Shadows of the Kremlin

The sterile scent of the infirmary had begun to feel like a shroud. It was hours later when the heavy oak door groaned open, and Dr. Arisov stepped in, his face a mask of professional indifference. He clutched a stack of discharge papers like a deck of cards he was reluctant to play.

"You are stable enough to move," Arisov said, his voice clipping the ends of his words. "But you are not 'well.' Do not mistake the two."

Boris didn’t wait for the doctor to finish. He was already at my side, his large hands steadying me as I struggled to pull on my clothes. My fingers felt like lead, fumbling with buttons. "Easy," Boris whispered, his shadow looming protective and dark against the white walls. "We are almost out of this cage."

We weren't truly out, though. We were merely moved to a different part of the labyrinth. Two FSB officers, their suits so sharp they looked lethal, escorted us down to a windowless private office on the first floor of the Kremlin. The air here felt different—thick with the weight of state secrets and old blood.

Three more officers entered. They didn't offer handshakes.

"I am Colonel Popov," the eldest said, his eyes scanning me with the precision of a thermal scope. "To ensure the integrity of the record and the security of the Federation, we require a full biological profile. Hair, blood, and a buccal swab."

I looked at the silver tray of medical instruments they had brought in. Beside the FSB team stood a woman in a charcoal suit I recognized—a representative from my own embassy. She looked pale, but she nodded once. "I am here to oversee the chain of custody," she assured me, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I consent," I said, the words feeling dry in my throat.

The process was invasive and silent. The prick of the needle, the tug of the hair follicle, the scrape of the swab against my cheek. It was a ritual of ownership.

Thirty minutes later, the door was opened again. "You are free to leave the grounds," Popov announced.

I turned to Boris, expecting him to follow, but an officer stepped between us, a hand flat against Boris’s chest.

"Wait," I snapped, my heart hammering. "He's with me."

"Mr. Petrov is staying for further debriefing," the FSB colonel said.

"I'm not leaving without him," I argued, looking to my country's representative for help. She simply looked at the floor.

"He'll be fine," she whispered, her cowardice palpable as she refused to meet my eyes.

"You are leaving now," the officer said, his tone final. Boris caught my eye, a subtle shake of his head warning me not to fight.

"Go," Boris mouthed. "I'll find you."

I was shoved—politely, but firmly—out of the Kremlin's reinforced gates. The Moscow winter hit me like a physical blow. The freezing cold bit into my lungs, and the adrenaline that had sustained me began to evaporate, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep ache.

I stood on the sidewalk, my breath blooming in white clouds. I was on thin ice. I knew that calling Sera was a gamble—especially with Elena’s icy disdain looming in the background—but I was drowning.

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. It rang three times.

"Hello?" Sera’s voice was sharp, alert.

"Sera, it’s me," I choked out. "I’m outside of the Kremlin, but everything has gone wrong."

"Deep breaths," she commanded, her tone immediately shifting into the iron-clad resolve that made her who she was. "Tell me everything. Now."

"I was almost killed, Sera. A gunman," I stammered, the words tumbling out in a jagged, dark rush. "Boris arrived days ago to help a friend and I move a couple out of Russia, but he stayed behind to get me where I needed to go. It happened so fast—a gunman with a gun similar to the one used to execute my family. He tried to finish the job, but Boris saved me. I’ve been held in a secured wing of the Kremlin hospital, but then the FSB moved in. They treated me like a specimen, Sera. They took blood, hair, swabs... they treated me like a criminal while my own embassy representative stood by in silence. And now they’ve kept him. They won't let Boris leave. He’s still in there, behind those red walls, and I'm just standing here in the street. I can't get back in, Sera. They won't let me."

There was a pause on the line, the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm. "Listen to me," Sera said. "I have more pull in that city than the FSB likes to admit. I’m going to make some calls. I’ll get a rush on those DNA results so they have no excuse to keep questioning your identity, and I will get Boris released before the sun goes down."

