, barely containing their excitement.
“They say he wore velvet the color of blood.”
“And the chandelier sparkled on his collar—just like in the old days.”
Anya smiled quietly and kept walking.
Her Prince was back. And the world, for once, was paying attention.

THE WORLD WATCHES
Parisian couturiers began sketching dresses. Berlin’s society pages ran headlines in Gothic fonts. In Tokyo, rumors stirred that the Winter Prince wore black pearls threaded with secrets from the Kremlin vaults.
And in Washington, D.C., a CIA officer read his copy of Pravda and cursed under his breath. “This isn’t politics anymore. It’s theatre.”

MOSCOW — SOKOLOV ESTATE, DECEMBER 1964
Day of the Gala
The water was perfumed with rose and verbena, faint steam curling against the frost-laced window panes. Yasha lay motionless beneath its surface save for his face and the graceful rise of his throat. One pale leg extended languidly from the bath, toes pointed like a dancer at rest, as Anya and two other housemaids worked in silence.
He felt like a relic being polished—an object, treasured and ancient. A prize.
Fingers traced the curve of his spine, careful and reverent, scrubbing away every trace of oil, sweat, and labor. They washed him like a saint's bones.
The Winter Prince, reborn.
The room smelled of violets and the good French soap. Anya leaned forward, rinsing his hair in a delicate cascade, then combed the ink-dark strands straight and smooth. “Your Master has chosen the red silk,” she said, softly.
Yasha opened his eyes.
Of course he has.
The scarlet gown had been commissioned months ago but remained unworn, set aside for something… greater. A long trailing hem of brocade silk, embroidered in black and silver thread. Deep plunging neckline, bare shoulders. Laced corsetry to cinch the waist beneath the draping folds.
It would not conceal him—it would reveal him. Glorify him.
By the time he was dried and robed in a gold dressing wrap, the stylists had arrived. Imported from Leningrad and vetted personally by Sokolov.
Yasha sat before the mirror like a statue waiting to be gilded. They painted his eyes with smoked shadow, dark lashes curled to perfection. His cheekbones were carved in rose and frost. A subtle lacquer kissed his lips—cool, wine-dark red.
He turned his head slightly, studying the finished effect.
Not a soldier. Not a killer.
An ornament of empire.
A soft knock.
Then the door opened, and his Master entered.
General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov.
The stylists immediately stepped aside. Yasha rose from the vanity and approached him barefoot, the silk wrap clinging to damp skin.
Sokolov looked him over—slowly, possessively.
Wordlessly, he opened a black velvet box. Inside gleamed the chosen collar: obsidian leather set with silver wolf-head filigree, the inscription etched beneath—Property of Sokolov.
Yasha sank gracefully to his knees and bowed his head.
Sokolov fastened it himself.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, fingers grazing the nape of his Pet’s neck. “Tonight, they will remember.”
Yasha looked up, eyes lidded and hungry. “They always remember, Master,” he whispered. “But tonight… they will kneel.”
Sokolov smiled.
“Good boy.”

SOKOLOV ESTATE, DECEMBER 1964
Last Preparations Before the Gala
Yasha stood before the full-length mirror, the soft rustle of silk trailing his movements. The gown draped gracefully around him like liquid fire, the gold and silver embroidery catching the light from the chandeliers above. His skin seemed to glow beneath the layers of makeup, the sharp cheekbones and darkened eyes almost otherworldly under the weight of his transformation. His hair, wet and sleek, framed his face, the curls barely held in place by the delicate layers of styling gel. Every inch of him was perfect, a masterpiece in motion.
He took a deep breath, eyes sweeping over his reflection one last time.
The Winter Prince. Not a trace of the soldier left in him. Only the Prince now.
He was an ornament. A prize to be worshipped.
From the doorway, Sokolov entered silently, the only sound his boots on the marble floor. Yasha didn’t need to look up; the Master’s presence was enough. Still, the familiar warmth spread through his chest as his Master approached, a small velvet box in his hand.
Sokolov opened the box to reveal a delicate silver diadem. A single, intricately woven strand of silver, twisted with such care that it seemed to shimmer as it caught the light. Tiny sapphires dotted the edges, their color so dark they appeared almost black. The diadem was an heirloom, one passed down from the czarist era—though Yasha suspected it had always belonged to his Master.
“It’s a fitting crown,” Sokolov said softly, the words only for Yasha’s ears. He took the diadem in his fingers and carefully placed it on Yasha’s head. The metal was cold at first, but it quickly warmed against his skin. Yasha closed his eyes at the touch, knowing the weight of the moment. A crown for the Winter Prince, a symbol of power, of belonging, and of total loyalty.
“Perfect,” Sokolov whispered, his fingers tracing the edge of the diadem. He then cupped Yasha’s chin, tilting his face upward. “Remember, you are the jewel tonight. But it is only through my command that they may bask in your light.”
Yasha nodded silently, gazing into his Master’s eyes, feeling the pull of devotion that ran deeper than any bond—one forged in fire, in blood, and in unyielding power.
Sokolov released him and stepped back, but not before his hand brushed Yasha’s cheek, warm and possessive.
“Stand tall. Show them the heir of Stalin,” he said.
Yasha smiled, a fleeting, dangerous thing, his mouth turning up at the corners. He straightened, his gaze not faltering. He was ready.

On the polished desk, a single package lay waiting. Wrapped in black velvet with a ribbon of deep crimson, it gleamed with an almost ominous promise. This was not a gift like those he had given Khrushchev in the past—small trinkets meant to mask his disdain. This was something far more meaningful, far more deliberate.
The gift Yasha had prepared for Brezhnev was no simple gesture. It was a token of power, of loyalty, and of the Winter Prince’s rightful place.
Yasha had inherited it directly from Stalin—a small but potent item. A golden watch fob, engraved with Stalin’s emblem, his initials carved deeply into the metal. The fob was encased in a velvet-lined box, the insignia embossed in silver, and the timepiece itself had never been used. It had been a symbol, a token passed from master to master—always given to a loyal confidant.
To Brezhnev, it would signify much more than a mere gift. It was a mark of true support—an inheritance of power. A reminder that, for all his show of power, Khrushchev had never truly had the Winter Prince's backing.
Sokolov’s presence at his side confirmed his loyalty to Yasha. He had always been loyal. No one would forget the moment the Winter Prince stood at his full height again.
Yasha took the watch fob in his hands, the cold gold seeping into his fingertips. The final touch for the evening—an inheritance from Stalin, the symbol of his position in the Union, and a message to anyone foolish enough to think the Winter Prince was ever a servant to Khrushchev.

Sokolov stood in the doorway once more, watching as Yasha placed the fob into a velvet box, wrapping it in a red ribbon.
“The world will see, my Pet,” he said, voice low, seductive. “Tonight, we remind them who we are.”
Yasha turned, offering a dark, knowing smile. “Yes, Master. We remind them all.”

The night was ready. The Winter Prince had returned.

Chapter 52: The Gala

THE SOKOLOV ESTATE — THE GALA OF WINTER, DECEMBER 1964
The Entrance of the Winter Prince
The chandeliers had been lit for hours, casting diamond patterns across black marble floors. The crimson drapes stirred gently in the draft of carefully placed vents, mimicking the breath of a living palace. A hush had already begun to fall as the final notes of a Vivaldi adagio drifted from the Leningrad string quartet, silencing even the most boisterous of international guests. Something was coming. Something legendary.
And then—he arrived.
The doors opened not with a creak, but with a ceremonial slowness. Two guards stood at attention, gilded in Soviet formal dress. Beyond them, framed by the rising light from the stairwell, stood the Winter Prince.
A vision.
Yasha descended the grand staircase with the calm precision of a crowned empress, each step measured, the trailing hem of scarlet brocade silk whispering like fire across the marble. The gown shimmered with its embroidery—black and silver threads catching the light like veins of lightning in blood-red clouds. The plunging neckline framed the elegant line of his chest and collarbones, the pale canvas of his skin a stark contrast to the bold gown.
Cinched at the waist by corsetry so tight it whispered submission, the fabric then flared into full, sweeping folds that rustled with the weight of deliberate indulgence. His bare shoulders glowed beneath the low ambient light, dusted with the faintest hint of shimmer, like fresh snow at dawn.
But it was his face—his expression—that held them all.
His eyes, painted in smoked shadows, looked carved from dusk itself. Lashes long and curled, cheekbones sculpted in rose and frost, his lips tinted in a dark, lacquered wine—cool, luxurious, and commanding. The silver diadem atop his brow shimmered with understated authority, each sapphire like a night-sky secret kept just for him. His hair, damp and slicked into delicate, obedient waves, framed him like a portrait gilded in ink.
And around his throat: the collar.
Obsidian leather, set with silver wolf-head filigree—an unmistakable mark of power and possession. The inscription beneath, for those close enough to glimpse it, was a proclamation in its own right: Property of Sokolov.
A hush swept through the ballroom like an exhale. Glasses were stilled. Words failed. Even the cameras—those few allowed by the Party—clicked with reverent hesitation, afraid to disturb the ritual.
At the foot of the dais, Yasha paused.
From above him, already seated upon his slightly elevated throne, Sokolov watched. Regal in his own dark uniform, his expression unreadable save for the smallest flicker of pride in his eyes.
Yasha turned and, in one fluid motion, bowed.
Not a curtsy, not a nod, but a full, spine-folding descent of his frame into a kneel before the dais. The trailing hem of his gown pooled like liquid flame across the floor. He lowered his gaze, lips parted just enough to breathe, and then lifted his chin—offering himself, as was tradition, to the court and to his Master.
Sokolov stood at last, descending the short platform to meet him. With a hand gloved in soft leather, he raised Yasha’s face and brushed a thumb against the line of his jaw—smearing not a single drop of that flawless paint.
"Rise, moy prints," Sokolov murmured for his ears alone.
And so the Winter Prince stood.
The crowd erupted—not with cheers, but with the silence of awe. A reverence. Applause felt vulgar. This moment demanded stillness.
Yasha turned to face them all from the center of the marble, the music swelling around him as the strings changed key. The moment was his. And he held it like a blade—serene, dangerous, beautiful beyond reckoning.
The gala had truly begun.

SOKOLOV ESTATE — LATER THAT EVENING
The Gift of Allegiance, The Toast of Winter
The ballroom had settled into a strange and crystalline quiet again—one only the Winter Prince could command. He stood now beneath the chandeliers, their Winter Palace–modeled brilliance falling in constellations across his gown. The hem of scarlet brocade had been arranged with artful precision, flowing out around him like molten silk. The light caught in the silver-threaded embroidery, and the sapphires in his diadem gleamed like midnight stars.
At the heart of the room, a new dais had been assembled for this moment—low and domed, just high enough for all to see. Upon it stood Yasha, and beside him, in its velvet-lined cradle, lay the gift.
Premier Brezhnev had been ushered forward by Sokolov himself, who now lingered a single step behind his Prince, silent and proud, hands gloved and folded neatly behind his back.
Yasha bent low, as if presenting something sacred. When he straightened again, he held the box in both hands—flat, level, unshaking.
"A gift," Yasha said, voice like still water beneath moonlight. It carried, as it always did, despite its softness.
Brezhnev’s expression remained unreadable—but the tightness of his jaw betrayed emotion, however deeply it was buried. He accepted the box with both hands, reverent, and opened it slowly.
Inside: the golden watch fob.
It gleamed like a relic exhumed from the past. On one side, Stalin’s emblem—still sharp, still powerful. On the other, the initials I.V.S. carved deep into the metal. The timepiece had never been wound. It had never needed to be. Its very existence was the message.
Only a few in the room understood the full weight of what had just passed between them. But those few gasped.
For Khrushchev, who had ruled noisily and without subtlety, had never received such a thing. Yasha had gifted him trifles—paintings, war trinkets, petty things for the press. But this… This was a bequeathment. A mark of succession.
A silent seal.
Brezhnev closed the box and bowed his head slightly. "Your loyalty honors the Union," he said, tone carefully formal.
Yasha smiled, just enough. "My loyalty honors my Master, and those he deems worthy."
A ripple went through the elite like a slow shockwave. The Winter Prince had spoken. The old world stirred.
Then, as the string quartet shifted into a softer melody, Sokolov stepped forward with a crystal glass of vodka and raised it high. He offered another to Yasha, who accepted and held it delicately between lacquered fingers. A third was given to Brezhnev, completing the trinity.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sokolov said, his voice cold silk, "to the rise of a new era—one built not on noise, but on legacy. May this winter mark a return to clarity. To discipline. To beauty."
Yasha’s eyes shimmered behind the veil of his makeup. "To winter," he said softly, raising his glass.
Brezhnev nodded. "To the Winter Court."
And with that, the toast was drunk, and the gala ignited like fire through ice.

SOKOLOV ESTATE — MID-EVENING
The Court of Wolves
The ballroom thrummed with the quiet roar of power barely restrained. Laughter rang from gilded corners. Crystal clinked. Velvet rustled. Every movement, every turn of the head, was calculated. They called it a gala, but it was a court in every sense—the Winter Court restored in blood, silk, and ceremony.
Yasha moved like a shadow threaded with fire. Wherever he passed, conversations stilled for a breath too long. Guests bowed, or curtsied, or offered their hands with trembling grace. Those from the West stared in a half-daze, unsure if they were witnessing a performance or a coronation.
Howard Stark, already two glasses in, had taken up post beside a French diplomat and an Italian countess, both leaning in toward him, their curiosity insatiable.
“You don’t get it,” Howard was saying with a crooked grin. “He’s not a general. He’s not even a man in the way you think. That’s a goddamn myth with rouge on his cheeks.”
Across the room, Peggy Carter observed from beneath a veil of elegance and espionage. The line of her lips remained unreadable. But her eyes never left Yasha for long. She saw it now—what she hadn’t let herself believe in 1953. He hadn’t disappeared. He’d waited.
And now the world had returned to orbit him again.
—
Yasha drifted through his guests like a star in procession. Beneath the dazzle and lace, he kept count—who bowed too deeply, who watched too long. He saw alliances form and fracture with a glance. He saw envy curdle in the eyes of Red Army men unused to being ignored. He saw the American attaché attempt to flirt with the daughter of the Bulgarian ambassador—and fail, spectacularly.
And then he saw Dreykov.
It was a thrill, almost, the way the man still recoiled slightly when Yasha turned his gaze on him. Dreykov had come dressed as stiffly as ever—KGB medals straining across his chest, face taut with false civility.
Yasha said nothing. He only stepped toward him.
Dreykov hesitated, clearly calculating, then dropped to one knee with the weight of inevitability. One breath. Two. Then, slowly, he bowed his head and kissed the polished toe of Yasha’s black lacquered heel.
A hush spread.
Western dignitaries blinked in disbelief. One of the German photographers lowered his camera too slowly and earned a vicious elbow from his superior.
Yasha tilted his head, allowing the diadem to catch the light.
“Rise,” he said, cool and unbothered. “If you must.”
Dreykov stood. Or rather, he tried to. His knees didn’t quite agree. When he finally managed to regain his feet, color high in his cheeks, he couldn’t meet the Prince’s eyes.
Brezhnev, standing with a contingent of foreign press nearby, laughed once—sharp, delighted, and dangerous. "Well," he said to no one in particular, "what is tradition, if not a little theatrical?"
No one else dared so much as smile.
—
And then the chandeliers dimmed.
The quartet's strings rose like moonlight, and the master of ceremonies announced it: The Dance of the Winter Prince.
A tradition from the old days. Before Khrushchev. Before the silence. One dance, performed only once per gala. With one partner.
All eyes turned.
Yasha moved to the base of the dais where his throne had been placed, and turned toward the platform behind him—where Sokolov now descended with deliberate grace.
He offered his hand. Sokolov took it.
Together, they stepped onto the mirrored black marble.

Chapter 53: The Prince's Dance

THE WINTER GALA — THE DANCE BEGINS
Midnight, beneath the crystal chandeliers
The violins sang their first aching note as Sokolov drew Yasha close, one hand gloved and firm against the small of his Pet’s corseted waist. Yasha moved like smoke, every step a declaration, every breath choreographed through devotion. They had danced like this before—behind closed doors, before dignitaries, before corpses. But never before the world.
This was the rebirth.
Sokolov’s hand shifted, gliding down Yasha’s side with casual possession, pulling him tighter through the turn. Yasha tilted his head and smiled—glossed lips shimmering dark against the lanternlight. He could feel the weight of every eye. Journalists held their breath, ministers whispered, and somewhere Howard Stark muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.
Halfway through the dance, Yasha leaned in. Close enough for his breath to ghost along Sokolov’s throat.
“I have an idea,” he murmured, voice velvet and wine. “Let me dance again. With Brezhnev.”
Sokolov’s brows lifted, amused.
“No one but Stalin ever earned such a gift.”
“Exactly,” Yasha purred. “Let the world see it. Let them understand. He is not merely Premier now. He is chosen. Let me anoint him with movement. As only I can.”
Sokolov considered him, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier’s fractured light.
Then he nodded once.
“It is your night, Zimniy Knyaz. Do as you please.”
The final chords rang like church bells as Sokolov guided Yasha into a graceful spin, then brought him to stillness before the foot of the dais. And there, before the sea of power and envy, Sokolov released his Pet’s hand.
Yasha turned toward the crowd and lifted his chin.
Another song began.
And Sokolov raised his voice—not shouting, not demanding. Simply declaring, as if the stars themselves had already agreed:
“Comrade Brezhnev,” he said, voice cool and unquestionable, “the Winter Prince offers you the second dance.”
Gasps echoed. Champagne stilled in crystal. Someone somewhere dropped a camera.
Brezhnev looked stunned for a moment. Then, regaining himself, he stepped forward with the measured weight of a man about to cross into legend.
Yasha met him halfway.
Their hands touched.
And together, the Winter Prince and the Premier turned across the black marble, locked in a dance no man had been granted since Stalin himself.
The message was unmistakable.
The Winter Court had returned. And with it, a new era had begun.

THE PREMIER AND THE PRINCE
Brezhnev’s POV – Midnight, Marble and Smoke
He had been warned, of course.
Told by his advisors, by ghosts in smoke-filled rooms, that the Winter Prince was not a man so much as a myth. A relic of a darker, glittering era—Stalin’s era. An ornament and a weapon. Stalin’s whisperer. Stalin’s wolf.
And now he was Brezhnev’s.
Leonid had expected something ceremonial. A cold nod, perhaps. A brief conversation behind closed doors. Maybe even a toast offered out of necessity. But not this. Not the thunderous silence that fell when the Prince turned, not the feeling of being watched by history itself as Sokolov handed him over.
When their hands met—Brezhnev’s heavy, calloused from decades of the Party, Yasha’s impossibly smooth, perfumed, ringed—he thought for a moment he might be hallucinating.
He was dancing.
With the Winter Prince.
Yasha’s body moved like it had been carved for this role, for this night. His breath smelled of mint and red wine. His eyes, dark beneath layers of shadow and artistry, glittered with mischief and command. His back arched with every step, the silk of his gown shimmering like blood under the chandeliers. His collar gleamed. His smile was devastating.
Brezhnev swallowed.
“I didn’t expect this,” he muttered, half-laughing, as they turned along the black marble in time with the strings.
“No one ever does,” Yasha replied smoothly. His voice was velvet and opium. “That’s why it works.”
The Premier chuckled. Uneasy. Humbled. Utterly aware of the cameras flashing and the dignitaries blinking like fools.
“And the gift?” he murmured.
Yasha’s lips curled. “A symbol,” he said, brushing his fingers along Brezhnev’s chest in a whisper of mock intimacy. “A reminder of what I kept. And what Khrushchev never had.”
The weight of that settled deeper than any medal Brezhnev had ever worn.
The fob. The watch. Stalin’s own. Handed to him before the eyes of the world like a crown passed from one dynasty to the next.
As they spun, Brezhnev dared to glance toward the dais. Sokolov watched them without blinking, one elbow on the arm of his raised throne, gaze burning with pride and possession. He had given the Prince, just for this moment.
And then Yasha whispered, low against Brezhnev’s jaw:
“This is your court now, Leonid. Lead it.”
The song ended.
Yasha dipped, letting Brezhnev catch him—not as a man, not even as a Premier, but as a chosen inheritor.
The applause was thunderous.
And then, without a word, the Prince turned, walked with unfathomable grace back to the dais, and Sokolov, with one subtle gesture, reclaimed him.
Brezhnev stood alone at the center of the floor.
And for the first time since Stalin’s death, he truly felt like the most powerful man in the world.

WHISPERS AND WINE
The Ballroom, Moments After the Dance
The applause had faded, but the murmurs swelled like waves crashing against the marble shore of the Kremlin ballroom. Dignitaries, officials, socialites—Soviet and foreign alike—leaned into one another with wide eyes and half-laughed disbelief. It was one thing to be invited to the Winter Prince’s return. Another entirely to witness it.
The American delegation huddled near a tall gilded pillar, half a room away from the dais where Sokolov sat watching his Pet recompose himself with a flute of crimson champagne.
Howard Stark hadn’t spoken in three full minutes.
“Howard?” Peggy Carter, statuesque in midnight blue, leaned in. “You alright there, darling?”
He blinked once. Twice. “He dipped,” he muttered finally. “He dipped Brezhnev.”
“Yes,” Peggy said, suppressing a grin. “Rather gracefully.”
“No, no—you don’t get it.” Howard’s hand gestured wildly, sloshing his scotch. “He dipped Brezhnev. The same guy who made Molotov cry in ‘59. You know what kind of... testosterone grenade you gotta be to make Leonid Brezhnev look like a blushing debutante?”
Peggy snorted. “You sound like you're developing a crush.”
Howard stared at her. “Peg, I design weapons of mass destruction for fun, and I’m actively considering switching teams. Do not tell Maria.”
“Darling, if Maria were here, she’d be ten times worse. She always had a thing for dramatics.”
Across the room, a Parisian countess with a jeweled cane fanned herself, exclaiming to anyone who would listen that she hadn’t seen such power since the days of the Tsars. A young German diplomat scribbled notes furiously, and a Cuban envoy kept nervously glancing toward the photographers, clearly regretting a few earlier remarks made about Soviet austerity.
Meanwhile, the French ambassador whispered to his Italian counterpart:
“Is it true? That the Prince has no rank anymore?”
“Officially? No rank. Unofficially? He is the rank.”
And from somewhere not far behind them, Baron Heinrich Zemo of Sokovia watched it all with a sly, calculated smile.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, swirling his wine. “So this is what happens when an empire remembers its monsters… and crowns them kings.”

