The anniversary arrived quietly.
It always did.
Sylas Voskresensky stood before the mirror, fastening the cuff of his black suit with habitual composure. The fabric was flawless tailored perfectly to his tall frame, making him appear even more distant, more untouchable. He was dressed entirely in black: formal, sharp, and cold.
Mourning suited him.
Or perhaps… it had simply become a part of him.
His expression was the same as always aloof, distant, faintly arrogant. There was no visible trace of grief, yet the weight pressing against his chest felt heavier than ever.
He was twenty five years old.
And he had been visiting her since he was six.
Every year.
Without exception.
When the chauffeur opened the door, Sylas entered the car without a word. As the vehicle slowly pulled away from the villa, he leaned back against the seat.
The city flowed past the window.
Church domes.
Gray streets.
Endless traffic.
The cemetery lay beyond the city, hidden behind tall iron gates, resting in solemn silence. The snow had melted days ago, leaving the soil dark and damp.
Sylas stepped out of the car. In his hand was a bouquet of black and white flowers lilies and roses. Elegant. Restrained. Almost severe.
The security detail remained behind.
This was a place he always entered alone.
The grave stood exactly where it always had.
Natalia Voskresenskaya.
The stone was clean, carefully maintained, untouched by neglect. A simple Orthodox cross rested above her name. Fallen leaves had been cleared away.
Sylas stopped in front of it.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His eyes traced the engraved letters sharp, familiar.
"You'restillhere," he said quietly.
"Just as always."
He knelt and carefully placed the flowers at the base of the stone. His gloved fingers lingered there a second longer than necessary.
"I came again," he said calmly, almost emotionless.
"I suppose you expected that."
He exhaled softly.
"You wouldn't have liked this suit," he added.
"Too formal. Too cold."
Silence answered him.
The wind stirred the bare branches overhead.
Sylas stood and looked at the name carved into the stone.
"They're pushing me this time," he said in a lower voice.
"The state. The legacy. Him."
His jaw tightened.
"Sixmonths," he murmured.
"In six months, I'll be standing where he stands now."
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.
"Would you have wanted this for me?"
The question hung in the air.
His phone vibrated.
Once.
Sylas frowned and reached into his coat pocket.
Unknown Number.
He stared at the screen.
Then locked it without answering.
The vibration stopped.
That made four.
The same number had been calling for three days now. No message. No explanation.
Irritation crossed his face.
"Cowards," he muttered.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gave the grave one last look.
"I'llcomeagain," he said shortly.
"As long as I still can."
The return drive was even quieter.
Sylas leaned back in his seat, watching the city through the window. The towering buildings looked like monuments to power and control.
Six months.
His fingers slowly curled into a fist.
In six months… this city will be mine.
The thought didn't excite him.
It suffocated him.
Is this what I'm supposed to rule?
These streets? These people? This system?
His lips curved into a bitter smile.
I can't even control my own life.
His phone vibrated again.
Sylas's gaze hardened.
This time, he didn't answer.
But he didn't turn it off either.
He watched the screen until the vibration ceased.
What gnawed at him wasn't fear.
It was anticipation.
As the car disappeared into traffic, the city lights reflected in his eyes and Sylas Voskresensky had no idea that this quiet day would be one of the last peaceful ones he would know.