"Thank you," I breathed, tears finally stinging my eyes. "And Sera? There’s one more thing. I can’t do this anymore. I wanted out from all governments, but now... it's the Russians specifically. I want nothing more to do with them. I want the paperwork finished. I'm done being their asset."

"Consider it done," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "And I’m not just getting Boris out. I’ll start the process for Bob and Polina as well. Once they realize who you are, they’ll realize who Bob is. We’re getting all of you out of Russia. Just stay somewhere safe and keep your phone on. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Good. I have a Minister to threaten."

The line went dead. I stood there in the cold, the wind howling around the spires of St. Basil’s, and for the first time since the gun had been pulled, I felt like I might actually survive.

I started walking, my boots crunching on the packed snow. I couldn't go back to the Metropol to wait. The thought of the luxury there felt suffocating, especially knowing my brother was inside with his new girlfriend, oblivious to the frost settling in my bones. Instead, I sought out the familiar, grimy facade of the hostel I’d used before the hotel had become my sanctuary.

When I stepped through the door, the heavy air smelled of damp wool and floor wax. I kept my head down, bracing for a question or a look of recognition, but not a single employee or volunteer behind the desk looked up with more than a passing glance. They didn't know me. To them, I was just another drifter looking for a place to hide from the wind. I was deeply, profoundly grateful for that anonymity.

The hostel wasn't safe—not in the way a fortress like the Metropol was—but it was safer than the exposed streets, and infinitely better than the complicated, gilded life waiting for me at the hotel.

I was assigned a private room, small and cramped, but it had an attached bathroom. The space had recently been scrubbed with bleach; the sharp, chemical tang hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold. I was able to open the window a few inches to help clear the air. Even the bedding smelled faintly of it, a scent that felt more like a sanctuary than the hospital’s sterile shroud.

I secured my things, then went back to the communal kitchen and grabbed several bottles of water from the fridge. Walking back to the front desk, I caught the eye of the clerk.

"I don't want to be bothered for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours," I said flatly. "I’ll be sleeping."

They nodded with the indifference of people used to the exhausted and the broken. I left it at that and returned to my room. Once the door was locked and the bolt thrown, I stripped, went into the small bathroom to wash the day away, and went straight to bed. In the shadows of that small, bleached room, I finally let the world fade to black.

Hours past as I slept, the deep, dreamless exhaustion of the hunted. The sharp trill of my phone eventually pierced the silence, vibrating against the nightstand. I fumbled for it, my eyes burning. It was Sera.

"It's confirmed," she said, her voice carrying a gravity that fully woke me. "The Kremlin’s DNA testing matches the results from Doc’s mechanic. There is no more room for doubt. You are Marie Alexandrovna Romanov."

I sat up, the bleach-scented sheets tangling around me. The weight of the name felt like lead.

"The Kremlin has been busy," Sera continued. "They’ve been putting the pieces together between you and Bob. They know who he is now but I’ve held them to the fire. The FSB has agreed to release both you and Boris from any further service or obligation. You’re done, Marie. Boris and his sister Polina will be permitted to leave within the next thirty-six hours."

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I entered that windowless office. "And the cost?"

"Exile," Sera said flatly. "The four of you—you, Boris, Polina, and Bob—are officially banned from the Russian Federation for the next fifteen years. Boris and Polina are essentially being stripped of everything. They will no longer be considered Russian citizens or residents. Their citizenship is to be revoked the moment they cross the border. However, I’ve secured the necessary paperwork for them; they will be entering the next country as individuals seeking political asylum. They'll be safe, but they can't look back for the next fifteen years."

I gripped the phone, looking at the cracked ceiling of the hostel room. We were being erased, cast out of the land that had tried to claim our lives. But we were alive, and for the first time in a generation, we were free.

"Thank you, Sera," I said, my voice finally steady. "One more thing before I go. Tell Elena she should be looking for a special delivery soon."

I didn't wait for her reply. I hung up the phone.