Chapter 54: Whispers of Power

THE SEAT BENEATH THE THRONE
The Dais, Later That Night
The ballroom glittered, but Yasha only saw him.
The moment the final notes of the second dance drifted into silence and the applause once again rippled through the crowd, Yasha turned from Brezhnev with flawless composure. He bowed—graceful and low—but he did not linger.
He did not need to.
The Winter Prince had done his part: Brezhnev’s reputation now bore the weight and gleam of the old empire’s favor. Let the world talk. Let the press spin fantasies. Let Dreykov polish Yasha’s boots with his mouth if that’s what it took.
Yasha’s bare shoulders gleamed with sweat and silk under the chandeliers as he climbed the black marble steps of the dais, each step purposeful, spine straight, gown flowing behind him like blood and smoke. The silver of his diadem caught the light. His corseted ribs ached with every breath, but the pain was exquisite.
And then he saw the hand extended toward him.
Master.
He reached Sokolov’s feet and sank instantly, instinctively. Knees kissing cold stone. Head bowed, curls falling forward in perfectly styled waves. Yasha’s gloved hands rested delicately upon his thighs as he awaited permission—always awaited permission.
A single finger touched his jaw.
“Was it enough?” Sokolov asked, voice low and unreadable above the din of the court.
Yasha lifted his chin and looked up through painted lashes. “They will not forget,” he said simply.
Sokolov’s hand moved, threading gently into Yasha’s dark hair, smudging the careful gel as he pressed his Pet’s head to his knee. “And you, my General?”
“I am yours,” Yasha whispered into the cloth of his Master’s trousers. “To command. To wear. To display.”
Sokolov’s lips curled, satisfied.
“My Winter Prince,” he murmured. “Still sharper than any blade I’ve ever forged.”
Yasha shivered with pleasure. “Shall I remain here, Master, or would you have me move among them again?”
Sokolov reclined back in the velvet seat behind him, adjusting the fur-lined hem of his coat. “Let them suffer your absence for now,” he said. “You’ve given them enough. Let the court look to the dais and remember who holds their leash.”
Yasha's smile was small, but sharp.
“Yes, Master.”
And so he stayed kneeling, face turned slightly to watch the glittering room below. His collar gleamed under the chandeliers. The silver diadem remained untouched. He was no mere general tonight. Not simply a prince.
He was the sovereign shadow beneath the empire’s rebirth.
And all would kneel in turn.

THE THRONE LEFT EMPTY
The absence of the Winter Prince from his throne did not go unnoticed.
The dais, built with such opulence—black marble steps, crimson silk banners, and velvet cushions hand-stitched by blind war widows from Minsk—now shimmered in half-light. The silver-threaded brocade where the Winter Prince should have reclined remained untouched, pristine.
Because Yasha was not there.
He was on his knees at his Master’s feet, where he belonged.
The imagery was not lost on the crowd. Foreign correspondents whispered to one another in rapid French, English, and German. A few took frantic notes, sketching the pose with stolen glances: a blood-red vision curled like a lapdog beside Sokolov, who lounged like a Tsar reborn, sipping his brandy and acknowledging no one. Yasha’s head rested against his thigh, diadem glittering like a crown dropped in submission.
Sokolov didn’t look at the crowd. He had no need.
They were already watching.
Brezhnev, meanwhile, was surrounded.
Diplomats from Warsaw, from Havana, from East Berlin and Cairo elbowed for space beside New York Times correspondents, Vogue editors, and MI6 shadows in rented tuxedos. All of them spoke at once, tripping over their questions like drunkards at confession:
“What was it like, Comrade Premier?”
“Was he cold to the touch, or warm?”
“Did you feel it—the power he holds?”
“Did he speak? What did he say?”
“Was it like Stalin?”
Brezhnev, cheeks ruddy from champagne and sudden cultural gravity, waved them off with meaty hands, grinning in his way—half bravado, half disbelief.
“He glides,” he said. “Like death in velvet.”
One of the Americans choked into his glass.
Across the room, someone muttered that even Khrushchev had never touched the Prince.
An Italian ambassador asked if the dance was choreographed or instinctual.
“Instinct,” Brezhnev said, a little too proud. “He chose me.”
And that was the story they’d all carry home: that the Winter Prince—the General of the KGB, the Heir of Stalin, the Imperial specter of Russia’s undying soul—had risen from ice and silence to dance with Brezhnev under the chandeliers of the Kremlin.
Not because he had to. But because he willed it.
Because he approved.
And suddenly, every policy Brezhnev had proposed in the last month gained new legitimacy. The shake-up of the Red Army’s top brass? Sanctioned by the Prince’s smile. The economic reforms on the table? Surely they had the approval of the one in red silk and frost-painted cheeks.
The air was thick with recalculations. Allies shifted. Enemies took stock. Even the most seasoned apparatchiks watched the dais with narrowed eyes, because it was no longer Brezhnev’s rise they feared—it was the throne left empty.
And the man who refused to sit upon it.

THE PRICE OF PRESUMPTION
The gala was winding down—slowly, reluctantly, like a courtesan refusing to undress. The final notes of the Leningrad quartet hung in the air like fading incense. Champagne flutes emptied, laughter softened to murmurs, and diplomats began to drift toward the velvet-draped exits with heavy coats and heavier secrets tucked beneath their arms.
Yasha moved like a vision departing a dream.
His gown trailed behind him in slow, silken waves, each step measured, soundless against the black marble. The diadem shimmered with each turn of his head, sapphires catching the dying light of the chandeliers. His makeup, though worn by hours of heat and breath, remained flawless—war paint fit for a Prince.
He passed by onlookers like a ghost with gravity. Most dared not meet his eyes. Those that did lowered theirs when he tilted his head, just so. A smirk like a knife's edge.
Sokolov remained on the dais, the Master unmoving, the architect of it all—one leg crossed leisurely over the other, hand resting on the curve where Yasha’s head had been not long before. A glass of brandy, untouched now, glinted in his hand.
Yasha’s exit path led him directly past the cluster surrounding Brezhnev.
The Premier had never looked more regal. He laughed a little too loudly, still basking in the warmth of the night’s earlier proximity. He turned when he sensed movement—him—and his words froze on his tongue.
The Winter Prince stood still for a moment.
Eyes locked.
Every whisper in the room hushed, heads turning like compass needles to the point of magnetic eruption.
Then—boldly, without turning to Sokolov or seeking permission—Yasha stepped forward.
He leaned in.
Brezhnev’s breath caught.
And Yasha, with his lips still stained in wine-dark lacquer, pressed a soft, cold kiss to Brezhnev’s cheek.
It was gentle. Terrible.
Not lewd, nor long. Not sexual.
Symbolic.
A second coronation. A seal. The ghost of Stalin’s heir bestowing favor with the intimacy of breath.
The press of lip against flesh echoed louder than any toast.
And Yasha, without a word, turned on his heel and glided into the shadows beyond the curtains—exiting like smoke from a censer, fragrant and sacred and spent.
Sokolov did not move until the room forgot how to breathe.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he rose from his throne.
He set down his glass.
Straightened the cuff of his jacket.
And followed.

Private Quarters.
The doors had barely clicked shut behind them when Yasha was against the wall, breath snatched from him in a sharp gasp, the diadem knocked askew.
Sokolov loomed, tall and deliberate, his eyes burning like smolder beneath ash.
“A kiss?” His voice was silk. Deadly silk. “Without permission.”
Yasha did not flinch. His lips curved, red and knowing. “I thought he earned it.”
“You thought.” Sokolov’s fingers dragged down his throat, possessive and punishing at once. “You thought.”
The gown was already sliding off one shoulder, baring skin marbled with sweat and powder.
“Do you think, my darling Prince,” Sokolov murmured against his ear, “that you are free to give away what belongs to me?”
Yasha didn’t answer.
He smiled.
And dropped to his knees.

Chapter 55: Next Steps

FUN-ISHMENT
The air in the private chambers was heavier than any ballroom—thick with the scent of wax, leather, sweat, and wine-soaked perfume. The walls here had witnessed things the chandeliers never would. Here, the Master ruled not as diplomat, but as god.
Yasha knelt before him in scarlet and silver ruin. His gown pooled around him like spilled blood, the embroidered silk crumpled under his knees. The diadem tilted at a dangerous angle. His lips, still stained with audacity, curved in something that was not quite remorse.
He knew what he’d done.
And he wanted to be punished for it.
Sokolov circled him like a wolf scenting prey. Slow. Decadent.
“I gave you this title,” he murmured, dragging a gloved hand along Yasha’s bare shoulder, “this throne, this country’s fear… and tonight you reminded them that you are mine. You wore my mark around your throat and smiled as they bowed.”
The gloved hand snapped forward, seizing a handful of Yasha’s styled curls. “And then you dared offer a kiss to another man.”
Yasha let out a breathless sound. “A politician,” he whispered. “Not a lover.”
“That is not for you to distinguish.”
The back of Sokolov’s hand struck his cheek—not hard, but precise. Just enough to smear the paint, to leave behind a perfect echo of punishment.
Yasha moaned softly, lashes fluttering.
Another strike. Opposite cheek. A mirrored touch.
Then, silence. Sokolov stepped back. Removed his gloves, slow and meticulous. Laid them across the nearest chaise like instruments between arias.
“Remove it,” he said.
Yasha obeyed, fingers rising to the collar. The silver wolf-heads gleamed as he unfastened the clasp. He held it up with both hands, kneeling in offering.
But Sokolov didn’t take it.
“Put it in your mouth.”
Yasha froze—then obeyed, sliding the leather and metal between his lips like communion. The etched inscription—Property of Sokolov—pressed to his tongue, hot and humiliating.
Sokolov smiled.
“Crawl.”
Yasha lowered himself fully to hands and knees, silk dragging over the marble, and began to crawl. Diadem slipping. Paint running. Power on display.
Sokolov walked beside him, boots echoing like drums of war.
They made it to the bed—wide and stark and white as a pyre.
“Up.”
Yasha climbed up and turned instinctively to kneel.
“No,” Sokolov said, undoing his cuffs. “On your back. You’ll take this as a Prince. Let the bruises form where the world can see them.”
Yasha obeyed—threw his head back, the collar still between his teeth, lips stretched wide by metal and shame.
The corset laces were sliced open. The gown peeled from him, layer by layer, until only the lacquer on his lips remained untouched. The punishment was not about pain. Not tonight. It was about presentation. Ownership. A reminder.
As Sokolov knelt between his thighs, sliding the blade of his tongue over a bruised hipbone, he murmured, “I allow you to dazzle them. I do not allow you to share.”
Yasha whimpered, collar clinking as his mouth trembled around it.
“Tonight, they will dream of you,” Sokolov said, gripping his thighs. “But you’ll wake in my bed, marked by my hands.”
And so he was.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until the collar fell from Yasha’s lips in a soundless cry and the stars behind his eyes became the only audience that mattered.

THE AFTERMATH OF THE WINTER PRINCE
The morning after the gala was colder than usual, the crisp air of Moscow seeping through the high windows of Sokolov’s private chambers. The night had been unforgettable. The echoes of music, the taste of power, and the burn of Yasha’s punishment still lingered like a whisper, as tangible as the silken sheets that now lay tangled around him. He had barely slept, but he would not—could not—let anyone see weakness, especially after the display that had shaken even the most seasoned of diplomats.
Sokolov remained ever watchful, seated at his desk, flipping through reports and documents with an eerie calm, his face as unreadable as the steel of his gaze. He did not need to address the whispers that had begun to spiral; Yasha could feel them crawling through the veins of the world, reaching him even here in the heart of the Kremlin.

Moscow, Pravda
December 1964
"Winter Prince Steps Back Into the Light: An Era of Power Reborn"
By Nikolai Volkov
The night of the gala in honor of the new Premier Leonid Brezhnev witnessed the triumphant return of the legendary Winter Prince, General Yasha of the KGB. A figure synonymous with the dark opulence of the Soviet Union’s most formidable era, General Yasha’s reappearance has already sent shockwaves through the political landscape.
The Winter Prince, as he is known in the hushed halls of the Kremlin, was last seen over a decade ago at the lavish gala marking his last year under Stalin’s rule. His return is seen as a direct assertion of power, with Yasha reaffirming his loyalty to Brezhnev, while simultaneously reminding the world that his place is one of the most coveted in the Soviet hierarchy.
Sources close to the General have remarked that he has regained his position as a leading force in the KGB, though there are whispers that his role as the Winter Prince—a title above even that of Premier—may hold more sway than any military or political title.

Foreign Headlines
London, MI6 Briefing
Subject: Winter Prince—A Dangerous Return
“The Winter Prince, also known as General Yasha, has re-emerged in Moscow, marking a significant shift in the Soviet power structure. His attendance at Brezhnev’s gala, with such grandeur, speaks volumes. For those of us who remember his influence under Stalin’s regime, it is clear that Yasha is not merely a relic of the past. He is a potent symbol, an embodiment of Soviet might—and now, more than ever, a reflection of Brezhnev's rise to dominance.”
"Watch for signs of internal unrest or tension. Yasha’s proximity to Sokolov and his apparent return to political power makes him a key figure. His reassertion could ignite the discontent simmering within the Kremlin. However, the KGB’s loyalty to him cannot be underestimated.”

Washington, CIA Analysis
Report on Soviet Affairs—Winter Prince
“General Yasha’s return to public life marks a shift that is not to be taken lightly. For over a decade, he has operated behind the scenes, maintaining control over the KGB and guiding Soviet policy in ways the West could never fully grasp. His position is one of near mythic status in Russia, where he is revered not only as a political player but as a living symbol of Soviet grandeur and ruthlessness.
His recent display of loyalty to Brezhnev, while seemingly an attempt to stabilize the new leadership, may also indicate that Yasha’s influence is far greater than anyone has anticipated. He has long been one of the few men who could rival Stalin’s grip on power, and now that Brezhnev has been crowned as Premier, the question must be asked: who truly rules the Soviet Union? Brezhnev, or the Winter Prince?”

Paris, Le Figaro
Political Analysis: The Winter Prince’s Resurgence
“The notorious Winter Prince, once the right hand of Stalin, has made his return in a spectacular fashion. At the lavish gala thrown for Brezhnev, the former general appeared in a manner that was as imposing as it was mysterious, a striking reminder of the power he once wielded. The silver collar he wore—emblazoned with the inscription Property of Sokolov—marks him as firmly under the control of his master, General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov, yet it only serves to elevate his status. Yasha’s entrance was nothing short of regal, and one can only speculate what forces are behind his dramatic comeback.”
“The question remains: does Brezhnev truly control the Soviet Union, or does Yasha’s return mark the beginning of a new power struggle, one where the Winter Prince pulls the strings from the shadows?”

The Kremlin: A World in Flux
By morning, Moscow was alive with talk of the gala and its aftereffects. The streets buzzed with quiet conversations in cafes and behind closed doors, whispers about what had truly occurred behind those closed palace doors. Yasha could feel the weight of those whispers pressing against him as he moved through the corridors of power with an almost otherworldly calm. His duties, as ever, were meticulous and exacting. There was no room for mistakes now. Not with Brezhnev’s new regime on the rise and the eyes of the world now trained on the Union's glittering façade.

In the silence of his chambers, Yasha stood before the mirror once more, the morning light slanting across his cheekbones, making his skin almost seem to glow. The weight of yesterday’s performance lingered in his chest like the sweet burn of a fine wine, intoxicating and powerful. He was no longer the boy who had once yearned for power in the shadows. He was the Winter Prince, a name spoken in reverence and fear.
He was the Soviet Union.
And as long as his Master held him in the palm of his hand, Yasha would reign supreme—above Brezhnev, above the world.
No one would dare challenge the Winter Prince.
Not even the West.

THE CHILL OF THE WINTER PRINCE
March, 1965.
The world outside was heavy with unrest, the thunderous echoes of war reverberating across distant lands. The Vietnam conflict had escalated sharply, a perfect storm of political maneuvering and military might. Soviet aid flowed into North Vietnam, but Yasha’s mind—ever sharp, ever calculating—was far removed from the madness on the battlefield. His hands were full with the ever-present intricacies of power, his fingers curling delicately around goblets of wine as they held his fate in their fragile glass grips.
Inside his office, the faint scent of incense mingled with the richness of imported leather and silk. The room was a far cry from the cold, rigid halls of the KGB that had once been his domain. Now, it was a sanctuary—a seductive den where the stark lines of his power and his luxury bled into one another. Soft, plush velvet drapes framed the windows. The walls were a muted gold, the same color as the finely embroidered silks he wore, accentuating his skin’s pale glow. The furniture was sumptuous, oversized—low-slung sofas, finely carved wooden tables with intricate patterns inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the scent of expensive perfumes lingering in the air. There were no sharp edges, no coldness here. This was a space meant for indulgence and leisure.
Yasha sprawled on one of the velvet sofas, a plate of delicate pastries in one hand, a crystal goblet of ruby red wine in the other. His fingers, adorned with rings, grazed lightly over the finely embroidered fabric of his gown—a dark, almost blood-red silk that shimmered in the soft light of his private quarters. He was an enigma in his own right, a master of both the violent and the opulent, the politics and the pleasure. His silken collar, adorned with the insignia of his true loyalty, sat neatly at his throat, the silver wolf-heads gleaming faintly as they caught the candlelight.
The gentle clink of a door opening pulled him from his thoughts, and Anya, his ever-dutiful headmaid, entered the room with a crisp report in hand. The smooth elegance of her movements was a contrast to the weight of what she carried. She was a quiet presence—always attentive, always anticipating his needs.
“General Yasha,” she began, her voice soft, but with that edge of formality reserved for moments of utmost importance, “there’s a report from the Eastern Bloc. It’s about the situation in Vietnam, but more importantly, there’s something else in here. A lead you might want to look at.”
Yasha’s fingers stilled mid-grip, the goblet held delicately in his hand. “What is it?” His voice was smooth, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes—a sharpness that spoke of his readiness to spring into action, to move faster than the world around him.
Anya handed him the report without a word. He glanced at it, his gaze flicking over the first few lines of text. It was a standard intelligence report—tactics, troop movements, and updates on the war. But one sentence at the very end caught his attention.
A young man, matching the description of Pyotr Sokolov, was reported to have been seen among the forces controlled by HYDRA in Southeast Asia.
Yasha’s hand froze.
Pyotr.
He scanned the rest of the report, but the rest was mostly inconsequential: a grainy photograph, a blurry figure in military garb, nothing to truly solidify the claim. But Yasha didn’t need clarity. He didn’t need much more than the words on the page to know that this was not a coincidence. This was his Pet. His Pyotr.
Yasha rose from the sofa, a sharp, fluid movement that left his gown trailing on the floor behind him. His eyes darkened as his gaze moved over the photograph. It was all too familiar, even in its vagueness. He would recognize those eyes anywhere, even through the haze of grain and shadow.
“That’s him,” Yasha murmured, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was low, almost reverent. A mix of longing and fury simmered beneath the surface, though his features remained as poised and perfect as always.
Anya didn’t speak, merely waiting for her next instruction. She had seen his moods shift in an instant before, but even she could sense the storm rising within him. She dared not disturb him while he processed, though she had no doubt that he would find a way to act on this information.
Yasha stepped closer to the desk, a wave of silk flowing around him as he examined the photograph more closely. There was a coldness creeping into his chest now. Not from fear—he had long since left that behind—but from a loss, an anger that burned beneath the surface.
Pyotr had been lost to him. It had been years since he had watched his Pet slip away, taken by forces he couldn’t control. And now, this—HYDRA, of all people.
“You know what to do,” Yasha said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. His gaze flicked to Anya, who had already begun to prepare the next set of instructions.
“Yes, General. Immediately,” she replied. Her face was impassive, but Yasha could sense her understanding. No one could afford to waste time with Pyotr now within HYDRA’s grasp.
Yasha’s fingers drummed idly on the edge of the desk, his mind already racing ahead. HYDRA. They were no strangers to the Soviet Union, a shadowy force that had ties everywhere, including among the highest echelons of the West. But this... this was personal. They had taken his Pet. And there would be consequences.
“Get me the best operatives. No one knows about this. Not yet. I will deal with it myself,” Yasha said, the quiet authority in his tone brooking no argument. The fire that had begun to smolder in his chest was now a flame, licking the edges of his control. It was always the personal things, wasn’t it? The things he could not control that left him unsettled.
Anya nodded, exiting the room with a speed and grace born of long practice.
Yasha took a deep breath and looked once more at the grainy image of Pyotr. His Pet. The one he had lost. The one he would get back.
The game was on.

THE HUNT BEGINS
The KGB headquarters was abuzz with activity in the days following the intelligence report, though few understood the true nature of the storm building within its velvet-draped center. General Yasha, the Winter Prince, the creature of legend and terror and silk, was no longer merely lounging in finery with wine on his lips and Petrovian caviar on his tongue.
Now, he moved with purpose.
The transformation was subtle but absolute. His lounging silks were replaced with traveling robes of darker hues—deep garnet and black, the color of wine spilled at midnight. Still lavish, still tailored to his exquisite form, but touched now with functionality: reinforced boots beneath the hem, dagger-sheaths sewn discreetly into the folds. Over his shoulders he wore a black fur-lined cloak with silver embroidery curling up its spine like vines choking a monument.
In his private quarters, he knelt before his Master one final time before departure. Sokolov, seated at the head of his private dining room—an opulent chamber that once belonged to a tsar—regarded him with a quiet, unreadable fondness.
“You are certain it’s him?” Pyotr’s father asked, swirling a glass of dark plum wine between elegant fingers.
Yasha raised his head. “Yes, Master. It is my Pet.”
Sokolov studied him. “And if it is a trap?”
Yasha smiled—sharp, terrible, laced with a kind of madness only Sokolov knew how to tame. “Then I’ll spring it with a knife to the throat.”
Sokolov laughed, warm and low, and leaned forward to stroke his Prince’s jaw. “Bring him home, moya radost'. Whatever he is now, he is yours. Ours. Do not forget that.”
Yasha pressed a kiss to his Master’s palm, silver lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. “Never, Master.”

Two Days Later – En Route to Hanoi
The private plane supplied by the KGB was fitted to Yasha’s specifications. The interior resembled a Roman villa more than a military transport—velvet-lined seating, a chaise in the corner, gilt fixtures, and two handpicked aides dressed in matching black silk uniforms. One fed him candied ginger between sips of ginseng tea. The other knelt beside him, reciting intelligence briefs from a bound crimson folio.
HYDRA presence had increased on the edges of Viet Cong-controlled territory—mostly under the guise of foreign operatives providing weapons and medical enhancements. The sightings had been rare and carefully hidden, but the latest report had named a specific village burned to the ground. Among the corpses: a child clutching a Soviet-issue pistol with Pyotr’s family name etched into the handle.
It was a message.
Yasha stared out the window, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the silk chaise. His lips parted just enough for a breathless murmur in Russian:
“Он играет со мной…” He’s playing with me.

Arrival – Hanoi, March 21, 1965
The moment Yasha stepped off the plane, the humid heat of Vietnam wrapped around him like a suffocating lover. Still, he bore it with the grace of royalty, unbothered by sweat or filth. His presence did not belong in this place—he was a foreign god in a land of red clay and blood—but that only made him more terrifying. More divine.
KGB officers stationed in Hanoi had been warned of his arrival. The senior commander bowed as Yasha approached.
“Comrade General—”
Yasha didn’t stop walking. “You have my dossier?”
“Yes, sir. Our men are already scouring the region. The boy—if he is the boy—was last seen moving south through the jungle.”
“Then I move south.”
“You’ll need an escort—”
“I need obedience,” Yasha said, and the man flinched.
Yasha paused only once, glancing toward the soldiers who’d assembled for his arrival. All of them young. Some brave. Some foolish. He lifted a hand and pointed to one—no older than nineteen, wiry, fresh-faced, lips trembling.
“You. You’re mine now.”
The soldier blinked, then stumbled forward with wide eyes.
Yasha smiled faintly. “If he’s frightened, I’ll need someone he won’t fear.”

That Night – On the Jungle Path
Yasha’s camp was modest by his standards: silk tent, his favorite wine, a phonograph playing soft lullabies from his youth. He reclined on a chaise even here, reading reports by candlelight while insects screeched outside and the thick smell of rain-soaked dirt clung to the air.
The grainy photo of Pyotr rested in his lap. Yasha touched the edge of it as though it were skin.
“My darling,” he whispered, voice laced with something that was not quite pain, “what have they done to you?”
The night was long, and sleep elusive. But Yasha didn’t mind. His dreams, when they came, were thick with smoke and fire—and the sound of his Pet’s voice calling from the edge of the trees.

Chapter 56: New Friends, Old Sorrows

THE SHADOW & THE SHIELD
The jungle was sweltering. Wet. Alive.
It wrapped itself around the marching KGB unit like a second skin, thick with the scent of rot and blood and blooming things. And yet, the man leading the Soviet column moved through it untouched, his boots silent even on snapping twigs. The trees parted for him. The wind shifted with him. Even the mosquitoes dared not bite.
Yasha—The Winter Prince—was in his element.
He cut a figure at once terrifying and mesmerizing. His tactical suit was a masterwork of artistry and violence: deep obsidian leather that glistened like wet ink in the sun, panelled with silk damask embroidered in bloodred thread. His mask, when he wore it, was carved from polished onyx with etched silver trim, though now it hung loosely at his hip. A corseted harness cinched his waist, holding throwing knives, small arms, and a delicate flask of wine tucked where most soldiers kept grenades.
He did not look like a General.
He looked like a god of death dressed for a coronation.
Behind him, the young soldier he’d claimed—Lev—carried the intelligence brief and watched his superior with cautious awe. It had been two days since they’d left Hanoi. And now, Yasha had stopped.
Frozen in place.
Head tilted slightly, like an animal catching scent.
He raised a gloved hand.
Silence.
And then—movement. Not their own.
Before Lev could speak, the jungle erupted in motion.
"DOWN!" came a voice—American, sharp, commanding.
Shots rang out. Not Soviet rounds. Muzzle flashes burst from the trees ahead, but they were aimed away from the Soviets—toward an ambushing force flanking them.
Yasha didn’t flinch. He moved forward with preternatural calm, weaving between bullets, a blade already in hand. His first strike was surgical: a slit throat, a gurgled gasp, a body caught before it hit the dirt. The second came faster. Then the third. Blood misted his polished leather, his crimson scarf catching the spray like silk kissed by war.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shooting stopped.
Figures emerged from the brush—broad-shouldered, mud-caked, their uniforms tattered but proudly bearing the American star.
Leading them was a man taller than most, dark-skinned, eyes sharp as razors, carrying a dented vibranium shield. He walked like someone who’d fought too long and trusted too little.
Yasha’s expression didn’t change.
But he knew that face.
Isaiah Bradley.
The American Super Soldier. The other one.
Isaiah’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the decadently dressed man standing in a puddle of HYDRA corpses.
“You’re not Viet Cong,” Isaiah growled. “And you’re sure as hell not American.”
Yasha tilted his head slightly. “Not today.”
Isaiah took a single step forward, shield lowered but ready. “Who the hell are you?”
Yasha smiled faintly.
“I am the Winter Prince.”
One of the soldiers behind Isaiah muttered, “Ain’t that the Russian ghost they used to scare us with back in basic?”
Isaiah didn’t take his eyes off Yasha. “What are you doing in Vietnam?”
“I’m hunting someone who belongs to me.” His voice was smooth, faintly accented, laced with cold amusement. “And you appear to be doing the same.”
Isaiah narrowed his eyes. “HYDRA’s running operations out of a camp north of here. They’re experimenting on POWs. Enhancements. Mind control. We’ve been hitting them every week.”
Yasha stepped forward slowly, boots soft against the earth.
“My information matches yours. One of those experiments may be mine.”
Isaiah raised his chin. “We’ve got wounded. We’re low on supplies. And I don’t trust Soviets.”
Yasha’s lip curled.
“Darling,” he purred, “I’m not a Soviet.”
That gave Isaiah pause. He saw it now—the way the soldiers behind Yasha looked at him. Not as a superior. But as something holy. Something dangerous.
Isaiah lowered his shield slightly.
“You’re comin’ with us. We’re heading back to base.”
“I don’t take orders—”
“You don’t have to,” Isaiah cut in. “But unless you wanna walk into that camp alone, you’ll listen.”
Yasha considered. Then, very slowly, he turned his head.
“Lev,” he said without looking, “you’re in command until I return.”
Lev paled. “Yes, Comrade General.”
Isaiah watched the interaction carefully, noting the deference—no, the worship—in the young soldier’s voice. Whatever this man was… he wasn’t just Soviet. He was something else entirely.
“Lead the way, Captain Bradley,” Yasha murmured, voice dipped in velvet and death.
Isaiah gave a grunt.
“Don’t slow me down, Prince.”

Vietnam – 1965
Nightfall at the edge of the jungle, the HYDRA base under siege.
Smoke curled like serpents through the shattered remains of the outpost, punctuated by the orange blaze of firelight. The air reeked of charred oil, seared flesh, and the copper tang of blood. Gunfire had faded into echo. Screams had died in gurgles. Now, only the sound of crackling ruin and bootsteps across debris remained.
Yasha moved like a phantom in the dark—his custom armor clinging to him like a second skin, high-grade black leather polished with a sheen, its lines sleek and regal. Panels of reinforced silk shimmered subtly beneath the chest harness, the wolf-head belt still gleaming despite the carnage. His eyes were lined in kohl, sharp as razors. The Winter Prince hunted.
Behind him, Isaiah Bradley and his squad swept through the wreckage, mopping up survivors. But Yasha didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. His eyes were fixed on a single intact steel door, heat-warped and partially caved in. He could feel something pulling him toward it—an ache low in his belly, the throb of anticipation laced with dread.
He pried it open with his gloved hands and stepped into the ruin.
It had once been a containment cell. Now, it was a furnace. The overhead light had burst. The walls were scorched. Flames licked at the edges of melted consoles and shattered glass. And in the center of the floor—
Yasha stopped breathing.
There lay a body—blackened, unmoving. Charred beyond recognition, dressed in half-melted tactical leathers, once fine and unmistakable in their design. It was the Asset’s uniform. The Asset’s work. The Asset’s corpse.
He dropped to his knees.
At first, there was no sound. Not even breath. Just the sickening pop of metal cooling and fabric hissing in heat.
Then he saw it.
The leg. Twisted just so. A grotesque echo of youth—a shin that had once been broken in a fall, never set properly because Pyotr had cried and Yasha had held him too tightly to allow the field medic to do his job. Even after the serum, it hadn’t healed cleanly. A stubborn bend. A permanent mark.
“No,” Yasha rasped. His gloved hand reached out, fingers trembling, barely brushing the edge of a bone where the leather had burned away. He didn't flinch at the heat.
He knew this body.
And in that moment, the world broke.
He let out a sound—a whimper, a wail, a curse, it didn’t matter. It was raw and wordless, pulled from the pit of his stomach and forced through his clenched jaw. He slumped forward, catching himself on his elbows as his head bowed, black curls clinging to his sweat-dampened forehead.
Bradley entered behind him, panting from exertion, rifle lowered. He froze when he saw the body. And then, carefully, cautiously, he approached.
“Yasha,” Isaiah said quietly, not the title, just the name. “Is that—?”
Yasha didn’t answer.
He reached into a pouch at his hip and removed a silk handkerchief—Sokolov’s crest embroidered into the corner. Carefully, reverently, he covered the skull. And then the chest. And then the leg.
He rose in silence.
“I want the base torched,” he said hoarsely, voice stripped of ornament. “This entire compound. Nothing left.”
Isaiah nodded. “You sure? You don’t want to bring the body back?”
Yasha looked at him—something ancient and frozen glittering in his kohl-lined eyes.
“No. He is already home.”
And without another word, the Winter Prince turned and vanished back into the smoke, his cape trailing like shadow behind him.

Jungle Perimeter – Just Before Dawn
The heat hung heavy in the air, thick with humidity and the lingering tang of scorched metal. The jungle whispered as the wind shifted, but the deeper quiet had returned—unnerving and vast after the chaos of the night’s assault. HYDRA’s base was nothing but ash and ruin now, glowing faintly in the distance, a tomb for secrets better left buried.
Yasha moved with a ghost’s grace, silent and sure-footed even among the moss and broken branches. The POWs—thirty-seven American and South Vietnamese soldiers—had been herded to safety hours earlier. Isaiah Bradley stood near them, overseeing medical triage and coordination with the American extraction team. His men followed his lead, though a few still glanced nervously toward Yasha as he passed.
Yasha paid them no mind.
He approached Bradley at the edge of the clearing, his presence a whisper of black leather and silk in the green gloom. Even now, he was a vision of decadent warfare: armor fitted to his form like sculpture, his hair damp with sweat, eyes lined with kohl and emotionless as glass. A relic of another empire, another god.
Bradley turned as he approached. “You didn’t have to stick around.”
Yasha’s head tilted, curls falling loose around his face.
“I did,” he said simply. “I owed you that much.”
Bradley watched him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. “You okay?”
A flash of something moved across Yasha’s face. A crack in the ice. Then gone.
“I will be.”
A silence settled between them. The kind only men like them could share. Two enhanced soldiers. Two men who had been turned into weapons by governments that saw them as nothing more than means to an end.
After a moment, Yasha reached into the inside of his jacket. From a hidden silk pocket, he withdrew a small black envelope, sealed with red wax stamped in the shape of a wolf’s head.
He offered it without flourish.
Bradley took it, glancing down at the seal. “What is it?”
“A way to reach me. If your government ever decides you’re more valuable dead than decorated. If they come for your family. If you ever need to vanish… or strike back.” His voice was calm, almost too calm. “Bring that to any Soviet embassy. Say my name. You and your blood will be protected.”
Bradley frowned. “You serious?”
Yasha’s gaze didn’t waver. “The Premier himself would grant you sanctuary as friends of the Winter Prince. That is not a kindness. It is a law.”
For the first time, Bradley looked shaken. Not afraid—just… seen.
Yasha took a half step closer. “You’re not just a soldier, Isaiah. You’re a legend. You should be treated like one.”
“Didn’t think you were the sentimental type,” Bradley muttered, trying to cover the way his voice caught.
“I’m not,” Yasha replied, a thin smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “But I recognize my own.”
The sound of helicopters in the distance began to swell—American medevac, on schedule. The light was starting to bleed through the trees, pale and soft against the smoke-choked canopy.
Yasha turned without another word and melted back into the jungle.
He didn’t look back.

Chapter 57: To Be Remade

The Return to Moscow – Spring 1965
The Sokolov Estate, Midnight
Snow was still falling in Moscow. Light, hesitant flurries dusted the grand avenues and the copper rooftops like powdered sugar, soft and beautiful, as if the city itself tried to hush its own brutal machinery for just one night.
Yasha returned in silence.
The sleek black ZIL limousine glided through Red Square and disappeared into the more discreet streets of the inner city. His motorcade was minimal—he had dismissed the usual pageantry. No trumpets. No banners. No velvet-lined security detail trailing behind him with rifles and bouquets. Only the red star above the Kremlin winked knowingly, as if it alone recognized the sorrow carved into the returning Prince’s face.
At the Estate, the staff opened the doors before he reached them.
He said nothing.
Yasha stepped through marble halls and silk-draped corridors, a ghost in lacquered boots and travel-stained black. His leathers, still dusted with the ash of Vietnam, had not been changed. The faint scent of jungle fire and gun oil clung to him like the memory of blood.
He removed nothing—not his gloves, not the straps across his chest, not the weapons at his hips.
Not until he reached the inner sanctum.
Not until he saw his Master.
Sokolov stood from the chaise near the fire the moment the doors opened. He was resplendent in a midnight dressing robe embroidered with constellations in silver thread, hair loose around his face, eyes shadowed with worry and waiting. No guards. No advisors. Just Pyotr Sokolov—sovereign of half the world, and the one man Yasha belonged to entirely.
They did not speak.
Yasha crossed the room with all the controlled grace of a beast in chains, and then—
—he dropped.
Knees to marble. Arms hanging limp at his sides. His head bowed forward until his brow met the floor.
He didn’t sob.
He didn’t cry.
He simply broke, soundlessly, like a statue shattering from within, too cold to scream.
Sokolov crossed the room without hesitation and knelt with him, hands slipping under Yasha’s chin, lifting his head with infinite care. Their eyes met—dark and darker—and Sokolov saw it all. The emptiness. The grief. The charred ghost of hope burned to bone in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
“You found him,” Sokolov said softly, as if the weight of it demanded reverence.
Yasha's voice, when it came, was a threadbare thing. “What’s left of him.”
Sokolov gathered him into his arms.
The leathers peeled away under his hands, heavy with ash and rain and loss. Bit by bit, he undid his Pet’s armor, until the Winter Prince was left in only his skin, trembling and perfect in ruin. He did not resist. He didn’t move at all except to curl tighter, nose pressed to Sokolov’s chest like a child, breath catching in near-silent bursts.
Sokolov stroked his hair. His back. Whispered Russian lullabies first sung to czars and devils alike.
“I will remake you,” he promised into the dark. “I will build you again. My beautiful, broken wolf.”
The fire flickered low. The storm outside thickened.
And in the velvet hush of midnight, the Winter Prince began again.

Yasha lay still in Sokolov’s embrace, his breath slowly evening out, the weight of his return still clinging to his bones. The fire in the hearth flickered softly, casting long shadows across the grand room. Outside, the snow fell thicker, a soft white blanket draping over the world, as if it could shield them from all that had happened in the past days—months even. But nothing could shield him from the grief in his chest. Not yet.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His Master had already understood the depth of his silence, the brokenness that extended beyond the body to something deeper within his soul. The loss of Pyotr, the body burned beyond recognition… it had shattered something in Yasha he hadn’t known could break.
But he wasn’t alone now.
Sokolov’s hands were steady, practiced. They slid over Yasha’s skin, tracing the curve of his jaw, smoothing the hair from his forehead, and Yasha let his Master guide him, let him touch and reclaim what had slipped away. The sharp edges of the world could not reach him here, not with his Master holding him so close, his presence all-encompassing.
“You have been away for too long, my beautiful wolf,” Sokolov whispered, voice low and soothing. “But I will bring you back. I will repair what is broken, piece by piece.”
Yasha didn’t answer, though the words were as much for himself as they were for his Pet. He pressed closer, closing his eyes, feeling Sokolov’s warmth seep into him like liquid silk.
“Come,” Sokolov urged softly, his hand gliding over Yasha’s shoulder, coaxing him up. “You need to wash. You need to eat. You are in need of more than rest. You need to feel alive again.”
Yasha didn’t protest. He didn’t argue. It had been too long since someone had cared enough to ask for more than his body—his mind, his soul—they were all his Master’s. He moved fluidly as Sokolov led him toward the adjacent bathing room, the marble floors cool beneath his feet.
The scent of jasmine and vanilla filled the air, soft and comforting. The bath itself was already prepared: a large, heated stone tub that seemed to hum with warmth, the steam curling in delicate tendrils. Sokolov removed Yasha’s clothing with the same precision he had when he first undressed him on their return.
“Let me,” Sokolov murmured as he knelt to help him into the water, fingers brushing the curve of Yasha’s waist, his chest, his face, as if to soothe every jagged edge of the soldier that had come home.
The water was perfect. It felt like being submerged in warmth, but the peace was fleeting. Yasha’s hands shook when he dipped them into the water, fingers gripping the edge of the tub for a moment before relaxing. He let the heat envelope him, sinking deeper into the embrace of the water, feeling the weight of the day—the mission, the loss, the desolation—drain from him.
Sokolov watched him in silence, sitting by the tub, his presence a grounding force. His eyes never left Yasha’s form as the water lapped gently at his skin, always guarding, always present. He hadn’t asked if his Pet was ready for the ritual that was about to come, but Yasha could feel it, the pull of familiarity, the need to reconnect.
“You are everything to me, my wolf,” Sokolov’s voice was a breath, barely more than a whisper, but it filled the room with the weight of the world.
Yasha closed his eyes. He could feel the truth in those words, something that burned through him with an intensity that made him shiver, despite the warmth of the water.
After a long moment, Sokolov helped him out of the bath, his hands steady, supporting him as he stood. The night had not softened, but in the stillness, the air between them had thickened with the unspoken promise of what came next.
Once Yasha was dry, Sokolov led him to the table. The meal was simple but rich—a bowl of broth with fresh bread, the scent of roasted meats hanging in the air, a glass of wine. The kind of meal that nourished more than the body. The kind of meal that required no conversation, only the satisfaction of shared space.
Yasha ate, not with hunger, but with purpose. He knew that this was the first step—his Master had begun the process of restoring him, brick by brick. The sustenance was something deeper than the food; it was the bond they shared, the understanding of what it meant to be owned, to be rebuilt.
When the last of the wine had been drunk, when the plates were cleared and nothing but the silence of the room remained, Sokolov took Yasha’s hand and guided him to the large bed, the soft sheets already pulled back, the softness of the bedding inviting him to rest.
But it wasn’t rest Yasha wanted—not yet. He moved to kneel at his Master’s feet, as he had done so many times before, the floor cool against his knees, the weight of the night settling on him. He needed to feel it again. The discipline. The love. The purpose.
Sokolov’s hand caressed his cheek, gently lifting Yasha’s face so that their eyes met, unspoken understanding passing between them.
“You are mine,” Sokolov said, voice as low as a secret. “And you will always be mine, no matter what happens.”
Yasha didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. He simply pressed his forehead against his Master’s knee, silently accepting the rebirth that had only just begun.
Sokolov’s hands slid down his back, fingers gentle but firm, guiding him to lie against the cool, luxurious sheets. There was no rush, no urgency. The world outside, the mission, the endless wars, all of it could wait. Here, in this space, there was only them.
And as the night stretched on, as Yasha finally succumbed to exhaustion in the warmth of his Master’s arms, he knew that the Prince, the Winter Prince, the wolf—would rise again.
But for now, there was only this moment of peace.
The rest would come in time.

The Sokolov Estate – Spring 1965
The days following Yasha’s return to the Sokolov estate were slow, a quiet interlude between the storm of the world and the silence of his Master’s world. Yasha had been allowed the space to recover, though his mind never truly ceased to churn. The body he had found—Pyotr’s body—lingered in his thoughts, a constant reminder of what had been lost, a wound that was too deep to fully heal.
But even in the quiet, even as he sat at the edge of the warm fire in his private quarters, surrounded by the luxury that had always been his, he felt it: the numbness. He had known the war, the betrayal, the brutal silences of being used, of being discarded. Yet Pyotr’s death had created a fissure inside him—a rift in the very fabric of his being that no amount of silk or luxury could mend. It was a hollowing, a gnawing, that only Sokolov’s touch could ease.
After several days, Sokolov had taken the first step in their ever-present dance of rebuilding. Yasha had been allowed to rest, to take solace in the wealth of the estate and the stillness of the rooms. No one came to him; no one bothered him. Only Sokolov’s shadow lingered, ever present, ever patient.
But the time had come for Yasha to face the weight of his role, once more.
Sokolov had made it clear: the time for grieving was fleeting, and the political machine would not stop for his brokenness. The Committee had called for a debriefing, and the funeral for Pyotr, who would forever remain a son and heir in the eyes of the Soviet Union, was to be meticulously planned.
The day arrived.
Yasha stood before the mirror in his office, the same lavish attire he had worn to his gala already in place—an echo of who he once was, who he still was, despite everything. The Winter Prince never fully allowed himself to be anything less. It was the only armor that could protect him from the cold winds of reality.
“Yasha,” Sokolov’s voice was soft, but commanding, as he stepped into the room, his gaze like molten glass. “You must prepare. They expect you to carry the weight. Pyotr’s funeral will be a grand affair, the state will mourn his loss as though he were a soldier fallen in battle. But you, my Pet, you must carry that loss with dignity. For the eyes of the world will be upon you.”
Yasha didn’t speak, his reflection a mirror of every loss he’d ever suffered. His heart—still raw—was something he had learned to conceal beneath layers of control and polish.
Sokolov’s hand rested gently on his shoulder, a presence that grounded him, even as his Master’s fingers brushed across his collar—marking him, claiming him as always. “Do not let them see your grief. Only power.”
With a deep, steadying breath, Yasha nodded, allowing himself to be drawn into his Master’s embrace once more, before they turned toward the Committee’s chambers.

The Kremlin – March 1965
The atmosphere inside the Committee's chamber was heavy with expectation as the men and women gathered for the briefing. The political weight of Yasha’s absence, coupled with the tragic loss of Pyotr, hung in the air like a storm. The faint scent of pipe smoke and the distant hum of the city beyond the walls seemed almost muffled in comparison to the tension.
Yasha entered the room with the quiet assurance of a man who had seen the heart of the world’s greatest conflicts and survived them. His eyes, dark and unwavering, scanned the room—faces old and new—men and women who whispered of change, of alliances, of the things only the most powerful could control. None of them would dare question his position, but they watched, carefully, assessing his strength.
Sokolov moved beside him, always an unspoken presence at his side, a reminder that the Winter Prince was never alone.
Yasha stood before them all, still as marble, as the Committee’s leader spoke, his voice a low rumble in the chamber. “General Yasha, the information you have provided regarding the state of the HYDRA forces in Southeast Asia has been invaluable. The assets recovered, the plans you put in motion…” The man’s eyes flickered toward Yasha’s face. “You were right. We need to be more vigilant.”
Yasha said nothing, only nodded once, his gaze steady. His silence was a weapon all its own.
“We will need a full report on the damage to Soviet forces in the region,” another voice cut through the murmurs, a woman’s voice. She was younger, eager, calculating. “And we need to discuss the future of our presence in Vietnam, especially as the Americans grow more involved.”
Yasha allowed them to speak, but his thoughts drifted, the weight of their chatter fading into the background. His mind returned again and again to the body he had found—Pyotr’s body—and the grim reality of it all. Pyotr would never again stand beside him, no matter how many bodies Yasha cut down in his wake. The loss was irrevocable. But the state would never know that. They would never understand how deeply the Winter Prince had been wounded. They would never see the chasm that had opened up inside of him.
Finally, the discussion drifted to the subject of Pyotr’s funeral—a state event, designed to celebrate the life of the young man who had fallen in battle, whose name would live on in Soviet history as one of the many tragic martyrs of the Revolution.
“The funeral,” the Committee leader spoke again, “should be nothing less than grand. It will be a public spectacle. We need to show the strength of the Winter Prince’s heir, and Yasha, as the Winter Prince, will be front and center. His grief will be expected—but the show of strength, the loyalty to the state, must be evident.”
Sokolov’s voice broke in before Yasha could speak, calm and firm. “My Pet will be attending. It is only right that he be honored. The loss of Sergeant Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov is one that will be felt deeply. He was a son of the state and the Winter Prince himself.”
Yasha gave no sign of his discomfort, his emotions carefully hidden. He would not let them see the pain in his eyes. He would remain the Winter Prince, the coldest, most unyielding force in the room.
“Very well,” the Committee leader nodded. “It will be arranged.”
And with that, they concluded the meeting.

The Sokolov Estate – Later That Evening
As the evening descended, Yasha returned to the estate, the weight of the Committee’s expectations settling on his shoulders like the heaviest of furs. It would not be easy, to face the funeral with the same stoic grace he had worn for the years that had come before. But he had no choice. There was no room for weakness in the world he had inherited.
And yet, alone in the privacy of his chambers, Yasha allowed himself a single moment to grieve. Just for a second, he allowed himself to remember the boy Pyotr had once been—so full of promise, so full of fire. He hadn’t been allowed to be a soldier, not in the way he deserved, not in the way he could have been.
But he would always be his heir.
And in the quiet of the estate, with the soft glow of the candles flickering against the walls, Yasha swore an oath—quietly, to the shadows—that Pyotr’s death would not be in vain. He would make the world feel it. He would make them understand the cost of the Winter Prince’s loss.
Even if they never knew the truth.