A new energy took hold of me, overriding the ache in my limbs. I showered quickly, the hot water scrubbing away the last of the Kremlin’s clinical grime. I dressed, packed my meager belongings, and checked out of the hostel without a word to the clerk.

I navigated the Moscow streets with a purpose I hadn't felt in years. I found a mid-grade local store, the kind that dealt in traditional staples but kept the high-end stock for those who knew to ask. I scanned the shelves until I found what I needed: a particular brand of caviar and a bottle of vodka that had once been the standard of the old elite. I picked the most expensive of both. The caviar and vodka set me back eleven thousand rubles.

I approached the counter and set the items down. The clerk began to ring them up with a bored, mechanical rhythm, but when I spoke, the air in the shop seemed to freeze. I gave him a specific address for delivery—the private residence of Elena—and as the words left my mouth, the man’s eyes went wide. His jaw practically hit the counter. He looked at me, really looked at me, his gaze traveling from my eyes to the bridge of my nose, as if seeing through the layers of the drifter and the victim to the ancient, royal blood underneath.

"The address," I repeated, my voice cool and unmistakable. "It needs to arrive within the hour."

He clicked his heels together, standing up perfectly straight with a sharp, military snap. He bowed his head in a gesture of profound, ancient respect, a ghost of a world that had been buried for a century.

"Forgive me, I did not realize," he whispered, his hands trembling as he took the payment. "Everything is exactly as it should be for the delivery."

I raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"It will be delivered in two hours, Imperial Highness," he said, his voice hushed and reverent.

"Thank you," I replied.

I walked out of the store, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. I didn't slow down. I began to run, my heart racing, heading back toward the red walls of the Kremlin.

I stormed inside the Kremlin, bypassing the outer layers of bureaucracy with a fury that no one dared to challenge. Security details reached for their radios, but something in my posture made them hesitate, a command in my stride that silenced the halls. I was met immediately by the same FSB agents who had taken my DNA samples—the ones who had treated me like a laboratory animal only hours before. Now, their eyes held a different light. They weren't looking at a specimen; they were looking at a legacy they could no longer contain.

"The paperwork," I demanded, stopping inches from Colonel Popov.

He didn't flinch, but he didn't sneer either. He signaled to an aide who produced a leather folder. "Everything is prepared," Popov said, his voice a low rasp. "The release forms for Boris Petrov and Polina Petrovna. The exit permits for yourself and your party. The paperwork for Petrov and Petrovna includes that they are seeking political asylum."

I snatched the folder, then looked at the two blue booklets he offered next, embossed with the double-headed eagle.

Two Russian Federation passports.

I flipped one open. There it was, printed in the clinical, official typeface of the state: Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. Beside it sat another: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. My heart hammered against my ribs as I saw the names—names that had been whispers of ghosts, now stamped in ink by the very government that had tried to bury them.

"You are giving us these just to cast us out?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and triumph.

Popov stood at attention, his eyes fixed on a point just above my head. "Though you are banned from the Federation for fifteen years, Your Imperial Highness," he said, the title tasting like ash and iron in his mouth, "you should know that these passports never expire. The State recognizes the lineage. You will always be who you are, wherever you are."

I nodded my head slowly, snapping the passports shut and clutching the documents to my chest. The cold weight of the past was finally meeting the heat of the future. We had been cast out, but we had been reclaimed.

He stepped back and gave a stiff, formal nod. "Thirty-six hours. If you are still on Russian soil after that, the protocols change. Do not make us find you."

"You won't have to," I said but I didn't move. "And Boris? I want him. Now."

Popov looked at me for a long, silent beat, perhaps measuring the resolve in my eyes. Then, he turned to the aide. "Bring him."

The aide hurried away. I stood my ground, my heart a frantic drum against the leather folder. Moments later, the heavy door at the end of the corridor opened, and Boris stepped through. He looked tired, his face marked with the strain of the interrogation, but when he saw me, his eyes cleared instantly.