The Sokolov Estate – Spring 1965
The first days following the Committee’s meeting and the official announcement of Pyotr’s state funeral passed in a haze for Yasha. It was as if the world itself had muted, the weight of his loss pressing upon him with such intensity that every breath felt like a struggle.
The shock of Pyotr’s death, the quiet ache that had gripped him upon discovering the mutilated body, began to simmer beneath the surface. At first, it was the numbness that consumed him—an ever-present, suffocating fog that dulled the edges of his reality. But beneath it, something far darker began to take root: anger.
It was slow at first, barely noticeable. A tightening in his chest, a faint tremor in his fingers when he looked at the image of Pyotr’s body. A shadow that crossed his mind when he recalled the sight of the melting leathers, the broken body clinging to a life it should never have had.
HYDRA. Khrushchev. Both had stolen from him. They had taken what was his. The one thing, the one person, that had been a part of him for so long, now lost forever. It didn’t matter that Pyotr had been born of Sokolov’s bloodline. The boy had been his.
The Winter Prince’s blood had run cold, but in this moment, it boiled with the kind of fury that only a betrayal of this magnitude could provoke.

The Kremlin – State Funeral for Sergeant Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov
The day of the funeral arrived with the kind of grandeur that only the Soviet state could afford. The streets of Moscow were lined with soldiers, with civilians, all gathered to pay their respects to a soldier, a hero—one who had never seen battle as the world would know it, but whose name would be enshrined in the history of the state. The pomp and ceremony were thick with solemnity, with the weight of the mourning that only the state itself could impose.
The coffin, draped in the red of the Soviet flag, was brought out before the gathered masses, flanked by soldiers who saluted with military precision. The funeral procession was long, deliberate. The people of Moscow stood in perfect silence as the State mourned one of its sons—one of the Winter Prince’s own blood.
But Yasha?
He stood near the front, in his full regalia. A vision in his Winter Prince attire—silk and leather, decadent, untouchable. The dark eyes of the world turned to him, his face a mask of stoic grace. The grief was there, but only as a shadow beneath the ice. His every movement was calculated, deliberate—his hands folded at his waist, his back straight, his posture perfect. The Winter Prince had to be seen, as he always had been: unyielding, above reproach.
Sokolov stood beside him, his gaze unwavering as he allowed his Pet the space to mourn, in his own way. He had always known how to give Yasha what he needed, how to keep him centered even as the storm raged within him.
The ceremony dragged on—words spoken, hymns sung, the ritual of Soviet mourning performed by the finest bureaucrats and military officers. Yasha hardly heard a word of it. His mind was elsewhere. His heart was far away, buried beneath a rage that churned and twisted like a wildfire.
HYDRA. Khrushchev. His eyes flickered over the faces of the mourners—the men and women who had contributed to the suffering of the Sokolov bloodline. The people who had seen fit to break his heart. They would never understand what they had taken from him.
He would make them understand.

Later – Private Moments in the Estate
The funeral had ended. The streets had emptied. But the pain, the anger—it still clung to him like a poison. Yasha returned to the Sokolov estate, the weight of the ceremony fading as the heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, shielding him from the light of the world outside.
Sokolov was there, as always, at his side. His Master did not speak at first—he never did, not when Yasha was in this state. Instead, he simply pulled Yasha into his arms, holding him as the anger within him surged like a tidal wave.
Yasha’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His breath was shallow, quick, as he allowed the storm to take over. The power, the control, the anger—it all rose up in him, the knowledge that it was time to act.
The funeral for Pyotr—Sergeant Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov—was a reminder. It was a reminder of everything that had been taken from him. From Sokolov. From their legacy. The funeral itself was a mockery, a grand show for the public. But behind the curtain, in the darkness of the estate, Yasha felt nothing but the heat of betrayal.
“I will make them pay,” Yasha said, his voice low, sharp, the words dripping with venom. “HYDRA. Khrushchev. They will all pay for this.”
Sokolov stroked Yasha’s hair, his touch soothing, even as his gaze remained cold. He had always known this was coming. He had always known the price of using the Winter Prince as a pawn in their games.
“You will make them pay, Pet,” Sokolov murmured, his voice laced with approval. “But do it with precision. Do it with grace. They will feel your fury when you strike.”
Yasha turned his face up, his eyes flashing with a deadly intensity. He had been patient, too patient, for far too long. The rage that had simmered inside him for months, for years, was now a force he could no longer control. It was no longer about his position, his title—it was about revenge.
And with that, the world would know the price of crossing the Winter Prince.

The Committee – Later That Week
The news of Pyotr’s funeral had spread throughout the ranks, through the political circles, and into the media. The funeral was a display of power, yes, but it was also a sign—an ominous one. Yasha’s silence had not gone unnoticed. The quiet rage that had burned within him during the funeral procession was palpable, and it only made the Committee more nervous, more eager to keep the peace.
But Yasha? He knew what he had to do. He had to set things right, to remind them all who the Winter Prince truly was. And that reminder would come soon enough.
The whispers had already started. The rumors about what Yasha would do next. They did not yet know the full extent of his wrath. But they would. The pieces were moving into place, and no one—not Khrushchev, not HYDRA, not even the Committee—could stop what was coming.
The Winter Prince was no longer a myth, a ghost. He was a force, and he was coming for those who had stolen from him.

Chapter 58: Favors Owed

Moscow, Late 1965 – The Return of the Winter Prince
The days following the funeral of Sergeant Pyotr Yakovovich Sokolov brought no healing, only clarity.
Yasha moved through the halls of power like a phantom, but he no longer wore the mask of mere state functionary. There was no more need for restraint, for gentle diplomacy, for compromise. The Winter Prince had returned, and with him, the cold authority of a legend made flesh.
The estate grew quieter, more austere in its elegance, even as Yasha became more adorned. His silks grew darker, edged in military reds and deep golds. His gloves were custom dyed to match the blackened blood of betrayal, and his scent—his carefully curated aura—was all clove, ash, and violet smoke. The servants whispered when he passed. The generals avoided his gaze.
Yakov Ivanovich Sokolov, the Premier’s treasured general, was now publicly acknowledged to be the Winter Prince. Not a codename, not a ghost. A fact.
Let the world adjust.

KGB Headquarters – The Red Room’s Reckoning
The Red Room had long been left to fester in a back corridor of the KGB, tolerated but not cherished. Dreykov had built it in Khrushchev’s shadow, a kingdom of girls and mind control. That alone would have put it on Yasha’s list. But it was the whispers—rumors of Pyotr’s techniques repurposed, of his conditioning applied like blueprints to tiny bodies—that made Yasha's decision for him.
He arrived unannounced.
The Red Room was hidden, but not from him. Its location was no secret to the man who had once trained the wolves of the Soviet state. The elevator gave a long whine as it descended into the cold belly of the complex. Yasha emerged not in uniform, but in his Winter Prince leathers—high, tailored collar, the red sash of a noble, blades glittering at his hips, his metal hand on display.
The girls stopped their training. The instructors froze.
Dreykov was waiting in the control chamber. Behind him, rows of monitors showed girls in formation, eyes blank. One looked like she might have been no older than ten.
“General Sokolov,” Dreykov greeted, stiff. “To what do we owe—”
Yasha didn’t speak. He crossed the room in five steps and grabbed Dreykov by the throat.
“You have desecrated my name,” he whispered, his mouth close to the man’s ear. “You warped what I made, turned his pain into protocol. I am going to burn it from your bones.”
Yasha flung Dreykov against the reinforced glass, shattering it like ice. Guards rushed in—he cut them down in seconds. There was no gunfire. He was too fast for that. The girls were escorted out, every one of them personally tagged by Yasha’s aides to be transferred to a more humane location—Sokolov’s own academies, where they would learn loyalty without chains.
By the end of the day, Dreykov was gone. Rumor said he fled to the East. Rumor said he had been buried beneath the floorboards. The Winter Prince made no effort to clarify.
The Red Room, as it had existed, was no more.

The Estate – Days Later
Yasha stood beneath the birch trees of the private courtyard, the late autumn wind tugging at his coat. Sokolov approached silently, as he always did, holding a sealed envelope.
Yasha took it and opened it without a word. Inside was a folded letter, written in careful script on American military paper. The signature at the bottom made him still:
Isaiah Bradley
It was simple. A request. No plea. Isaiah was not a man who begged. But he had seen something in Vietnam—something in Yasha—and now he was calling in the favor.
The Americans had begun to bury him. His records had been sealed. His experiments erased. His fellow soldiers forgotten, or worse. His family was being watched. Isaiah’s wife was scared. His grandson had nearly been taken by men in unmarked suits.
They were trying to disappear him.
At the bottom, a line:
You said you owed me. I’m calling it in.
Yasha exhaled slowly, the wind catching the strands of his hair as he passed the letter to Sokolov.
“He’s still alive,” he said softly. “Still fighting.”
Sokolov’s expression didn’t change. “Then help him.”
Yasha looked up at the pale, wide sky.
“Yes,” he murmured. “But not as James Barnes. Not even as your Pet. I’ll go as what they made me—what I became. The Winter Prince will answer.”
And for the first time since Pyotr’s death, Yasha smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

United States, Late 1965 – HYDRA’s Shadow
Yasha had not stepped foot on American soil since the 1959 Exhibition in Moscow. He had not breathed its scent—so clean it burned his nose, so manicured it reeked of denial—since he’d been a boy named James. But now he returned not as the son of Brooklyn, not as the good soldier, but as death dressed in velvet and steel.
He arrived through back channels. Diplomatic layers, forged credentials, dead drops along the Eastern seaboard. The Soviets did not officially know he was gone. Even Sokolov hadn’t asked where he was going—he knew better. He had simply kissed Yasha’s brow and whispered, “Kill as many as you need, little wolf.”
It was night when Yasha entered the Bradley household.

Baltimore, Maryland – The Bradley Residence
The neighborhood was quiet. The kind of stillness that came not from peace, but surveillance. Black cars sat two blocks down. A young boy played basketball alone in the alley; he was watched by men who didn’t blink.
Isaiah opened the door with a pistol behind his back. He didn’t lower it right away.
“Took you long enough.”
Yasha grinned beneath his scarf. “Had to look presentable. This is a formal rescue, after all.”
Isaiah let him in. Yasha swept the apartment once, quiet and fast. It was modest. It smelled of old paper, gun oil, and the warmth of a family trying to survive. A woman sat on the couch with her hand on the shoulder of a young boy—maybe nine, maybe ten. His eyes were wide.
“Eli,” Isaiah said to his grandson. “Go to the room. This man’s here to help us.”
Eli did as told, but his eyes never left Yasha.
When the door shut, Yasha turned back to Isaiah. “They’re coming tonight.”
Isaiah nodded grimly. “You know how I knew? They cut my pension. Last month. Then a white man in a suit came by, said he was from ‘Veteran Affairs.’ Asked where I’d buried the serum.”
Yasha’s smile vanished.
“We move now.”

The Escape – Baltimore Docks
The first wave hit at the docks. HYDRA agents in U.S. uniforms. The pretense was thin. Suppression fire lit up the night, illuminating the shipping containers like brief flashes of daylight.
Yasha didn’t hesitate.
He moved like liquid shadow, blades whirling, gunfire deflecting off his arm. Isaiah held the rear, efficient and brutal, built like a stone wall that spat death. They moved as if they’d trained together for years, not fought side by side only once before.
Yasha struck with elegance, Isaiah with power.
A man reached for Eli—Yasha put a knife through his hand before he could scream. Isaiah snapped another’s spine with his bare hands. Yasha covered the woman—Faith, Isaiah’s wife—with his own body as she ran for the boat.
They were close. So close.
Then the second wave arrived—clean suits, cold eyes. American. Official.
One of them stepped forward. “Bradley. This doesn’t have to be violent.”
“You sent HYDRA after my son,” Isaiah growled. “You made it violent.”
Yasha stepped between them, pulling off his scarf.
The man’s face turned pale. “B-Barnes?”
“No,” Yasha said, eyes burning with cold fire. “You should know better. I’m what Barnes became.”
And then he attacked.

The Boat – Escape
By the time they reached international waters, Isaiah was bleeding from a shoulder graze, Yasha had a deep gash down his thigh, and two dozen men lay unconscious or dead on the docks behind them.
Eli stared at Yasha in open awe.
“Dad,” he whispered, “is he a prince for real?”
Isaiah gave a tired laugh. “Something like that, boy.”
Yasha sat at the back of the boat, the stars above and the taste of smoke on his lips. Isaiah sat beside him, cradling his arm.
“They’re deep,” Isaiah said. “I thought it was just the military. But they’re in everything. Congress. Intelligence. Education. Medicine. Everything.”
Yasha didn’t speak for a long time.
Then, softly: “They are rotting this country from the inside. But rot burns easily.”
Isaiah turned to him. “You gonna come back for them?”
Yasha looked out over the dark waves.
“Yes.”

Moscow, Late 1965 – The Arrival of the Bradleys
The estate stood like a myth reborn—part imperial palace, part fortress, every stone steeped in the whispered legacy of a thousand secrets. The gates opened not at the knock of soldiers, but at the silent will of the Winter Prince.
A sleek, black car pulled up the snow-lined drive. Steam rose from the horses of the imperial crest engraved on the wrought-iron gates. The guards didn’t check identification. They bowed.
Faith Bradley barely had time to process the scale of what they were entering. She clutched her son’s hand as Yasha stepped out first, no longer a killer in black—but a vision of decadence and control, a god returned to his throne. Rich winter leathers lined in crimson silk, his insignia shimmering at his breast like a sigil from an ancient court.
Isaiah stepped out next, his eyes sharp, taking in every angle—never unguarded, but softened by the knowledge that for once, this might truly be sanctuary.
Before them stood Premier Leonid Brezhnev himself. Not flanked by guards. Not flanked by his ministers. Alone.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bradley,” Brezhnev greeted in accented but fluent English, voice warm but lined with statecraft. “Welcome. Moscow is honored by your presence. The Winter Prince has spoken of you as kin.”
Faith’s hand tightened on her husband’s arm.
“You… you’re the Premier?”
Brezhnev gave a slight smile. “And today, simply a servant of the Winter Prince’s will.”
Yasha inclined his head with the sort of dismissive elegance only he could make seem regal. He stepped forward and handed Faith a red velvet folder.
“Your papers,” he said. “Soviet citizenship, housing, guaranteed salary and security. And one other thing—” He motioned to Eli, “—his education, should you remain.”
Eli peeked at the thick gold crest pressed into the folder. “That’s real gold.”
“Yes,” Yasha replied. “Only the best for the heir of a friend.”

Inside the Estate – Hospitality Redefined
The halls of the estate were warmer than the snow outside suggested. Fires burned in ornate hearths. Marble and velvet made up every inch. But the strangest warmth came from the staff—the way they bowed not just to Yasha, but to Isaiah, to Faith, even to young Eli, as though a royal party had come home.
A room had been prepared for each of them. Not simple quarters. Suites. The kind usually reserved for visiting heads of state. The sheets were silk. The bathrooms marble. The paintings on the walls? Originals.
Isaiah took it all in with tight lips and wide eyes.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
Yasha tilted his head. “You are family.”
“You keep saying that,” Isaiah said. “You mean it?”
Yasha didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached for a nearby velvet cord and rang for the steward.
Moments later, a small chest was brought forward. Inside, the Sokolov seal had been etched into a silver medallion—a token of the House of the Winter Prince.
Yasha held it out to Isaiah. “This is given only to those who may call upon my protection anywhere in the world. It is recognized by every Soviet embassy. By every member of my network.”
Isaiah took it, turning it in his palm.
“You sure you wanna give this to me?”
“I gave it to your son when I shielded his body from HYDRA’s bullets. Now I make it official.”

Later That Night – The Quiet of Safety
Eli wandered the halls like a prince-in-training, marveling at statues of marble wolves and the quiet glances from men and women twice his size bowing politely.
Faith was taken to a bath by handmaidens more elegant than anything she’d known. They helped her dress in wool trimmed in mink. She wept when they handed her a brush carved from birch with her initials already engraved.
Isaiah found his way to the private study Yasha had once used when he was still whole, before Vietnam burned the last softness out of him.
Yasha stood there in silence, staring at a fire that did not warm.
“I owe you,” Isaiah said softly.
Yasha turned, but his eyes were not quite present.
“I lost one son,” he whispered. “I’ll not lose another.”
Isaiah placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’ll help you fight them. You hear me? We’ll help you burn them down.”
Yasha’s smile was small. Cold. Sincere.
“Good.”

The Sokolov Estate – Grand Banquet Hall
The chandeliers looked like constellations. Crystal dripped like frozen stars from gilded iron, and every one of the hundred candles that lit the hall seemed to burn in reverence. It didn’t feel like a state affair. It felt like a coronation.
Isaiah adjusted the collar of the tailored black formalwear Yasha had sent ahead of time—lined in subtle red silk, the buttons engraved with the Sokolov wolf. Faith wore a gown of the deepest emerald, her hair swept back in a style two handmaidens had insisted was “worthy of a matriarch.” Even Eli wore a little jacket with gold embroidery and stiff polished shoes.
Then the music swelled—and the Winter Prince entered.

The Arrival of the Winter Prince
The room fell silent.
Yasha walked at the head of the procession—not marching, not parading, but gliding. He wore what could only be described as a regalia of silk and sin: high black boots that swallowed his thighs in glossy leather, tailored trousers, and a sleeveless robe cut from dark violet silk trimmed with sable, open enough to show the gleam of his steel prosthetic and the sculpted expanse of his chest, where the collar sat locked high around his throat, a jewel of the House Sokolov pulsing faintly from its center.
His hair was tied back with a ribbon. His eyes were outlined with kohl.
Faith’s breath caught.
“He looks like a—”
“—King,” Isaiah said quietly.
“No,” Eli whispered, eyes wide. “A god.”
At Yasha’s side was Premier Brezhnev, smiling like a proud uncle. At his back stood guards dressed in the same black-and-red of the Sokolov crest, their faces hidden behind porcelain masks shaped like snarling wolves.

A Toast and a Promise
After the fifth course—something roasted and lacquered in honey, served with pomegranate seeds and a wine none of them could pronounce—Yasha rose from his place at the head of the table.
He did not clink a glass. He simply stood, and the hall fell still again.
“These are not honored guests,” he said. “These are not allies. These are not even comrades.”
He turned to the Bradleys, and for once, his voice lost its usual smooth chill.
“They are family. My family. The ones who did not turn away. Who did not flinch.”
He lifted his glass, dark as garnet in the candlelight. “Let the world understand: the Winter Prince protects what is his. And those who come for the Bradleys… come for me.”

Later – A Conversation in the Garden
Isaiah found Yasha alone on a snow-covered terrace, the light from the hall washing gold over the violet and silver of his robes.
“You know,” Isaiah said, “the Soviets were supposed to be the enemy.”
Yasha chuckled softly. “I am the enemy.”
“No,” Isaiah said, stepping beside him. “You’re something else.”
Yasha didn’t look at him, but his voice dropped.
“Come work with me,” he said. “At the KGB. Quietly. Off the books. Help me finish this. Root them out. Every last trace of HYDRA. Everywhere.”
Isaiah didn’t answer right away. He looked out over the snowy garden, the distant glow of Moscow, the stars overhead.
Then he said, “You really meant what you said. About sanctuary.”
“I never say what I don’t mean.”
Isaiah nodded slowly. “Then yeah. Let’s burn it down. Together.”

Inside – A Moment of Awe
Faith wept quietly when a young opera singer performed a piece composed in Pyotr’s honor, commissioned by the Winter Prince himself. It wasn’t grief alone—it was the beauty of it, the ache of being seen.
Eli clutched a little carved wooden wolf given to him by the steward. “The Prince told them to make this for me,” he told one of the other children at the estate. “He said I’m family now.”
The other child bowed to him.

And so the night went on, wrapped in gold and mourning and promise.
No longer Americans. Not yet Soviets. But no longer alone.

Chapter 59: The Enemy's Embrace

KGB Headquarters, Moscow – Spring 1965
Isaiah Bradley had been briefed before his arrival. He had read the files, listened to the whispers, taken in every word the Winter Prince had spoken to him over the last few weeks. Still—nothing could have prepared him for walking through the front doors of the KGB with the Winter Prince at his side.
It wasn’t fear he felt. It wasn’t pride either.
It was power.
Not the kind that came with medals or fake grins or staged parades. Not the kind that came with being called “Captain America” while still being escorted out the back door to avoid the press, because America wasn’t ready for his face to be the one in the papers.
No.
This was real.
The moment Yasha stepped through the threshold, the entire room stood. Not stiff. Not by order. But out of reverence.
And when Isaiah followed, they bowed—to him, too.
Family of the Winter Prince.

The Offices of the Supreme Directorate – 12th Floor
“I’m putting you with my best,” Yasha said, his voice smooth as he led Isaiah past offices that looked nothing like the war-torn bunkers of U.S. intel. The KGB’s new wing gleamed—obsidian glass, crimson detailing, sharp lines and soft lighting, like a cathedral built for information.
“Pyotr helped design this floor,” Yasha added softly. “When he was still mine.”
Isaiah said nothing. The grief hung like incense in the halls.
“You’ll work directly under me. Your own team. Your own intel pipeline. You answer only to me. Dreykov is gone. My face is the last thing these men and women see when they close their eyes.”
Isaiah arched an eyebrow. “You always this humble?”
Yasha smirked.
“No. But I’m always this honest.”

An Office That Didn’t Feel Like a Cage
Isaiah’s new workspace was… opulent. Wood carved by hand. Books bound in velvet and gold. A decanter already waiting for him, crystal tumblers beside it. The carpet was thicker than any rug he’d owned in his life. The chair didn’t creak. The desk wasn’t bolted to the floor.
A folder waited for him there, bound in black with the Sokolov seal.
Inside, the faces of HYDRA agents buried deep in American government—military officers, senators, even bureaucrats he'd briefed personally back in D.C.
He turned to Yasha.
“You sure you want me looking at this?”
“I wouldn’t have brought you if I wasn’t.”
“You’re trusting me with your empire.”
Yasha shook his head, stepping close enough that the scent of oud and winter jasmine clung to the air.
“No,” he said. “I’m sharing it.”

A Private Moment Between Soldiers
Later that day, over tea in Yasha’s private office—less a room and more a sin-drenched harem of pillows and firelight—Isaiah finally said what had been twisting in his chest.
“They never treated me like this. Not even after everything. They gave me a medal, then locked me out of my own history.”
Yasha poured him another cup, eyes half-lidded in understanding.
“You’re not the only ghost they tried to erase.”
Isaiah laughed bitterly. “You don’t even flinch at it.”
Yasha’s smile was a blade. “I made peace with being unloved by the world a long time ago. Then I built a world of my own.”
Isaiah looked around. The quiet opulence. The bowed heads. The way even the Premier deferred to the Prince.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Looks like you did.”

End Scene: Respect, At Last
As they walked the halls again—Isaiah's new team now shadowing him, nodding with genuine reverence—one of the younger recruits saluted.
Not stiff. Not out of fear.
But with respect.
For him.
“Welcome home, Comrade Bradley,” the young woman said.
Isaiah didn’t correct her.
Because maybe—just maybe—she was right.

The Sokolov Estate, Moscow – Spring 1965
The dresses were too soft.
Faith Bradley had never touched silk like this before, let alone worn it. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest wing’s private dressing room, swathed in deep wine-colored fabric that shimmered like candlelight. There were pearls at her throat—real ones, not costume jewelry from Woolworth’s. And her shoes had heels that didn’t hurt.
She was still trying to decide if she felt like a princess or like someone playing one when the knock came.
A girl not much older than Faith—dark hair in a perfect twist, a clipboard tucked to her chest—smiled politely.
“Mrs. Bradley? The guests are arriving. The Winter Prince asked that I escort you to the drawing room.”
Faith blinked. The Winter Prince.
The title still felt like something out of a book. Not a man who held her baby boy while she and Isaiah caught their breath. Not a man who called Isaiah brother. But here in this world—this estate that smelled of jasmine and snow and old books—Yasha wasn’t just a man.
He was a myth made flesh.

A Ballroom of Silk and Secrets
When she entered the drawing room, everything stopped.
Heads turned—at least half a dozen women, all glittering like diamonds poured into skin. The wives of ambassadors. The daughters of ministers. Foreign dignitaries’ spouses who had flown in the night before. She could see it on their faces: they had been waiting for her.
Faith felt her spine straighten.
She was a woman from Georgia. She had scrubbed other people’s floors, buried siblings, birthed children into a country that barely acknowledged her name. She had fought to be heard in a language designed to ignore her.
And now? They were looking at her like she was the crown jewel.
“Faith!” one of the women cried in accented English—French, maybe? Spanish? “Come, come, sit! You must tell us everything!”
“What is it really like,” purred another, sliding a delicate glass into her hand, “to be under the protection of the Winter Prince?”
A third, older, eyes gleaming: “He’s so beautiful in person. Terrifying. Like a wolf who only purrs for his Master and the ones he calls family.”
Faith laughed—awkward, uncertain—but they weren’t teasing her. They were adoring her. One clasped her hand. Another adjusted the fall of her sleeve with the same reverence she might’ve offered a holy relic.
“You must tell us,” one whispered, “does he truly sleep in silk sheets?”
Faith blinked. “I—uh—yes. I think so?”
They squealed.

Tea and Terrible Men
By the time the tea cart rolled out—honeyed black tea in porcelain as fine as lace—they were trading horror stories about their husbands.
“My dear,” said one Austrian diplomat’s wife, “you have no idea what a relief it is to see the Winter Prince take such pride in someone like you. It’s usually just grey men in darker suits.”
“Do you know,” added another, “he canceled an entire trade meeting because your son wasn’t feeling well the day after your arrival? ‘Family of the Prince comes first.’ That’s what he said. Brezhnev apologized to the French for rescheduling.”
Faith stared. “He what?”
More nodding. More amused murmurs.
“The world bends for the Winter Prince,” one of them said with a knowing smile. “And he bends for you.”

A Seat at the Table
As the sun dipped low, casting the estate in amber and shadow, Faith found herself reclined on a velvet chaise, surrounded by women who had once been strangers. They were showing her photos of their children, speaking in hushed tones about politics, poetry, power. Not a single one had asked about America with suspicion or sneers. No one called her a foreigner.
“You belong here,” one said as she poured more tea.
And for the first time in a long, long time… Faith almost believed it.

Moscow, Spring 1965 – The Imperial School of Statecraft and Heritage
They called it a school, but it looked more like a palace.
The black car that brought Eli pulled up to iron gates taller than most apartment buildings. Gold trim gleamed in the morning light. Beyond it: manicured gardens, fountains carved from stone older than America, and a great marble building with pillars like something out of a Roman history book.
Eli didn’t speak. He just stared, mouth dry, palms sweating through his new gloves.
He knew he looked good—he’d been dressed like a little czar, for God’s sake—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone would laugh, call him out, tell him he didn’t belong.
The doors opened.
And the headmaster bowed.
Not a handshake. Not a nod. Not a polite smile. A full, formal, deep-waisted bow with one hand over his chest and the other sweeping low.
“Ward of the Winter Prince,” he said in fluent, reverent English. “Welcome. We are honored to receive you.”
Eli’s mouth hung open. “Uh. Thanks?”

A Hall of Monarchs’ Children
His classmates were princes, princesses, heirs to presidencies and puppet governments alike. There were children from Cuba, China, Egypt, even one from West Germany. Some wore ties, others robes, one wore a golden turban that sparkled under the crystal chandeliers.
Eli had been prepped, of course—given dossiers, names, faces—but nothing prepared him for how they looked at him.
Not as the “Negro boy,” not with suspicion or pity. No one whispered behind his back. No one asked what “he was doing here.”
Instead…
“They say the Winter Prince cut out the lungs of the man who tried to stop your family’s plane,” whispered a boy from Hungary, eyes wide with something like awe.
“Do you really live in the Sokolov Estate?” another asked. “My father can’t even get an invitation.”
And then the boldest one—dark curls, skin like bronze, the son of a Yugoslavian diplomat—stood tall and asked plainly:
“Is it true the Winter Prince calls you family?”
Eli swallowed.
“Yeah. He does.”
The boy gave a short nod. Then—like it was nothing—he stepped back and bowed.
The others followed.
And just like that, Eli Bradley became the only kid in school who got bows instead of handshakes.

Lunch Like a Crowned God
The dining hall was absurd. Silver trays, crystal goblets, cloth napkins pressed like origami. He’d never seen so many knives and forks in his life. He picked one at random and hoped for the best.
Then the headmaster himself came over, leaned down, and whispered:
“If you ever desire anything else, young sir, simply tell the maître d'. The Winter Prince's family receives custom menus.”
Custom menus.
Eli tried not to choke on his soup.

A New Kind of Legacy
He had a full slate—languages, diplomacy, history, fencing of all things—and every teacher called him Sir. The head of strategy bowed to him in the hallway. One of the security officers saluted.
And after it all, when he climbed into the sleek black car waiting for him at the end of the day, his driver said only:
“Welcome back, Prince Bradley.”
He didn’t correct him.
Not today.

Moscow, 1965 – The Sokolov Estate, Private Family Quarters
The table wasn’t nearly as long or dramatic as the one from the welcome banquet, and that was just fine by Faith. After the opulence of last night, she wanted this—simple, quiet, warm. The table was round, wooden, polished smooth and ringed with soft chairs that invited you to sit back and breathe.
The staff had set it with care: a modest spread of roast duck, herb potatoes, and a delicate beet salad that Eli had already pushed to the side with visible suspicion. A carafe of red wine sat between her and Isaiah, next to a crystal pitcher of juice.
It felt like the first time they’d exhaled since leaving the States.
“Eli,” Faith said gently, smiling over her wineglass, “how was school?”
He blinked like he was still shaking off the daze. “It was...”
A pause.
“I think I’m royalty now,” he added.
Isaiah chuckled, deep and rich, and reached for his son’s plate to sneak a bit of potato.
“No, for real,” Eli insisted, animated now. “The teachers bowed. They bowed to me, Dad. And there’s this one kid—he’s from Yugoslavia—he bowed too, said it was an honor to meet me. I didn’t do anything!”
“Except be family,” Faith said softly. “To him.”
Eli didn’t need to ask who.
Isaiah sat back, staring into his wine. “They called me a lot of things back home. Hero, criminal, threat. Never family.”
Faith reached across and placed her hand over his.
“They see us here,” she murmured. “For the first time... they see us.”
“More than that,” Eli added. “They respect us. Not for what we can give them, not for what we can do—but for who we’re with. Who we are.”
A beat of silence.
And then Isaiah said quietly, “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Faith nodded. “So do I.”
But Eli looked between them and said with quiet certainty, “Maybe it already did. Maybe it dropped in the States, and this—this is what it looks like when it’s finally safe.”
They sat in that truth for a while.

Elsewhere, in the Estate’s Private Wing
Behind gilded doors and beneath silk-hung ceilings, Yasha sat on velvet cushions at his Master’s feet, resting his head against Sokolov’s knee as they dined in quiet decadence.
They didn’t speak much—didn’t need to.
They could feel it: the shift in the air.
A Prince restored. A family protected. A reckoning that had only just begun.

The Sokolov Estate – Private Quarters of the Winter Prince, 1965
The room was quiet, save for the faint clink of crystal and silver, and the low hum of the phonograph in the corner playing something mournful and string-heavy. Yasha sat on a cushion at his Master’s feet, knees folded neatly beneath him, gloved hands resting atop silk-covered thighs. His hair was brushed, his collar snug. He was perfect again. Flawless. Remade.
Sokolov toyed with the ends of his hair while reading over a telegram from the Committee, his fingers calm and gentle but distracted.
Yasha watched him with the same razor-sharp focus he turned toward killing, toward war, toward conquest. This was his—his Master, his Maker, his mirror and his god. All else was contextual.
But even Yasha understood politics. Presentation. Perception. And so when his Master finally set the telegram down and met his gaze, it was Yasha who spoke first.
“They’re settling in.”
Sokolov arched a brow, curious but nonverbal.
“The Bradleys.”
A pause.
Yasha looked down at his gloves. Silk, black, tailored over the left and molded around the metal of the right. “They are not like Pyotr,” he said, and for him, that alone was a weighty admission.
“Oh?”
“Pyotr was clay. I shaped him. I owned him, fully. He was meant to become something else. My Heir.” His voice was smooth, void of sentiment. “But the Bradleys are not meant to become anything. They are meant to be. To live. To exist. As they are.”
Sokolov leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. “And you intend to let them?”
“No.” Yasha smiled faintly. “They are mine.”
Sokolov laughed softly, indulgently, and reached down to stroke the side of his pet’s face. “My darling wolf. You have grown territorial.”
“They’re useful,” Yasha said simply. “Isaiah is powerful. Faith is poised. The boy... will be interesting.”
“But they are not yours as he was,” Sokolov pressed, voice low, teasing, sharp.
Yasha’s smile did not fade. “No. Pyotr was potential. The Bradleys are... assets.”
“And if anyone threatens them?”
“I will skin them alive and nail their hides to the Kremlin’s gates.”
Sokolov's fingers tightened gently in Yasha's hair, possessive and pleased. “Good. Let the world see what happens when the Winter Prince lays claim.”
Yasha closed his eyes at that. Not in affection. Not in comfort. But in rightness. He did not need to love them. Did not need to feel. He only needed permission.
And Sokolov had just given it.

KGB Headquarters, Moscow – Autumn 1965
The boots that echoed through the marble halls were polished to a liquid shine, black as the eyes of a man who had long since made peace with damnation. They came before him always—those boots, the low whirr of his metal arm, and the scent of sandalwood, old books, and danger.
Yasha didn’t wear uniforms.
Not anymore.
He wore a throne with every step.
Silk, so fine it seemed part of his skin, wrapped tight across his chest and arms—crimson and black today, with subtle golden embroidery in patterns only the most loyal would recognize. The leathers that hugged his legs were masterwork: tailored to the inch, supple as sin, and engraved subtly with the wolf’s head insignia he had reclaimed since Brezhnev’s rise. His gloves gleamed. His long coat trailed behind him like the robe of a god-emperor.
And beside him walked Isaiah Bradley—broad, wary, but unflinching. The contrast was palpable: Isaiah in a fine Soviet-cut suit tailored just for him, unadorned and practical, yet made from fabrics that whispered respect with every seam. Isaiah was power. Yasha was theater. But together?
Together, they were command.
The elevator doors opened with a hiss. The top floor of the KGB’s internal command division had been remodeled since Yasha’s return—black marble, red silk paneling, and low lighting. Opulence without warmth. Power without apology.
Isaiah followed Yasha through the silence as high-ranking officers stepped aside. No one bowed. Not here. But they all moved.
Yasha led him into the central chamber—a map room and strategy center—where dossiers lined the walls, and intelligence crawled across red-lit glass screens. HYDRA cells, American operatives, Chinese whispers, dead men walking.
He gestured lazily to the central table. “Welcome to the part of the world where truth is currency and death is policy.”
Isaiah studied the space, folding his arms. “This how you usually greet new hires?”
Yasha smirked faintly and perched himself at the edge of the command desk, silk pooling like blood around his thighs. “No. You’re not a hire, Isaiah. You’re mine.”
Bradley raised a brow. “That supposed to mean something?”
Yasha tilted his head, slow and feline. “Yes.”
There was a pause. The air shifted—heavy but not tense. Isaiah didn’t flinch. He’d already stood shoulder-to-shoulder with this man in hell. This was something else. Power acknowledging power.
“I want you to lead the new section,” Yasha said smoothly. “Counter-intel and asset extraction. Specifically HYDRA infiltration. You’ll have your own team. Authority. Clearance.”
Isaiah blinked. “Why me?”
“Because you’re angry. Because you’re smart. Because you’ve survived a country that would’ve let you rot in a basement. Because you know what they did to you, to me, to all of us.”
“And because I owe you,” Yasha added, voice lower. “For the boy.”
The silence stretched again, this time laced with gravity. Isaiah didn’t ask which boy.
He just nodded once. “Then let’s get to work.”
Yasha’s smile was slow, predatory. Proud.
The Winter Prince stood, coat flaring like wings, and led Isaiah deeper into the chamber. Toward war.
Toward vengeance.
Toward a world neither of them had been allowed to live in—until now.

Moscow – KGB Headquarters, Late Evening
Yasha leaned against the cold glass of his office window, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the glowing tip painting streaks of light along the smooth lines of his metal knuckles. Below him, Moscow shimmered under moonlight and the low hum of empire.
He watched as Isaiah’s new unit began to coalesce. The observation feed looped quietly on one of the wall monitors. Recruits—Russian, Cuban, East German, Vietnamese, even a few defectors from the Western bloc. All handpicked, all vetted by Yasha himself. Isaiah moved among them with easy confidence, already commanding the kind of loyalty that couldn’t be faked.
Yasha didn’t smile. But he allowed himself the smallest pull of satisfaction.
They were his, all of them—whether they knew it or not. And Isaiah? A diamond carved by cruelty. Not broken. Perfected.
A chime broke the quiet. The red phone on his desk blinked once—slow, deliberate.
Not HYDRA. Not internal. Not Kremlin.
The hotline.
Yasha crossed the room, long coat whispering across the floor like the promise of execution. He picked up the receiver.
“Da.”
There was a brief pause.
Then a voice, aged but sharp, clipped but not cold.
“Yasha.”
It was English. Proper, precise. The accent that used to make his stomach twist in recognition before the years had ground it into dust.
“…Peggy.”
Another pause.
“I was told,” she began, careful now, “that Isaiah Bradley and his family were no longer on American soil.”
“They’re not,” Yasha replied, smooth as glass.
Another silence—this one deeper.
“Are they safe?”
Yasha didn’t answer immediately. He turned back to the window, cigarette now forgotten, gaze falling to the gardens below. The Bradleys had walked there this morning. Faith had lingered near the roses. Eli had climbed the statue of Ivan the Terrible. Isaiah had watched it all with a guarded kind of disbelief.
“They are under my protection,” Yasha said finally. “No harm will come to them while I still draw breath.”
Peggy’s voice was quieter now, more fragile.
“Why?”
Yasha allowed his lips to curl.
“Because they’re mine.”
There was no satisfaction in the way she inhaled sharply, no cruelty in how he let the words settle. It was just the truth.
“You can’t keep people like pets, James,” she said, voice suddenly sharp.
“I can,” Yasha replied coolly. “And I do. Not like animals. Like relics. Like treasures.”
A beat. “They are more free now than they ever were in your precious democracy.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I know it,” he growled, the wolf rising just behind his teeth. “You think I don’t remember how your government put a collar around his neck and called it patriotism? You think I didn’t read every file they tried to bury?”
Another pause.
Peggy’s voice dropped.
“I believe in freedom, Yasha. Even when it fails us.”
“I believe in ownership,” he said. “And I own them. That is why they are free.”
He could hear the disgust forming in her silence. He welcomed it.
“If they ever want to come home—”
“They are home,” Yasha said, soft but unyielding. “And should you try to take them…you’ll discover what kind of man you made.”
He set the receiver down without ceremony, the line still open.
Outside the window, snow had begun to fall.

Chapter 60: A Royal Birthday

Moscow, Late Autumn — Eli Bradley’s POV
Eli didn’t know what he expected Moscow to be. Maybe snow right away. Maybe gray skies and soldiers on every street corner. Instead, he got chandeliers.
And coats. So many coats.
The school Yasha had enrolled him in wasn’t like the one back home in Harlem. This place had manicured gardens with frost-kissed roses, thick velvet curtains in every room, and students who spoke three languages before they’d turned twelve. Their fathers were diplomats, surgeons, oligarchs. One boy’s godfather was rumored to be Brezhnev.
Eli didn’t say much about his own family at first.
They all knew he was under the Winter Prince’s protection, though. That name—spoken with reverence, fear, sometimes curiosity—got him the best seat in every classroom and a strange sort of respect from kids who should’ve been above caring. It didn’t make him popular exactly, but it made him important.
And he was learning to like important.

They were walking back from fencing practice when it slipped out.
“I dunno,” Eli said, tossing his mask into his gym bag. “Guess I’ll be twelve next week.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. It wasn’t like birthdays had ever been a big deal back home. Mama made pie if she could. Dad usually forgot.
But Nikolai—his lanky, blonde-haired friend who smelled faintly of horses—whipped around like Eli had just announced a state funeral.
“Your birthday? You didn’t tell anyone?”
Eli blinked. “It’s just a birthday, man.”
Nikolai stared at him like he’d admitted to eating rats. “You’re under the Winter Prince’s house. That’s not ‘just’ anything. Do you even know what he did for Matvei’s little sister last spring?”
“No?”
“Imported twenty ponies for her to pick one. From France.”
Eli choked on his laughter. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. She picked two. They kept both. You think he’s going to ignore his ward’s birthday?” Nikolai’s voice lowered, solemn now. “You have to tell Lady Valya. She handles all his appointments. And the household. She’ll start the preparations.”
“I wasn’t gonna—” Eli hesitated, then gave up. “Okay. Maybe I’ll tell her.”
And just like that, the wheels were turning.

Back at the estate that evening, Eli sat at the piano in the grand salon, absently plunking out a few notes from a jazz tune Isaiah used to hum. He could hear the hush of servants moving behind the walls—always quiet, always present. Like shadows.
“Did you have a good day?” Faith’s voice, warm and careful, interrupted his playing. She looked radiant in her new silk blouse, her braids neatly pinned. Moscow had transformed her, too. She wore confidence like a second skin now, sipping tea from porcelain and talking about dinner with ambassadors like it was normal.
Eli shrugged. “Nikolai says I have to tell Lady Valya it’s my birthday next week.”
Faith’s smile faltered slightly. “Did you?”
“Not yet.”
She came to sit beside him, smoothing a hand over his curls. “You should. The Winter Prince… he’ll want to do something for you.”
“Why?”
Faith looked at him for a long moment, eyes soft but full of something sadder underneath.
“Because when someone like him gives, it means you belong to him.”
Eli wasn’t sure how to feel about that. But a small, secret part of him—the part that used to hide his favorite toy under the floorboard so his cousins wouldn’t steal it—liked the idea of being wanted.
Even if it was by someone who dressed like a vampire and ruled the city from behind a silk curtain.

The marble floors of the estate were always cold beneath Eli’s feet. He made his way through the hallways, trying not to let the weight of the place—or the servants who glided silently past him—get to his head. He’d already gotten used to it, but sometimes the grandness was just overwhelming.
Lady Valya was seated in her office, sorting through papers when Eli knocked softly on the doorframe.
“Yes?” Her voice was smooth, like the velvet curtains in the dining room.
“Lady Valya… I, uh… I think my birthday’s next week. Nikolai said I should tell you.” Eli shifted uncomfortably, the words feeling heavier than they should.
Valya didn’t look up right away. She just smiled slightly, a knowing glimmer in her eyes. She’d been with the Sokolov family for longer than Eli could imagine, and she didn’t seem the type to be surprised by much.
“I see. Thank you for letting me know.” She placed the papers aside, her gaze softening as she focused on him. “Is there anything special you’d like for the day, Eli?”
He shrugged, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know. I never really did much for my birthday before.”
Valya nodded. “Of course. I’ll begin preparations. We’ll make sure it’s a day to remember.”
Eli blinked. “I didn’t think it’d be anything big.”
Her lips twitched, a subtle expression of amusement. “When you’re a part of this family, everything is big. You’ll see.”
Eli nodded quickly, his throat tight. “Thanks.”
Valya’s smile returned as she gave him a small nod, a gesture that was both formal and kind. “It’s my pleasure.”

Dinner was always a formal affair at the Sokolov estate. Eli had already noticed the layers of restraint and power that governed these meals: the way Yasha and Sokolov spoke—slow, deliberate, as if their words could shift nations if they so wished. But tonight, Eli was more focused on the food. Russian delicacies, rich meats, buttered breads, and an endless stream of wine.
Sokolov sat at the head of the long, grand table, his face stoic, sharp. Yasha, always at ease in his position at his right, looked every bit the ruler. His dark silk shirt shimmered faintly under the chandelier’s light, his posture perfect. The atmosphere in the room felt heavy, but not in a way that stifled conversation. It felt more like the air before a storm—electric, buzzing with power.
The conversation flowed easily, with Faith and Isaiah speaking about their experiences adjusting to Moscow. Eli, for his part, kept mostly to himself, but he couldn’t help but notice how Yasha’s eyes kept returning to him as they talked. Yasha had a way of making everything seem important—especially when it was directed at you.
Finally, as the meal wound down, Yasha set down his glass of red wine and looked across the table at Eli with a soft smirk.
“So,” Yasha began, his voice playful but commanding, “your birthday is next week.”
Eli tensed slightly but forced himself to meet Yasha’s gaze. “Yeah. I don’t need anything too big or anything…”
“Eli,” Yasha interjected, his tone smooth but laced with authority, “I am the Winter Prince. If I want something, I have it within the hour.” His gaze flicked to Sokolov, then back to Eli, making sure the weight of his words landed. “A birthday for you will be nothing less than magnificent.”
Sokolov gave a slow, approving nod from the head of the table, though his expression remained unreadable.
Eli swallowed. “I don’t mind if it’s small, really. We don’t have much time to plan, anyway.”
Yasha studied him for a moment, and Eli could feel the power behind the eyes that had seen so much—too much. Yasha’s lips curved upward, barely a smile, but it was enough.
“You have little experience with big things, I understand. Don’t worry,” Yasha added, his voice gentler now, though no less confident. “Faith and Lady Valya can work with you to plan it. But rest assured, it will be more than small.” His eyes glinted with an unreadable intensity, perhaps remembering his own past—the bitter, empty birthdays of an impoverished child named James.
Faith glanced at Eli, her expression warm, supportive. “We’ll make sure it’s special, Eli. You deserve that.”
Eli felt the weight of that sentence press on him more than he cared to admit. He nodded, suddenly uncertain of what he had actually wished for.
Yasha’s smirk never wavered as he took a sip of his wine. “And next month—” He paused, as if savoring the moment. “The debut gala will be far grander. That is where the world will see you.”
Eli hesitated, but there was something in Yasha’s eyes that made him feel safe, even in the strangeness of it all. The entire room was full of control, and Yasha had already decided how this would go. Eli had no say in the matter.
But it was fine. It was fine.

Eli walked to school with the crisp Moscow air biting at his face, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the Sokolov estate he’d left behind. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel the cold. Here, things were different—he felt more like an outsider every day, yet he was somehow accepted.
The hallways were busy with students filing in. He found Nikolai quickly, leaning against a locker, looking bored. The sight of Eli made him straighten up, his expression shifting from casual to curious.
"So," Nikolai started, "are you ready for the big day?"
Eli sighed, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he sat down on the bench beside him. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“You must have some idea,” Nikolai pressed, raising an eyebrow. “This is not just any birthday. Not with the Winter Prince behind it. He doesn’t throw ‘small’ anything.”
“I told him I didn’t want anything big. But I guess, yeah, I’ll have a party next week.”
Nikolai’s grin widened. “You told Lady Valya, right?”
Eli nodded. “Yeah. She seemed... happy about it.” He felt a little uncomfortable just thinking about it. The idea of planning a birthday, especially here, was strange. Back home, there was never anything to plan for. A cake, maybe a few candles, but mostly just another day to get through.
“You don’t sound excited about it.” Nikolai tilted his head. “A Winter Prince birthday is like... the stuff of legends. Matvei’s sister’s party had a whole orchestra and horses.”
Eli groaned. “Great. I don’t want a bunch of horses.”
Nikolai just shrugged, clearly amused. “It’s just how it is here. People come from all over to see how the Winter Prince does things. He’s making Moscow look like the center of the world again, with his parties and everything. It’s... exhilarating.”
Eli wasn’t sure how to feel about that. But he couldn’t deny that there was a sort of weight to it. Like, everything that Yasha did was a statement—a grand gesture. It was unsettling, and yet, it drew people in. He could feel it, even here at school. Every conversation he overheard seemed to include some mention of the Winter Prince.
"Maybe," Eli said, his mind still lingering on the thought, "I just want to have a normal birthday."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow again. "You don’t think that’s going to happen, do you?"
Eli let out a small laugh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I guess not.”

Faith had settled into her new life in Moscow far more easily than she’d expected. The transition from Harlem to the Soviet Union had been jarring, but the wealth, the power, the strange, quiet reverence people had for her family—it was something she could work with.
That afternoon, Faith met with some of the other women who had become her friends over the past few weeks. They were the wives of diplomats, high-ranking officials, and a few old Soviet aristocrats who still held influence. It was a world of silks and diamonds, and Faith was quickly learning how to navigate it.
As they sipped tea in one of the lavish salons of a nearby estate, she couldn't help but think about Eli’s birthday. Lady Valya had already started preparing, and Faith wasn’t sure how much of a role she’d play in the process. But she had no doubt that it would be grand, no matter what.
“So, how does it feel,” one of the women, a tall blonde named Ekaterina, asked with a teasing smile, “to be in the Winter Prince’s favor?”
Faith smiled back, though the question was a bit more loaded than she liked. “It feels... like I’m still adjusting,” she replied diplomatically, taking a sip of her tea. She was still getting used to this version of herself. The woman who commanded respect, who dined in gilded rooms and was part of these whispers of power.
“Oh, Ekaterina’s right,” another woman, Lyudmila, added. “The Winter Prince has brought such excitement back to Moscow since Khrushchev’s fall. It’s like he revived the entire city. And the galas!” She leaned forward, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “I went to one of his last year. It was magnificent. Like nothing else you’ve ever seen.”
“Tell me everything,” Faith urged, leaning in.
Lyudmila grinned. “The Winter Prince doesn’t hold back. There were crystal chandeliers, fountains of champagne, imported roses everywhere, and every guest was given a hand-stitched silk robe as a gift. People from all over Europe came. Even diplomats from America. But there’s one thing you have to understand. When he holds a party, it’s never for the faint of heart. It's not like your typical ‘just another social event.’”
Faith’s eyes widened. “How do you mean?”
“There’s a certain... theatricality to it,” Ekaterina replied with a gleam in her eyes. “Everyone in the room knows he’s watching, observing, measuring. It’s more than just about fun. It's a performance of sorts.”
Faith nodded slowly, digesting the information. Yasha had always been a mysterious figure, and hearing it from someone like Lyudmila made it all the more real.
“And Eli’s birthday?” Faith asked, unsure whether to bring it up, but feeling the need to.
“Oh, it will be exquisite,” Lyudmila assured her. “You’ll have everything you need. Just tell Lady Valya what you want.”
Faith glanced out the window, the city bathed in the soft light of dusk. She could see the shadows of buildings stretching long across the streets. A part of her was still unsettled—about the power Yasha wielded, about what it meant for her children, and about how quickly they were being pulled into this world.
But then she thought about Eli, and how much he had earned this. He deserved something grand—his moment, even if it wasn’t a part of one of Yasha’s infamous galas.

Yasha sat at his desk in the KGB office, papers spread out before him, the dim glow of a desk lamp casting shadows on his features. Isaiah Bradley stood by the window, looking out over Moscow's skyline, a quiet storm in his eyes. The stillness between them felt palpable—Isaiah’s unspoken thoughts swirled, and Yasha could sense the undercurrent of tension.
"Yasha," Isaiah’s voice broke through the silence, steady yet laced with curiosity, "what exactly are you planning for Eli’s birthday? You haven’t said much about it."
Yasha glanced up from the documents, his expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," Isaiah replied, his gaze flicking back to Yasha. "The boy's first real celebration here. We both know what your parties are like—grand, opulent affairs with more spectacle than most can handle. Are you planning to make a statement out of his birthday?"
Yasha paused, his fingers lightly tapping against the wooden surface of his desk as he mulled over the question. He could feel the weight of Isaiah's concern. The man had an uncanny ability to understand the subtle nuances of power and control, and Yasha had never been one to ignore such instincts. But this was different. Eli was different.
"No," Yasha finally said, his tone quiet but firm. "I’m not throwing Eli to the wolves, if that’s what you mean. This is about him, not about me. He’s still adjusting, learning how to breathe in this world of ours. It won’t be like my usual events."
Isaiah raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. "So you’re not going to use this as another way to remind everyone of who you are? Who he is to you?"
Yasha shook his head, the edges of his lips curling into a slight, almost imperceptible smile. "No. This will be an... intimate affair. Exquisite, yes, but not a spectacle. It will serve its purpose—confirming that Eli is under my care, but not much beyond that."
Isaiah regarded him closely, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "I see."
"The guest list will be limited," Yasha continued, his voice lowering slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "Eli’s friends from school, their parents, perhaps a few heads of state whom the Bradleys have already met at the welcome banquet. Brezhnev will, of course, receive an invitation. But this won’t be used for political posturing, Isaiah. Not this time."
Isaiah tilted his head, processing Yasha’s words. The weight of their world rested on every decision Yasha made, especially when it came to the Bradleys, and particularly Eli. There was something Yasha couldn’t fully explain, but he knew it was there—a responsibility, yes, but also something far more complicated, something tender, though Yasha would never admit it aloud.
"I assume you’ll still make it unforgettable," Isaiah said, a hint of a grin on his lips. It was more of a statement than a question, and Yasha couldn’t help but smile in return.
"Of course. It will be a birthday to remember, but not in the way people expect. No politics, no theatrics. Just... a celebration of Eli."
Isaiah watched him, his gaze steady and unyielding. "You think he’ll be alright with that? He’s already caught up in the grandeur of your world, whether he wants it or not."
Yasha’s expression softened, though it remained guarded. "He’ll be fine. Eli is strong. Stronger than people realize. And he deserves this. Not everything in his life will be dictated by power, but for now... this is his moment. I want him to enjoy it."
Isaiah let out a quiet breath, half in understanding, half in doubt. He had seen the brutality of Yasha’s world—the coldness, the hunger for control—and he knew that even the smallest gesture of kindness from the Winter Prince was a rarity. But there was something different about how Yasha spoke of Eli, something Isaiah had learned to read between the lines.
Yasha met Isaiah’s gaze, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "But do not mistake this for weakness. If anyone dares to challenge Eli, they will answer to me."
Isaiah didn’t flinch. He knew what Yasha meant—power, as always, rested in the hands of those who could shape the world. But Yasha’s words carried an undercurrent that Isaiah hadn’t expected. A protection, not just out of duty, but something... more.
"I won’t," Isaiah said evenly. "I’ve seen the way you handle things. No one gets to touch your people."
"No one," Yasha repeated softly, his voice low but resolute. "Not without paying the price."
Isaiah gave him a nod, then turned back to the window, his gaze once more drawn to the expanse of Moscow. The Winter Prince had made it clear—Eli would have his moment, protected and celebrated. But there was still something in Yasha’s tone that lingered in the air—a promise that this was just the beginning.
As Isaiah stood in the silence of the office, Yasha leaned forward slightly, his fingers still brushing the surface of the desk. He allowed his mind to wander for a moment to the past, to those years of poverty and deprivation as “James” in America. He knew, as he had known all along, that Eli’s life would never be like that. This life was something else entirely. A life of opulence, of grandeur, and of power. But even in all of that, he would protect Eli with everything he had.
Yasha stood, the shift in his posture subtle but decisive. "We will make sure he is prepared, Isaiah. He will have everything he needs, but he will not be forced into a world he cannot handle."
Isaiah turned back to him, a quiet understanding between them. "You’ve got it under control, Yasha."
Yasha’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. "I always do."

Eli kicked off his polished shoes as soon as he crossed the threshold of the Sokolov estate, his schoolbag sagging from one shoulder. The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind him, the air changed—warmth, luxury, the faint scent of tea and polished wood. He’d gotten used to this faster than he’d expected, though sometimes it still felt like playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Faith met him in the hall, brushing a curl behind her ear. “You’re late,” she teased, nudging him lightly. “Lady Valya’s been waiting.”
Eli groaned, “I’m not used to being expected by anyone, much less a woman who looks like she stepped out of a Romanov portrait.”
Faith only smiled and looped her arm through his. “Come on, little prince. You’ve got a party to plan.”

Scene: Sokolov Estate — Sunroom
POV: Third Person (Eli & Faith)
Lady Valya sat waiting in a velvet-upholstered chair, a tray of miniature pastries and hand-painted teacups set before her. She wore lavender silk and diamonds at her throat, and when she looked up at Eli and Faith, her smile was warm but assessing.
“Well then,” she said as they sat, “let us begin.”
A pair of aides brought in sketchbooks, fabric swatches, architectural renderings. Valya waved them off with a practiced flick of her wrist and turned to Eli.
“First: the location. You have options.”
She laid out four folders:
The Sokolov Estate – “Private, controlled, elegant. Gardens, ballroom, pool. Very few prying eyes. Appropriate for family-level intimacy.”

 

The Kremlin Reception Hall – “Grand, official, breathtaking. A subtle message to those watching—without saying a word.”

 

The Winter Palace (St. Petersburg) – “Historic. Opulent. Symbolic. Reserved for true royalty. It would be lavish, but a logistical ordeal.”

 

One of the Winter Prince’s Private Retreats – “We have dachas in Sochi, Crimea, the Urals… depending on if you want mountain views, snow, or sun.”

 

Eli hesitated. “The estate is... familiar. But the Kremlin?”
Faith raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that be too formal?”
Valya gave a small shrug. “Not if we control the guest list. Besides, it signals importance. Subtle, but unmistakable.”
“I’ll think about it,” Eli said, eyes flicking to the photos. “Probably the estate, though.”
Valya smiled knowingly and moved on.

The Menu
“French, Russian, or a fusion of both?” she asked. “Do you prefer pastries, or a savory spread?”
“Macarons,” Eli said immediately. “And that creamy soup from last week. What was that?”
“Solyanka,” Faith said with a grin. “You’re turning Russian already.”
They laughed, and Valya jotted notes. “Cake?”
Eli considered. “Chocolate. Layers. But not dry. And maybe raspberry?”
“Noted. Raspberry and dark chocolate. That will pair beautifully with a honey-wine reduction. Colour palette?”
Eli blinked. “I... don’t know.”
Faith leaned forward, studying the swatches. “Silver. It suits him better than gold. Cool tones—blues, whites, maybe a touch of deep red, like the lining of Yasha’s coat.”
Valya approved. “Winter prince colours. Lovely.”

Celebrity Guests?
Valya raised one eyebrow. “Is there anyone you admire? A singer? An athlete?”
Eli laughed. “I mean... I love Aretha Franklin. But there’s no way, right?”
Valya’s lips curled. “Leave that to me.”

Gifts?
“Do you want to register a list?” she asked next. “Or... shall gifts be restricted to offerings of goodwill? You are not without diplomatic weight, after all.”
Eli hesitated. “I don’t want people giving me things just to get to Yasha.”
Valya nodded. “Then we will emphasize friendship. Not diplomacy. But you should still make a list. Otherwise, you’ll drown in Fabergé nonsense.”
Faith laughed. “That’s not a metaphor.”

Accents and Florals
“Gold or silver?” Valya prompted.
“Silver,” Eli and Faith said at once.
Valya smiled. “And flowers?”
“I like peonies,” Faith said, then looked at her son.
“Those blue ones,” Eli added. “The big ones that grow outside the solarium.”
“Blue delphiniums,” Valya said with a nod. “Peonies, delphiniums, and white roses. Very imperial. Very modern.”
She closed her notebook. “I’ll have mockups by tomorrow.”
Eli exhaled. “That wasn’t nearly as scary as I thought.”
Faith smirked. “Give it time.”
Valya sipped her tea, amused. “You’ll learn, my dear—this world belongs to those who appear most comfortable in it. And you’re adjusting beautifully.”

The salon was heavy with velvet and candlelight, the warmth of the fire casting a soft sheen over every inch of silk that draped Yasha’s body. He knelt in perfect posture on a cushion imported from Persia, dyed in deep imperial blue and threaded with silver embroidery. The leather of his collar gleamed beneath the flicker of the chandelier, a single platinum ring at the hollow of his throat. His leash hung loose, looped casually through General Sokolov’s gloved hand as if it belonged there—and of course, it did.
Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov sat above him, dignified in a black military uniform lined with red. His expression was unreadable as he read through the final draft of the guest list. Lady Valya stood before them, notes in hand, eyes sharp and movements graceful as ever.
“Most of the Committee members have children enrolled at the same school,” Valya said. “That simplifies matters. We are including only the families of Eli’s direct classmates. No extensions. No cousins. No aspirants.”
Yasha nodded once, the delicate chain of the leash clicking against the brass of the armrest.
“I will not allow him to be paraded,” Yasha said, voice smooth, low. “This is his birthday, not a summit. The real debut comes next month.”
Valya’s eyes softened. “Understood. Brezhnev will attend in person, though he’s requested a modest seat—nothing that implies state endorsement.”
Sokolov hummed approval behind him, one finger tracing a slow, idle path along the leather of Yasha’s collar.
“And the entertainment?” he asked, tone neutral.
Valya smiled. “Aretha Franklin has accepted the invitation.”
Yasha’s lips curved just slightly, pride rising in his chest. “He will remember it for the rest of his life.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Valya replied.
She turned the page in her notebook. “Now, about the gift registry. Eli was... modest.”
Sokolov gave a soft, almost amused sound, and Yasha’s hand twitched against the rug. Of course Eli had been modest. The boy still didn’t understand he was no longer in that broken country that had once tried to erase his father. Here, in Yasha’s empire, he would want for nothing.
Valya continued: “Books—mostly first editions. A chess set, though he already has five. Custom suits from Moscow’s tailors. One request for a full fencing set, which I found rather charming.”
Yasha allowed a quiet, approving hum. “He’ll receive all of it. But ensure each gift is tailored. It should feel personal. Measured.”
“Yes, my Prince.”
She shut the ledger.
“I’ll begin setting the tone with the guest parents tomorrow,” she added. “It won’t take much. They’re already whispering that America’s discarded crown jewels now rest in Moscow’s vault.”
Yasha smiled fully now, teeth glinting. “As they should.”
Sokolov’s hand closed gently around the leash, tugging Yasha a little closer to the side of his chair. The Winter Prince obeyed with perfect ease, settling beside his Master’s knee, his cheek resting lightly against the wool of Sokolov’s trousers.
“You’ve done well,” the General said softly, running his fingers once through Yasha’s hair.
Yasha closed his eyes. “Everything I have is yours.”
Valya, as always, did not comment. She simply dipped her head and turned to leave.
Behind her, the empire prepared—one golden celebration at a time.

The door shut with a muted click, leaving behind the hush of luxury and low firelight. All the world, all its concerns—banquets and bloodshed, crowns and collars—fell away until only one presence remained.
Sokolov.
Yasha remained kneeling, utterly still. The leash hung slack now, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need restraint to stay. He would’ve laid there for a hundred years if his Master asked it. No, if his Master simply allowed it.
“You are quiet tonight,” Sokolov said at last, fingers brushing again through Yasha’s hair. That simple touch—possessive, unhurried—was worth more than a battlefield’s glory.
“I was remembering,” Yasha replied, voice like dark velvet. “When I was still James. What a birthday meant then.”
Sokolov’s hand stilled. Yasha smiled faintly.
“Cracked plates. Dry cake. If there was cake at all. Sometimes a cigarette or a coin pressed into my palm if I looked just hungry enough. No parties. No silk. No one cared.”
He turned his face slightly, resting his cheek more firmly against his Master’s knee.
“But now?” he exhaled. “Now I create childhood. I curate joy. If I wish it, Aretha Franklin sings in my dining room. If I demand it, I’ll have snow flown in from Siberia to frost Eli’s windows with a child's wonder. Because you gave me that power.”
Sokolov said nothing, but Yasha didn’t need words. He could feel the tension in his Master’s thigh, the way his hand tightened once on the back of Yasha’s neck. Approval. Ownership. Worship returned.
“Eli and Faith,” Yasha continued, eyes open now, fixed on nothing but the floor. “They are not mine the way I am yours. But they are precious. Like the pistol you gave me in '59. Or the jade dagger from Shanghai. They belong to us. Treasures.”
His voice dropped lower. “They are proof I can be trusted to keep valuable things in my care.”
“Do you love them?” Sokolov asked, not unkindly. A test, perhaps.
Yasha laughed softly, almost to himself.
“I don’t love, General. Not like the others do. I’ve read the poems. I’ve watched the plays. I understand the mechanics of affection. But it’s all calculus. Symbols. I only know devotion. I only know service. And you—”
He tilted his head up, eyes black with want.
“—you are the only one I would kill a thousand children for. And the only one I would never harm.”
Sokolov set the leash aside and reached with both hands, cradling Yasha’s face. He held him there, staring down with something between hunger and reverence.
“My beautiful machine,” Sokolov murmured.
Yasha's lashes lowered. “Your loyal beast.”
They stayed that way for some time, the fire hissing gently behind them.
Yasha didn’t ask for permission when he shifted to press a kiss to his Master’s boot. Nor did Sokolov stop him.
He only watched, as always, while the Winter Prince worshipped at his feet—not in shame, but in sacred ritual.

Chapter 61: A Royal Birthday (Part 2)

Aretha Franklin’s Residence, Detroit — Late Evening
The envelope was unlike any other that had graced Aretha Franklin’s polished mahogany desk. Thick, cream-colored paper with a subtle watermark, sealed with a crimson wax emblem bearing the insignia of the Winter Prince. Her assistant, Brenda, handed it over with raised eyebrows.
“This came by special courier, Miss Franklin. Straight from Moscow.”
Aretha arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the elegant script.
Dearest Ms. Franklin,
It would be the highest honor if you would grace us with your presence and perform at a private celebration in Moscow. The event is in honor of a young man, Eli Bradley, who holds you in the highest esteem. Your music has been a guiding light in his life.
All arrangements for your comfort and security will be handled with the utmost discretion and care.
With deepest respect,
Lady Valya, on behalf of the Winter Prince
Aretha leaned back, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile. She had received countless invitations over the years, but this one was different. The personal touch, the acknowledgment of her impact on a young soul—it resonated.
“Brenda, get me the details on this Winter Prince and Lady Valya. And start looking into flights to Moscow.”
Brenda hesitated. “You’re considering it?”
Aretha nodded, her eyes twinkling. “It’s not every day you get summoned by royalty to inspire a young heart. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see Moscow in the winter.”
She glanced back at the letter, her fingers tracing the elegant script. A private celebration, a chance to touch a life directly—this was more than a performance. It was a calling.
“Let’s make it happen.”

Day 1: The Tailor’s Visit – Eli’s POV
The drawing room had been transformed into a kind of royal dressing chamber, full of mirrored screens and bolts of imported silk. Eli stood stiffly on the low platform while tailors swarmed him like bees, chattering in Russian and French, taking measurements, holding fabric up to the light. He had never seen so much gold thread in his life.
Lady Valya circled him slowly, the very picture of aristocratic poise.
“No, not black,” she said, almost to herself. “Too grim for a boy’s birthday. Try the midnight blue with the silver embroidery. The one from the Genoa shipment.”
Eli tried not to flinch as a tape measure grazed his neck. “I really don’t need all this,” he muttered.
“You’re the Bradley boy,” one of the tailors replied in broken English, pinning the cuff of his sleeve. “You are the Winter Prince’s treasure. You wear the night sky itself if he says so.”
Eli blinked. Treasure.
He looked at himself in the mirror and for a moment, didn’t see the skinny kid from Detroit anymore. He saw someone meant to be remembered.

Day 3: Flowers and Fragrance – Faith’s POV
The Sokolov greenhouse was a palace of glass and perfume. It was heated, of course—artfully frosted on the outside, lush and wild on the inside. Faith walked slowly with one of the stewardesses and a florist imported from Paris, examining arrangements for the party.
“Blue delphinium with white lilies,” she said thoughtfully, “and maybe those little silver-dusted eucalyptus things?”
The florist nodded. “Très élégant. Symbolic. Innocence and ambition.”
Faith smiled softly, amazed at how easily she'd slipped into the language of taste and spectacle. Two weeks ago she was deciding between shampoo brands. Now she was dictating floral symbolism.

Day 4: The Gift Room – Eli’s POV
“Okay… this is insane,” Eli said flatly.
He stood in one of the estate’s many salons, staring at a growing pile of boxes wrapped in decadent papers—gifts from foreign dignitaries, manufacturers, collectors, even a few movie stars. Someone had sent him a Fabergé egg. Another, a rare signed comic book sealed in a lucite case.
“Which ones do you want displayed for the guests?” Lady Valya asked, jotting notes on a golden clipboard.
“…Can I just keep the comic book and send the rest back?”
Valya raised one brow, as if amused. “I’ll set aside a private table for your personal favorites. But the Prince will insist on some spectacle. It’s not about what you want. It’s about what your presence means.”
Eli sighed. Being symbolic was exhausting.

Day 6: A Quiet Talk – Faith’s POV
Faith sat curled on one of the fur-lined balconies with a woman named Tatiana—one of the ambassador's wives, and her favorite of the Moscow elite. They shared tea and stories as the sun set gold over the city.
“You’ve adapted beautifully,” Tatiana said. “The way you walk into a room now, you don’t flinch.”
Faith smiled. “I’ve stopped wondering if we’re safe here. We are. And people listen to me now. Even when I don’t raise my voice.”
Tatiana nodded approvingly. “The Winter Prince protects his own. And you are his.”
Faith glanced out at the snowy courtyard, where Eli was laughing with his classmates near the fountain. “We are.”

Day 7: The Night Before – Eli’s POV
The palace was quiet as the staff began their final polish. Eli wandered the halls alone for a moment, dressed in his silk pajamas, his hands in the pockets. He found himself outside the great ballroom—doors closed for final decorations.
He pressed his palm to the gilded wood.
This was happening. His party. In that room. With royalty, maybe even Brezhnev himself. And Aretha.
The idea made his stomach twist. He wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. But it felt like something was about to shift forever.
Behind him, soft footsteps.
“You ready?” Faith’s voice, warm and steady.
Eli nodded slowly, still staring at the door. “I think so.”
She looped her arm through his. “Good. Because tomorrow? You walk in like you were born here.”

The Winter Prince rose before the sun.
The estate was already stirring—silent and reverent, like a cathedral before mass. White-gloved staff moved through the halls like ghosts, unrolling carpets, polishing silver, lighting candles that would be refreshed a dozen times before guests ever saw them. Everything had to be perfect.
Yasha walked barefoot through the marble corridors, his silk robe trailing behind him like a shadow. His collar was already buckled in place, the silver O-ring at his throat glinting in the early light. Sokolov had not risen yet. Yasha didn’t want to wake him—not when his Master had been up late, reviewing final security arrangements for the gala. He would earn his reward later.
For now, Yasha belonged to the estate.
He moved from wing to wing, checking each room the guests would touch: the foyer, the receiving parlor, the ballroom, the buffet corridor, the terrace. He murmured instructions in Russian, French, and German as he passed—an angle corrected here, a floral arrangement centered there. The staff obeyed without question.
Lady Valya met him in the ballroom, clipboard in hand, her hat angled just so. “The musicians are rehearsing. Aretha’s team arrived at dawn—she’s resting. The cake is in refrigeration, and the floral master has finished the centerpieces.”
Yasha ran his gloved fingers along the edge of one grand table. “And the gifts?”
“Arranged discreetly,” she said, “just as the boy asked. Most will be transferred to the family vault after the party, but the display is suitably impressive.”
“Good.” He turned toward the massive window where sunlight now filtered through leaded glass. “He asked for restraint. He’ll have beauty instead.”
Valya smiled faintly. “And the guest list?”
Yasha’s lips curved, a faint echo of pleasure flickering behind his cold eyes. “Confirmed. All of Eli’s classmates and their parents. Brezhnev will arrive halfway through—he prefers not to upstage children.”
“Unusual, but generous of him.”
“Brezhnev understands ownership,” Yasha said softly, gazing toward the distant bedrooms where Eli and Faith still slept. “And gratitude.”
He let the words hang in the air.
Then, in one elegant motion, he turned and descended into the lower halls—to ensure the wine had arrived from the dacha cellars, to confirm the private dressing room for Aretha had fresh orchids, to whisper something to the security detail at the front gate.
He orchestrated the morning like a conductor, invisible and divine.
The Winter Prince would never let the boy down.

Twilight had not yet fallen, but the world already felt like velvet.
In the mirrored dressing chamber adjoining the master suite, Yasha sat on a padded stool, robed in cream silk. His bare chest shimmered faintly in the soft light as valets moved like shadows around him—oiling his skin, dusting his cheekbones with the faintest trace of gold, braiding in strands of silver ribbon through the dark waves of his hair.
He would not be the star tonight. The child would. Eli Bradley. But that did not mean the Winter Prince would go unnoticed.
His ensemble was nothing short of ceremonial: a black velvet doublet trimmed in obsidian beads, open at the chest to display the collar glinting at his throat. Below, his trousers were fitted silk, tight enough to show muscle, loose enough to command elegance. Gloves the color of snow sheathed his hands. His boots rose to his thighs, laced up with silver cord.
He stood when summoned by one of the stewards—stood tall and regal, even as he turned to face the figure seated behind him.
General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov watched from a nearby chaise, fully dressed in his uniform, medals in place. He was not merely present—he was presiding. Yasha crossed the room to him without hesitation and dropped to his knees in perfect silence, head bowed, forehead resting lightly against the back of his Master’s hand.
“May I serve, tonight, as your ornament?” he murmured in Russian.
Sokolov’s hand cupped the back of his skull. “You may serve as mine, always.”
Yasha exhaled like it was a prayer.
The leash was clipped into place with practiced ease.

Yasha returned to the dressing mirror once more before descending the grand staircase. His leash curled in Sokolov’s hand, the chain elegant and subtle against the black of his uniform. He did not wear a crown—he had never needed one. The Winter Prince’s bearing was crown enough.
Tonight was not his triumph.
But he would make certain it was perfect.

The gown shimmered like evening rain.
Soft lavender silk, draped off the shoulder, cinched at the waist with a band of silver embroidery. She’d never worn anything like it. Never even touched anything like it. A lady-in-waiting fastened the final clasp at the back of her neck while another adjusted the delicate fall of curls around her face. Faith watched her reflection with both awe and disbelief.
She barely recognized herself.
Her earrings were pearls set in platinum. Her shoes were satin. She wore perfume laced with violet and bergamot, chosen from a velvet box lined with options she hadn’t even had time to sample. The whole thing felt like a dream—elegant, quiet, too rich for breath.
“Ma’am?” A soft knock. “The General and the Winter Prince await you.”
Faith turned.
Isaiah stepped into view from the adjoining dressing room.
He looked like a king.
A tailored black tuxedo, white waistcoat, and Soviet ceremonial sash—he had refused any medals, but Sokolov had insisted on the crimson honor band. It suited him. He looked regal, grounded. And faintly uncomfortable, in the way only a man who’d never been pampered could be.
He paused, then smiled.
“You look like you walked out of a magazine.”
Faith’s laugh was quiet and breathless. “You look like you walked out of a history book.”
They didn’t need to say more. He offered her his arm, and together they walked down the long hallway, their footsteps muffled by silk carpets.

The doors opened not with grandeur, but reverence.
Inside the vast ballroom, the chandeliers glowed low and golden, still warming to their full brilliance. Strings played softly from a gallery above. The air smelled of roses and polished wood.
And at the far end—by the polished black dais where the birthday cake would later be displayed—stood Sokolov, sharp as steel in full dress uniform.
Beside him knelt the Winter Prince.
Yasha did not stand yet. His leash draped from Sokolov’s hand like a jewel chain. He looked impossibly decadent, gloved and collared and clothed in layers of black and silver that shimmered with each breath. He was beautiful the way fire was beautiful—unreachable and dangerous.
Sokolov raised his hand.
Yasha stood.
He crossed the ballroom to them in silence, every movement smooth, choreographed. When he reached Faith and Isaiah, he offered only the faintest incline of his head.
“Your son’s evening is ready,” he said.
Faith exhaled. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“I didn’t,” Yasha replied smoothly, eyes glinting. “Eli did.”
He extended one white-gloved hand toward the grand entrance.
“Shall we greet your guests?”

Eli stood before the mirror, motionless.
He’d been fitted for the suit three days ago, but somehow this felt different now. Like he’d stepped into someone else’s skin.
Midnight blue velvet. Double-breasted, perfectly tailored, with satin lapels and silver buttons that caught the light like stars. A white silk shirt beneath, crisp and soft against his skin, and a silver-thread tie he hadn’t tied himself. His shoes were Italian leather. His hair had been combed, styled—shaped, really—by some man with sharp cheekbones and sharper scissors.
A small bouquet of violets had been tucked into his lapel. Moscow’s gesture of spring, of royalty.
Eli adjusted the cuffs again, even though they didn’t need adjusting. He couldn’t feel nervous—not when everything around him looked like a dream—but he was. A little.
They said the ballroom was full already. His friends from school, their parents. Government officials. People whose names he didn’t even know but who’d shaken his hand at the banquet two weeks ago. Someone had mentioned Brezhnev would come by later in the evening. And… Aretha Franklin was actually in the building.
He turned.
The steward waiting at the door gave a single nod. “It’s time, young master.”

The soft music hushed.
From her place near the dais, Faith turned to see the doors open—slowly, reverently. The lights dimmed, just slightly. A beam of crystal-glow followed him.
Eli stood framed in the doorway like the future.
Not just handsome—royal. Self-contained. The boy who’d once scraped his knees playing basketball in a neighborhood that didn’t care if he bled now walked like someone born to be watched.
A hush fell over the ballroom. Then a ripple of whispers. A dozen languages murmuring in sync:
“That’s him.”
“The Winter Prince’s heir.”
“Bradley’s boy.”
Faith pressed a hand to her chest.
Isaiah’s jaw was set in quiet awe.
Yasha stood behind them, perfectly poised, collar gleaming, watching with the expression of a man who had planned this down to the breath.
General Sokolov raised his glass.
“Presenting Eli Isaiah Bradley,” he said, not loudly, but with a voice that cut through gold and velvet alike.
And the crowd applauded.

The applause rolled like warm thunder.
Eli walked slowly—because that’s what Lady Valya had told him to do. Not too fast. Let them see you. Let them remember.
He kept his shoulders square and chin lifted, even though part of him wanted to laugh in disbelief. This was his birthday party?
One chandelier overhead would’ve bankrupted their whole block back home.
As he neared the front of the room, he spotted his parents. Faith glowed like royalty herself, lavender and pearl. Isaiah stood tall, arms at his sides like he was still in uniform, but his smile gave him away.
And then there was Yasha.
The Winter Prince stood with perfect posture just behind General Sokolov’s right shoulder—leashed, collared, poised. No emotion on his face. None needed.
This was his doing.
All of it.
Yasha didn’t clap, didn’t speak. He only nodded once, the barest inclination of approval. Eli returned it with a slight nod of his own.
He reached the dais, took his place, and the music resumed.

The next hour moved like warm honey.
Faith found herself surrounded by foreign dignitaries, powerful wives with names and influence, and other mothers who had children at Eli’s school. No one sneered. No one whispered. Instead, they asked about her garden, her perfume, the latest news from the American jazz scene.
She’d never felt so… seen.
And then the room shifted.
Not visually—but audibly. A new pulse of excitement, a rustle of gowns and murmured names.
Faith turned toward the grand entrance.
There she was.
Aretha Franklin had arrived.
Her gown was a masterpiece of gold lamé and black velvet. Her hair was a crown of curls. Her expression—wry, warm, knowing—landed somewhere between diva and diplomat.
The crowd parted for her like scripture.
She didn’t walk toward the dais. She glided.
When she reached Faith, she didn’t bow. She simply smiled.
“So you’re Mama Bradley,” Aretha said, and kissed her on both cheeks.
Faith stammered, “I—yes—yes, ma’am.”
Aretha chuckled. “You raised a boy worth flying halfway across the world for.”

Eli tried to take it all in.
Aretha had sung a song just for him. People brought gifts wrapped in velvet and gold foil. One diplomat’s daughter asked him to dance—and he said yes, and managed not to trip over himself. There were string quartets and candlelight and waiters offering sparkling cider in glass flutes like it was fine champagne.
And through it all, Yasha watched.
Not possessive. Not jealous.
Just… vigilant.
Once, their eyes met across the room. And though no words were exchanged, Eli knew what Yasha was saying:
This is yours. I gave it to you.
Not out of kindness. But out of will.
That was the thing about Yasha—the thing Eli was beginning to understand. He didn’t protect them because he loved them. He protected them because they belonged to him. Like treasures. Like rare art. Like weapons.
And Eli didn’t quite mind.
He turned back toward his parents, catching Faith’s hand as she passed him another bite of cake.
“Not bad for a twelve-year-old from Harlem,” he murmured.
Faith just smiled. “Not bad at all.”

The guests were thinning out.
Dignitaries excused themselves with polite bows. Mothers retrieved their sleepy children. Aretha Franklin kissed Eli’s cheek one more time before being swept away by her security detail.
And suddenly, the ballroom didn’t feel quite so enormous anymore.
Eli stood at the foot of the dais, loosening the cuffs of his jacket, when Lady Valya appeared beside him, her presence as quiet and fluid as ever.
“His Highness would like a word,” she said, eyes warm beneath her jeweled lashes. “Privately.”
Eli nodded, heart picking up just a little.

He followed her down a gold-lined corridor, the sound of his polished shoes echoing softly behind her heels. The doors she opened were tall and heavy, leading into a private salon—a small palace unto itself.
Yasha stood in the center of the room, back straight, hands clasped neatly behind him. His silks tonight were indigo and black, his collar gleaming with silver studs, a jewel winking at his throat. General Sokolov sat nearby, calm and regal in an armchair, a book resting in his lap.
Yasha turned when the door closed behind them.
“Eli,” he said, voice quiet and smooth. “You’ve done well tonight.”
“Thanks,” Eli said, blinking. “I mean… yeah. It was amazing.”
Yasha tilted his head. “You carried yourself as you should. You did not flinch. You held court.” He took a step forward. “You are more than American. More than a boy who had to fight for space that was never freely given to him. Here, you are something greater.”
Eli didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.
Yasha raised a gloved hand, and Lady Valya stepped from the shadows with a velvet-covered tray. She held it before Eli like an offering.
“Your final gift,” Yasha said.
Eli reached forward and lifted the cloth.
Beneath it lay a key—old, ornate, golden. Not modern.
And a deed.
His name in perfect Cyrillic.
A property just outside the city. Fully staffed. Guarded. Stocked with books and instruments, a small stable, a workshop, and a private library curated by the Winter Prince himself.
Eli looked up slowly. “What is this?”
Yasha’s smile was small. “Your freedom, should you ever wish to claim it. Your independence, should you ever wish to test it. Your future, should you decide to write it.”
Eli swallowed. “You’re giving me a house?”
“I am granting it to you,” Yasha corrected. “There is a difference. You are mine, yes—but you are not a prisoner. You are not a tool. You are something… rare. And rare things must be protected, not caged.”
From his chair, Sokolov gave a soft nod of approval, one hand gently stroking Yasha’s back where his Pet knelt beside him.
Eli stared at the key, then slowly closed his hand around it.
He didn’t know what to say.
But Yasha—he understood.
Words were not required. Just silence. Just understanding.

Faith watched her son sleep—his curls spread against the pillow, the key resting beneath his fingers even in sleep.
Her heart ached.
There was so much beauty here. So much danger, too.
But tonight had been… magic.
She looked out the window of their private suite, at the snowy lights of Moscow stretching endlessly below.
Thank you, she thought, not quite sure to whom.
Maybe to the Winter Prince.
Maybe to whatever god had seen them through the fire.

The firelight flickered low, casting amber shadows over silk and skin. The doors to the private salon were locked, the music from the ballroom long faded into memory. Moscow slept beyond the frost-laced windows. The world outside ceased to matter.
Inside, Yasha knelt.
His silks had been stripped away piece by piece, replaced by nothing but the weight of his collar and the warmth of the rug beneath his knees. His head rested low against the inside of his Master’s thigh, breath even, body still. He had not spoken since returning to the sanctum.
He didn’t need to.
Sokolov’s hand was in his hair, slow and sure, petting through the strands like one might soothe a hunting dog after a kill. He was pleased—Yasha could feel it in the softness of his touch, the indulgent quiet that hung in the room.
“You executed it perfectly,” Sokolov said at last, voice rich with approval.
Yasha breathed in deep, a low hum vibrating in his throat like purring.
“It was not a spectacle,” Sokolov continued, “but it did not need to be. You reminded them—softly, carefully—what power looks like when it smiles.”
Yasha lifted his head just enough to look up through his lashes. “Did I please you, Gospodin?”
Sokolov's eyes crinkled faintly at the edges. “You always please me, Zverek.”
Yasha flushed under the praise. Little beast. The name curled into the space behind his ribs and nested there like a warm coal.
The General leaned forward, one gloved hand lifting Yasha’s chin. “And the boy? The Bradley child?”
“Mine,” Yasha said, voice edged in steel. “But more importantly—ours.”
Sokolov chuckled. “You’re growing sentimental.”
“No,” Yasha said, softly, reverently. “I’m growing precise.”
He didn’t love Eli. He didn’t love Faith. But he owned them, and ownership was something holy to Yasha. They were part of the world he had rebuilt from ash. They were under his protection, and therefore they were sacred.
Sokolov pressed a kiss to Yasha’s mouth, slow and unhurried. When he pulled away, he tugged Yasha’s leash gently—once.
Yasha followed immediately, crawling after him across the carpet until they reached the low bed by the fire.
“Lie back,” Sokolov murmured. “You’ve earned your reward.”
Yasha obeyed without question.
There was no tenderness in his soul. Only obsession, control, hunger. But this—his Master’s voice, his Master’s hands—this was as close as Yasha would ever come to peace.
And he savored every moment of it.

Chapter 62: Cultural Revolution

Spring, 1966 — The Sokolov Estate, Moscow
POV: Yasha (The Winter Prince)

The lilacs had just begun to bloom.
Their perfume drifted in through the open French doors of Yasha’s study, mingling with the scent of polished wood, beeswax candles, and the lingering musk of his Master’s cologne on the cushions behind him. Sunlight filtered in through lace curtains, casting dappled patterns across the glossy table where reports lay waiting.
But Yasha wasn’t reading them. Not yet.
He stood by the window in a silk robe the color of mourning doves, his collar gleaming faintly in the morning light. One hand rested loosely on the back of an upholstered chair. The other held a small slip of paper — decoded, translated, summarized by his most loyal analysts.
“In Beijing, the air is changing. Red Guard pamphlets circulate quietly at first. University students gather. Some officials vanish. Mao’s portraits are reappearing in greater numbers. Whispers call it a revolution, but no one dares say it aloud. Yet.”
Yasha’s lips twitched in a humorless smile.
“Idiots,” he murmured.
He had seen enough revolutions to know that the loudest ones often had the shortest lifespans. But China was not prone to noise for its own sake — and Mao Zedong was too old and too wounded by political embarrassment to permit irrelevance.
This would not be a rebellion. It would be a cleansing.
A knock broke his silence. Yasha didn’t turn. “Enter.”
It was Major Aslanov, one of his newer officers — tall, clever, nervous around Sokolov but reverent around Yasha. He held a leather folder clutched to his chest.
“My Prince,” the major said with a bow. “Updates from the Far East Division.”
Yasha extended a hand. “Give it.”
The folder was warm from travel. Yasha opened it slowly, skimming the intelligence dispatches. Mentions of student demonstrations. Mass resignations. Peasant “activists” being trucked in from the countryside. And between the lines, Yasha saw it clearly: Mao wasn’t just regaining control—he was re-forging the state in his image.
He closed the folder with a soft snap.
“Begin contingency planning,” he said. “If they purge the old guard, their need for foreign allies will vanish with them. I want names—those who survive this wave will be the true inheritors of China’s future.”
Aslanov nodded. “And the Americans?”
“They’ll be blind for now. Let them be. Nixon will want rapprochement, but not yet.”
Yasha turned back to the window, the lilacs still blooming outside.
“A cultural revolution,” he whispered. “How quaint.”
Behind him, the door shut quietly.
And alone, Yasha smiled.
Because if Mao Zedong wanted to rewrite the soul of China, then the Winter Prince would watch — and prepare. No revolution burned forever. But the ashes could be useful.

The hall was quiet as Yasha padded barefoot across marble in flowing silk, each step measured, his mind a razor coiled in velvet.
Sokolov was in his private study, as he often was in the early evening—finalizing reports, sipping his preferred Armenian brandy, marking the world in red and black ink. Yasha didn’t knock. He never had to. He simply entered, leash coiled loosely in one hand, collar polished to a mirror shine.
Sokolov looked up at once.
“Pet,” he said warmly, setting his pen aside. “You’re early.”
Yasha crossed the room and dropped to his knees at his Master’s side without hesitation. Head bowed. Hands resting delicately on pale thighs. The weight of ritual was its own intoxicant.
“There are murmurs from Beijing,” Yasha said softly. “More than murmurs now.”
Sokolov made a sound low in his throat—acknowledging, not surprised.
“Mao is playing his final hand,” Yasha continued. “Burning down what he built just to prove he can do it again.”
Sokolov reached down and idly stroked the back of Yasha’s neck. “And you see an opportunity.”
Yasha lifted his eyes.
“Yes, Master. They will need monsters. Icons. Divine emissaries of revolution. Mao is a poet—but every poet wants a muse. You and Stalin made me for this.”
Sokolov’s hand paused.
Yasha’s voice dipped into something darker—inviting.
“I can become what they worship. I’ve done it before. Berlin. Cairo. Paris. They still whisper about the man in silk who stole hearts and secrets alike. Send me to Beijing. Let me bring you the new China, bound in red lacquer and silk thread.”
For a moment, Sokolov said nothing. His expression was unreadable—until he reached for his glass and took a slow sip.
“You are correct,” Sokolov said finally. “You were made to be adored. To be feared. To be used.” He set the glass down and leaned forward, fingers under Yasha’s chin. “But you are mine, Yasha. And the moment you forget that, I will break you so beautifully your name will never be spoken again except as a warning.”
Yasha’s breath hitched—pleasure and submission coiled tightly in his chest.
“I never forget,” he whispered. “I seduce for you. I serve for you. I belong only to you.”
Sokolov’s smile returned. He kissed Yasha’s forehead as one might a treasured relic.
“Then go,” he said. “Send out feelers through Hanoi first. I’ll write to our contacts there. If China is preparing a new court, then I will place my prince at its center.”
Yasha shivered.
“Yes, Master.”
As he knelt at his Master’s side, head on Sokolov’s thigh, Yasha’s thoughts danced with fire and silk. Red Guard uniforms. Mandarin whispers. The scent of jasmine and smoke. If the East was rising again, then he would rise with it.
Not as a servant.
But as something divine.

Spring 1966 — KGB Headquarters, Sublevel Archives

The air was cold in the sublevels, where dust and secrets thickened the longer one lingered. Yasha moved like silk over ice—flawless, gleaming, cold. He flipped through classified dossiers with gloved fingers, the documents spread out across a steel table like an altar of rot.
HYDRA.
It always came back to them.
They had learned nothing from the last time he’d burned them down. Like weeds in concrete, they clawed through cracks in Soviet infrastructure—through minor bureaucrats, washed-up scientists, and ghost operatives from the Red Room’s fractured skeleton.
But this… this was different.
They weren’t trying to use Russia.
They were trying to infect it again.
Yasha’s lips curled, slow and serpentine.
And just as quickly, his expression returned to serene stillness.
He folded the report and left the archives, his boots the only sound in the subterranean corridor. Upstairs, the world moved in time with his desires, but beneath—beneath, rot bloomed like mold in a golden palace.
He found Isaiah in the upper offices, finishing a debrief with two of his operatives. The moment Yasha entered, the others made themselves scarce. Yasha didn’t speak until the room was clear.
“We have rats,” he said simply.
Isaiah stood slowly, shoulders tightening. “HYDRA?”
Yasha tossed the folder onto the table. “They’ve begun slipping in through old networks. Ones we closed years ago, but they’ve been patient. I suspect they’re trying to use the Cultural Revolution to fracture us from within.”
Isaiah flipped through the pages quickly, eyes scanning, brow furrowing. “You think it’s connected?”
Yasha gave a small nod. “Too many loose whispers. And now that I’m inserting myself into Mao’s court, they’ll see an opportunity.”
Isaiah closed the file. “So what do you want me to do?”
Yasha moved closer, placing a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder—not a gesture of camaraderie, but command. “Burn them out. Quietly. Cleanly. Use the dogs if you must. I want it done before I return.”
Isaiah studied him. “You’re really going to China.”
Yasha’s eyes gleamed. “My Master wills it. And the world is most fragile in the hands of men who believe they’re shaping it. I’ll become something they cannot survive without.”
A long beat passed.
Then Isaiah nodded. “Go. I’ll keep the house in order.”
Yasha smiled faintly. “Good. And keep Faith and Eli close. If they lay a finger on either of them…”
“I’ll make sure they don’t,” Isaiah said. “No one touches your treasures, Winter Prince.”
Yasha’s expression sharpened with dark satisfaction.
“Exactly.”

Spring 1966 — The Sokolov Estate, Late Evening

The moonlight spilled like silver wine across the marble floor of the master suite. Everything was as it should be: incense curling through the air, the fire burning low, velvet shadows gathered in the corners of the room like silent guards.
Yasha knelt at the foot of the bed, hands folded neatly on his thighs, head bowed.
His leash trailed from his collar—polished silver with onyx inlay—into the waiting hand of his Master.
General Ivan Yakovovich Sokolov reclined in his chair near the hearth, eyes fixed on his Pet with a look that bordered on reverence. The fingers that held Yasha’s leash were strong, gloved tonight in black leather, thumb idly stroking the braided lead in thought.
“You leave tomorrow,” Sokolov said, his voice a quiet thunder. “For a nest of vipers.”
Yasha looked up slowly, his eyes gleaming, painted lips parted slightly in adoration. “Yes, Gospodin. But they will never know I am venom itself.”
A hum of amusement passed Sokolov’s lips. He tugged the leash once—firmly—and Yasha crawled forward with grace trained over decades. Each movement was sensual obedience, body language honed to seduction and submission alike.
Yasha rested his cheek against Sokolov’s knee, sighing contentedly. “May I speak freely?”
Sokolov allowed it with a tilt of his head.
“I hate to be parted from you,” Yasha whispered, voice soft as fur. “But if my absence furthers your greatness… then I go gladly.”
The General’s hand descended, threading through Yasha’s long hair and stroking gently. “You are more than my blade, Yasha. You are my empire’s ghost… my song of silence. And they will listen.”
Yasha closed his eyes at the praise. It wasn’t affection—not in the traditional sense. But it was the closest thing to divinity that a soul like his could crave.
“I will haunt them,” he murmured. “Mao will welcome me into his dreams. And when the time comes, I will bend his world to ours.”
“You will go as my emissary,” Sokolov said. “But you remain mine.”
“Always,” Yasha promised, lips brushing the inside of Sokolov’s wrist. “Every breath. Every drop of blood. Yours.”
Sokolov drew him up into his lap, silk robes falling aside as Yasha curled there like an offering.
That night, beneath candlelight and the watchful silence of history, Master and Pet moved together in perfect ritual.
There were no tears. No soft partings.
Only promises inked in flesh, and a leash that would stretch across continents.

Spring 1966 — En Route to Beijing
POV: Yasha (The Winter Prince)

The private jet soared above the snow-laced mountains of Central Asia, sleek and black like a predator. Within, Yasha reclined alone in a cabin draped in crimson and cream silks, sipping jasmine tea cooled to perfection. He wore Chinese brocade tonight—gold thread embroidered with plum blossoms, open just enough at the throat to display the glint of his collar.
Sokolov’s scent still lingered on his skin.
A dossier lay open across the table before him, thick with intelligence: Mao’s daily patterns, the maneuverings of Jiang Qing, the rise of the Red Guards, HYDRA chatter slithering through the underground like rats gnawing at the roots of the state.
Yasha read each page like a lover’s letter.
This wasn’t espionage—it was seduction.
He was to be introduced through diplomatic channels at first, presented as a cultural attaché, a relic of Soviet decadence meant to observe the Communist Renaissance unfolding in China. A pawn, they would think. A gift from Brezhnev. Harmless. Curious. Beautiful.
But Yasha knew how to spin silk into chains. He would dance through the palaces of power in Beijing, and soon enough, even Mao would dream of him.
He closed the folder and leaned back, eyes fluttering shut, lips curling faintly.
Stalin made me a ghost.
Sokolov made me a god.
And now Mao will make me immortal.
The intercom chimed softly. “Comrade Yasha, we begin descent in twenty minutes.”
He stood, stretching like a cat, bones fluid beneath his silks. He would land as an emissary of unity. But by spring’s end, the Revolution would be breathing the Winter Prince’s perfume.

Spring 1966 — Beijing, People’s Republic of China

The moment Yasha stepped from the jet, Beijing’s air wrapped around him like a silk noose—thick with coal smoke, incense, revolution, and old blood. He descended the stairs with a grace that defied the hard steel beneath his feet, the hem of his white brocade coat whispering against polished boots.
Volchya Yagoda. The Wolfberry.
A delicate Soviet orchid, eyes rimmed in kohl, mouth a bloom of imperial red. Every movement was calculated softness. Every glance was a test.
The Chinese officials who waited for him at the bottom of the steps had been briefed. He was “Yakov Yashinovich Volkov,” cultural envoy from the Kremlin, rumored to be one of Brezhnev’s private confidants and Sokolov’s prized protégé. An artist. A poet. A prince of no state and every empire.
He bowed slightly as he approached. “Thank you for receiving me.”
The interpreter swallowed. “Comrade Yashinovich, it is our honor.”
Honor. They used the word carefully here. Too little, and it bred suspicion. Too much, and it invited death.
Yasha smiled with perfect politeness.

Later, as he was escorted through the capital’s quiet government district in a black car, he let the tinted glass shield him as he observed the city.
Red banners clung to every building, fluttering like warning flags. Loudspeakers croaked messages of loyalty to Chairman Mao. Children in matching scarves marched in small lines.
Everything here was uniform. Controlled. Dignified on the surface—rotting just beneath. He recognized the stench.
He was brought not to a hotel, but to a guarded diplomatic compound nestled within the old imperial walls. There, he was shown to a suite filled with antique Chinese furniture, scrolls of poetry on silk, and a set of fresh red peonies placed precisely on a lacquered table. A subtle message: welcome and watchfulness.
Yasha removed his coat and stood before the long mirror framed in carved jade. Beneath the brocade, he wore silver silk that hugged his body like a whisper. He traced a finger across the gleam of his collar, still faintly warmed from Sokolov’s touch.
You trained me for this, he thought. To smile with poison in my mouth and honey on my tongue.
The first meeting with Jiang Qing was scheduled for the next evening—a performance of revolutionary opera. He would wear red. He would sit where they placed him. And he would start weaving the web.
He was not here to observe.
He was here to enthrall.

The first day — before the opera, before the web begins to spin.

Morning light filtered through a haze of coal smoke and mist. The diplomatic suite was already warm when Yasha rose, barefoot, a silk robe pooling at his ankles. The scent of chrysanthemum tea had been placed precisely beside the window. He did not drink it.
Instead, he seated himself at the lacquered desk and retrieved a leather-bound journal from the false bottom of his travel case. A fountain pen clicked in his slender hand—obsidian ink ready, every letter destined to be written in a cipher so intricate even the KGB had required months to learn it.
He began with a mark that looked like the root of a cherry blossom, and wrote:
001. City under controlled fever. Flags do not flutter—they twitch. Children’s voices rehearsed. Air hangs with iron and incense. Surveillance overt, yet poorly disguised. All hospitality measured by its coldness.
A thin smile touched his lips.
He inked another line.
002. They believe I am soft. Silk makes them underestimate. Good. I will make them bleed on it.
A knock at the door.
Too early for breakfast.
Too early for visitors.
Yasha closed the journal and slid it into a hidden pocket inside the lining of his coat. When he opened the door, a girl no older than fifteen stood there in a drab gray uniform, her cheeks pink with cold.
“Comrade Yashinovich,” she said, bowing. “I am to accompany you to your cultural appointments today.”
She did not make eye contact.
Perfect.
“Of course,” Yasha murmured, voice a velvet purr. “Lead the way.”

They visited the Revolutionary Art Museum first. Every painting had been stripped of its artist’s name. The works were beautiful—fluid, powerful, deranged in their precision. The new state-sanctioned style. Yasha stood before a canvas of soldiers walking through fire and whispered: “You wish you were us.”
By midday, the girl—his guide—began to speak more freely. She offered names. Places. Teachers.
He listened. Absorbed.
And that evening, he returned to his suite, soaked in red Beijing light.
He sat again at his desk.
The journal opened.
003. My shadow has a name: Mei. Loyal to her revolution, but curious. She studies my hands when she thinks I don’t notice. She will speak more. Tomorrow, I’ll ask her if she likes music.
He tapped the pen once, twice.
004. No HYDRA scent here yet. But they will come. In chaos, they always find soil to plant.
He paused, then wrote the final line of the day:
005. My leash is thousands of miles away, and still I ache for it. He made me. He owns me. I will make him proud.

Chapter 63: Siberia & Seduction

Spring 1966 — Beijing
POV: Yasha (The Winter Prince)
The opera: a test of masks.

The Revolutionary Opera House in Beijing was draped in red silk banners and lit with a solemn grandeur that mimicked the imperial courts it now condemned. Yasha arrived in a black Zhongshan suit tailored to his frame, the collar high, the buttons glinting like sharpened obsidian. His hair was pinned neatly at the nape of his neck, a single silver pin—a gift from Sokolov—resting like a fang.
He was met by a cadre of Party officials, none above mid-rank, all eager to show deference without conceding power. Yasha smiled faintly as each greeted him in stiff Mandarin. He responded in flawless tones, eyes lowered just enough to evoke false humility. The wolf in sheep’s silk bowed gracefully and then ascended the grand staircase with slow, deliberate steps.
Inside, the opera house was a collision of contradictions—Mao’s revolution cloaked in Confucian ritual. Rows of cadres filled the seats, all in matching gray. But not Yasha. He sat in the foreign diplomat’s box, ringed in gold leaf, under a crimson star. Alone.
He didn’t watch the opera. Not really.
It was a newly written piece, a retelling of a proletariat hero’s triumph over a decadent landowner. The actors moved with sharp, deliberate choreography. Their voices rang out in piercing soprano, their expressions as painted and careful as any Kabuki.
Yasha watched the audience.
He cataloged every flick of an eye, every subtle gesture of approval or boredom, every moment a Party official seemed to lean forward or suppress discomfort. Power did not sit onstage—it sat in the third row, fourth seat from the left, in the hands of a man with a small red booklet and callused fingers.
In his lap, Yasha opened the journal under the cover of his coat.
006. The art is dead. It screams loyalty but sings nothing. Only a matter of time before something hungers beneath it. The revolution devours its own children.
He wrote without looking.
007. I am the most beautiful thing in this room. They know it. And they hate it. That is my advantage.
After the final crescendo, the audience rose in unison to applaud. Yasha remained seated.
He allowed his gaze to sweep the crowd.
He smiled, soft and small.
You will look back and remember that I was the first ghost you ever saw.

The reception was held in a marbled annex behind the opera house, glittering with crystal chandeliers imported from Prague before relations soured. A string quartet played a revolutionary folk arrangement in a minor key, filling the high-ceilinged room with an air of curated austerity.
Yasha entered with the confidence of a creature who had been taught not only to hunt, but to beguile prey into offering itself. His black Zhongshan suit remained pristine; his gloves were gone now, revealing elegant fingers adorned with silver rings—deliberate, subtle symbols. A ruby glinted at the center of one, like a drop of blood on snow.
And then he saw her.
Madame Jiang Qing.
Wife of Mao Zedong. Actress turned revolutionary. Ambitious, shrewd, deeply insecure beneath a mask of righteousness. She stood near the head of the room, surrounded by Party loyalists who laughed too loudly at her jokes.
Yasha approached with the graceful fluidity of a man unafraid to interrupt royalty. He paused just far enough to require her invitation.
She noticed him, of course.
“Ah,” she said in Mandarin, voice high but brittle. “The Soviet envoy.”
He bowed perfectly—deep enough to show respect, shallow enough to provoke.
“Madame Jiang,” he said, his Mandarin smooth and low. “It was a privilege to witness your vision onstage.”
Her eyes flicked with recognition. “You speak well. Your accent is northern?”
“My tutor was from Harbin. I learned quickly. I learn many things quickly.”
She studied him. “Your name?”
“Yasha,” he said simply. “My Master calls me Volchya Yagoda.”
Her lips twitched in amusement. “Wolfberry?”
He smiled, slow and intimate. “Bitter fruit. But full of secrets.”
Jiang tilted her head. “And your Master?”
“General Sokolov. He trained me alongside Stalin himself.”
A beat. The room was quieter now. The name still carried weight.
“And now you’ve come to us. To observe our little…cultural spring?”
“I’ve come to offer myself,” Yasha said, voice velvety. “I belong to my Master, but I serve the revolution.”
That intrigued her.
She moved closer. “You’re very beautiful, Yasha.”
He inclined his head. “Beauty is a weapon. I trust the Party knows how to use such things.”
Her gaze sharpened. “We do. We always have.”

Later that night, Yasha wrote in his coded journal:
013. Jiang Qing is a storm in a teacup. Ferocious, contained, desperate to spill. If I press correctly, she’ll believe she owns me. Then she will bleed for me.
014. She smells power on me. She doesn’t know it’s already hers.

The private tea room inside Zhongnanhai was richly appointed in lacquered red and black, the scent of sandalwood burning in the corner brazier. Jiang Qing poured the tea herself, a gesture meant to convey power masked as hospitality.
Yasha accepted it with a gracious smile, noting every flicker of her expression, every tremor of control she tried to assert.
“Tell me,” she said, folding her delicate hands in her lap, “what does Moscow think of our movement?”
“I think Moscow fears what it does not control,” Yasha replied without hesitation, sipping the bitter oolong. “But I am not Moscow.”
“No,” she said slowly, “you’re something…else.”
She leaned in. The flirtation was clear. Yasha didn’t flinch. He smiled as if it amused him.
Let her think she’s seducing him.
“You’re unlike most men I meet in the Party,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You don’t grovel. You don’t perform obedience.”
“Obedience is sacred,” he said calmly. “But only when earned.”
She didn’t know what to make of that—good. He wanted her unbalanced.
“And have I earned it?” she asked.
He gave her a long look, expression unreadable. “Not yet.”
The silence between them stretched like silk. Jiang, sensing challenge, smiled coyly.
“I’ve been told you’re... very loyal to your General.”
Yasha’s lips parted in the softest smile. “Yes. He owns me. But he lends me to those he finds worthy.”
Jiang reached out, fingers brushing his hand—testing.
Yasha didn’t react. Not even a blink. He met her eyes and said, gently, “Don’t mistake beauty for desire, Madame. I am not one of your actors.”
She blinked, drawing back, face tight.
Yasha set his teacup down. “But I am yours to use. Within reason.”
That mollified her. She wanted control, not affection. And she didn’t know what to make of a man she couldn’t seduce—so she defaulted to power.
“I’ll be introducing you to Chairman Mao soon,” she said with forced calm. “He will want to judge your character himself.”
“Good,” Yasha said, rising to his feet. “I plan to be exactly what he wants.”
He bowed once, deep and practiced. “Thank you for your tea, Madame. You’ve been… most instructive.”
As he turned to leave, his mind was already working.
017. She sees herself in me—dangerous. I’m not here to play her game. I’m here to replace it.
018. I will charm the dragon. She will think she lit the fire, but I will be the smoke that chokes them all.

Spring 1966 – Beijing, Zhongnanhai compound
POV: Yasha (The Winter Prince)
Costume and mask, blood and silk. The wolf steps onto the stage.

Yasha stood before the full-length mirror in the guest quarters provided by the Chinese State Council. It was past midnight, and the air was thick with incense and distant song — the tail end of another opera reception. He had already bathed twice. Not for cleanliness, but ritual.
He dressed slowly, deliberately.
First, the black silk shirt, imported from the deepest stores of Moscow’s reserves — soft enough to whisper across skin like a lover’s breath. Then, the blood-red sash wound around his waist with ceremonial precision. His tailored trousers, pressed so sharply they could slice. No jacket — it would make him look like he was trying too hard. But his collar, the true mark of his identity, remained firmly locked around his neck. General Sokolov’s signet charm nestled beneath his shirt, just above his heart.
At his belt, a pin forged in the shape of a rose made of twisted wire — a subtle nod to the Winter Prince’s reputation, a symbol that could be interpreted however the Chinese chose. He knew the value of ambiguity.
On the nightstand: his journal, closed and locked. His coded notes would remain behind, for now. He needed to move with no weight but his thoughts.
Yasha took a moment to still himself, sitting cross-legged on the silken floor cushions. He stared at the candle’s flame until his mind emptied of all but one thought: the hunt has begun.
He wasn’t nervous. He didn’t feel fear. Fear was useful in others. In him, it was… ornamental. Decorative. Something he could wear if necessary, like perfume or tears.
There was a knock at the door — coded, two soft, one sharp.
He opened it to find a messenger from Jiang Qing. “The Chairman will receive you in twenty minutes. Prepare yourself.”
Yasha offered a slow nod. “Always.”
When the man left, Yasha turned back to the mirror and smiled — not the way a happy man smiles, but the way a predator smiles when the prey thinks the cage is open.
“I will be his favorite,” he whispered in Russian, the vow tasting sweet on his tongue. “And then, I will be his ruin.”
He smoothed down his shirt, adjusted the collar with reverence, and walked out the door.

The doors to Mao Zedong’s private study opened like the gates of an old temple — thick, soundless, reverent. The air inside was stifling with heat and the lingering scent of ink, tobacco, and something more decayed — the sickly-sweet perfume of power left too long in one place.
Yasha entered with the measured grace of a panther, head dipped low, steps perfectly slow. A glimmer of red silk at his throat, his collar peeking beneath the shadows. He was a vision — neither Russian nor Chinese, neither noble nor soldier. Only beautiful. Only dangerous.
Mao Zedong did not rise.
He sat sprawled behind an enormous desk littered with books, ashtrays, open volumes of classical poetry, and a cooling cup of tea he had no intention of drinking. Jiang Qing was absent — by design. This was a private meeting, a test of charm and instinct.
“So,” Mao said, eyes scanning Yasha’s frame as if reading a dossier made of flesh. “The Russians send me a prince instead of a diplomat.”
“I am both, Chairman,” Yasha replied in Mandarin, accented but fluid. He smiled, soft and strange. “But tonight, only a student, come to learn from a revolutionary master.”
That flattered Mao. Of course it did. It always did.
Mao gestured lazily to a seat across from him. “Sit, then. Let us educate each other.”
Yasha obeyed. Every motion calculated — hands folded just enough to show his manicured nails, legs crossed too elegantly to be mistaken for anything but artifice. He let Mao look. Let him wonder what sort of creature sat before him.
The conversation meandered — as Yasha expected — from pleasantries to revolution, from philosophy to betrayal. Mao quoted Confucius to contradict Confucius. He spoke of weeds in the Party, of rot in the roots. Of bloodletting as purification. Yasha listened, nodded, asked only the right questions.
“You are unlike other men I’ve met from Moscow,” Mao murmured at one point, his gaze sharpened now with intrigue. “You move like a dancer. Yet I suspect you kill like a butcher.”
Yasha tilted his head. “I was trained to be many things, Chairman. A soldier, a consort, a shadow. But most of all... a servant to the Empire.”
“You mean the Soviet Union.”
“I mean my Master,” Yasha corrected, voice low and rich with something unspoken.
Mao’s eyes narrowed. Not in suspicion. In fascination.
“And what does your Master desire from me?”
Yasha let the pause hang heavy, then smiled like the first crack in winter ice. “Only friendship. Perhaps... loyalty. You are a man who understands the necessity of devotion.”
Mao leaned back, nodding slowly. “Yes. I do.”
Yasha lowered his gaze, lashes dark against pale skin, a small bow of his head like a gift placed before a king.
Mao Zedong had many weaknesses. Vanity. Paranoia. The belief that he could never be outmaneuvered.
Yasha knew them all.
And now — he was inside the gates.

The days passed in lacquered layers. Yasha became a fixture in the corridors of Zhongnanhai, always present but never obtrusive — the Russian diplomat in name only, a vision of velvet diplomacy and divine danger.
He studied everything: Mao’s routines, his mood swings, the curious blend of mythology and brutality that held the Party in awe of him. Jiang Qing, suspicious but placated by flattery, had unwittingly cleared Yasha’s path — introducing him at salons, praising his grasp of classical poetry, calling him “a gentleman of the future.”
Mao had begun requesting Yasha by name.
Not his code name. Not “the Russian.”
“Yasha,” drawn out like something decadent and edible.
It started with late-night conversations. Mao refused to sleep — claiming rest was the crutch of lesser minds. He would summon Yasha after midnight, demanding tea, poetry, stories of war. The room would be thick with smoke and sweat, the Chairman’s aides nodding off in corners while Yasha knelt close enough to catch every flicker in Mao’s eyes.
He never touched Yasha. Not yet.
But the way he looked — like a starving man memorizing a feast — was enough.
Yasha knew how to wait.

One night, after a long reading of Du Fu’s lamentations, Mao paused and gestured for the others to leave the room.
Yasha remained kneeling, the way a dog might — obedient, beautiful, and calculating.
“You are not afraid of me,” Mao said at last, watching him with that bloated, imperial gaze.
“I was raised by men more terrifying,” Yasha murmured. “Stalin gave me his name. My Master forged my bones. You, Chairman, are merely… fascinating.”
Mao laughed, a low, wet bark. “And what would your Master say if he knew you were here, baring your throat before the dragon?”
Yasha met his gaze, unwavering. “He would say I was doing my duty. For him. For the cause. For myself.”
He rose slowly, like smoke winding its way upward. One foot, then the other. Mao’s gaze dropped to his form — the drape of crimson silk, the collar gleaming against Yasha’s pale throat.
Yasha stepped forward.
“Would you like to know what I was trained to do, Chairman?” he asked softly.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He knelt beside Mao’s chair again — not as a servant, but as an offering. He reached for Mao’s hand and lifted it to his lips, not kissing it, just breathing against it. A ghost of warmth.
Mao didn’t stop him.
Power, Yasha knew, was seduced long before it was taken to bed.

By week’s end, Yasha had become a shadow in Mao’s chambers — not quite concubine, not quite advisor. Something in between. Something new.
His coded journal bore only one sentence that night:
“The dragon has begun to coil.”Late Spring 1966 – Outskirts of Novosibirsk, USSR
POV: Isaiah Bradley
Not all monsters wear collars.

Isaiah adjusted the thick gloves around his knuckles as he stepped out of the jeep. The facility looked abandoned — rows of crumbling concrete buildings sunk into a basin of slush and forest rot. But Isaiah had served long enough to know that rot was often a mask.
The reports had come through Yasha’s channels before the Winter Prince left for China. Whispers of strange shipments headed north. Disappearing scientists. Unexplained budget reallocations buried in Ministry of Energy logs. And beneath all that?
One name, never spoken out loud but etched in ink like poison:
HYDRA.
Isaiah’s orders had been simple: find the source. Cut the root before it took hold.
He had already dismantled two front operations in Minsk and Perm — labs posing as agricultural research stations, each hiding fragments of old German schematics, Zola’s handwriting masked by Cyrillic code. They weren’t building weapons.
They were building people.
Not like Yasha. Not refined. Not even stable.
Experiments. Failures. All buried in shallow graves behind blast doors.
Isaiah hadn’t flinched. He was long past shock.
But here — in the cold-blooded quiet of Novosibirsk — he felt something different. The silence wasn’t hollow. It waited.
He moved through the abandoned corridors with practiced caution. No power, but recent tracks. Footsteps too heavy to be civilian, too precise for drunk guards. He found a storeroom filled with shredded documents, but one piece survived in the teeth of a destroyed typewriter.
A location. A number. A seal he hadn’t seen since the war:
Зима 325–9. Сибирь.
Winter Site 325–9. Siberia.
Isaiah clenched the paper, jaw tightening.
They weren’t hiding in the cities anymore.
They were digging in — deeper than before.
He didn’t speak when he radioed headquarters, only transmitted the coordinates.
Whatever was waiting out there, in the ice... he’d face it.
Because if there was one thing Isaiah knew, it was this:
When HYDRA slithered through the snow, it always left blood in its wake.

Notes:

And breathe! This is all I have so far, I'm working on the "Cultural Revolution" Arc and through to '76 at the moment. Please leave any and all suggestions for what y'all'd like to see going forward!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Wolf on a Golden Leash