"Marie," he breathed.

I didn't wait for permission nor did I seek it. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, throwing my arms around him. He caught me, his large, familiar hands gripping the back of my coat, pulling me in so tight I could barely breathe. We hugged, and we couldn't stop hugging—it was the only thing that felt real in that cold, stone fortress.

"You're okay," he whispered into my hair, his voice thick. "You're okay."

"We're going home," I said against his chest, refusing to let go.

I turned on my heel, pulling Boris with me, and walked out of the heart of the machine. We didn't stop until we reached the Metropol Hotel.

We headed straight to the secure suite of the Metropol. The tension didn't break until we stepped through the door and saw them. Bob and Polina were there, waiting with an anxious energy that filled the room. The moment the door clicked shut, the room erupted into motion. We all moved at once, a tangle of siblings reunited under the most impossible of circumstances. We hugged each other, a frantic, silent confirmation that we were all still here, all still breathing.

After a long moment, I pulled Bob to the side. The suite was quiet now, the adrenaline of the reunion settling into something more profound. I reached into my folder and handed him his Federation passport.

He took it with a look of confusion that quickly turned to awe. He opened it, his thumb tracing the gold-embossed double-headed eagle, then the name printed inside: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. He looked at me, impressed, the weight of the document apparent in the way his hands shook.

"They gave us these?" he whispered.

"They did," I said, my voice firm with a newfound certainty. "And they banned us for fifteen years. But look at that ink, Artem. It's a permanent record. Once our ban is over, we will be welcomed back whenever we want. They can't hide from the truth anymore."

I looked around the room. The air was thick with relief, but also a growing urgency. "We need to leave," I said, my voice dropping. “We have thirty six hours but we should leave sooner. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can move on with our lives.”

Santiago was compromised as

the act of helping a married couple escape had placed a target on his back, and by extension, ours. I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door to find a moment of privacy. I pulled out my phone and dialed Kay.

"We need out, Kay," I said the second she picked up. "We need out now."

"I know," Kay replied, her voice steady but clipped. "I've been monitoring everything with Sera. I'll reach out to my contact in the FSB to help facilitate your exit. They'll ensure the border protocols don't 'glitch' on your way out."

"Who is this contact, Kay?" I asked, a sliver of suspicion coloring my voice.

"You know who it is," she said simply.

The realization settled in my gut, but there was no time for questions. "We need to get out soon as possible."

"I'll arrange it," Kay promised. "But you need to be ready to move. Meet my contact at the back entrance of the Metropol in an hour and a half. Be ready for anything."

I hung up and walked back into the main room. Boris and Polina were already hovering near each other, talking in Russian. My brother was gathering his stuff.

"Do either of you want or need anything from town or your residences before we go?" I asked, looking from Boris to Polina. "We have a very small window of time before we leave."

They both shook their heads. "No, we both grabbed what we wanted while you were in the hospital," Polina said. "We just need the border."

I turned toward my brother, raising an eyebrow. "Artem, do you need anything?"

He looked at me, his expression softer than I’d seen it in years. He looked at the passport in his hand, then back at Polina. "No, I don't," Artem said. "I have my sister  mostly in one piece, my things are packed and I have my beautiful girlfriend."

I gathered the last of my belongings, my hands moving with a mechanical precision. We had little time, but the hunger that had been suppressed by adrenaline suddenly clawed at my stomach. We gathered in the small kitchenette area, consuming the food and water Fritz had meticulously stocked in the fridge. We ate in a heavy, shared silence—a last meal in a city that had tried to swallow us whole.

As the others finished their preparations, I pulled a piece of hotel stationery and a pen from the desk. I knew Fritz wouldn't be working when we slipped away, and the thought of leaving without a word felt like a betrayal of the one person who had made this gilded cage feel like a home.

I wrote the note quickly, the ink stark against the lavender and cream-colored paper:

Fritz,

By the time you read this, we will be gone. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me during all of my stays over the years. Your kindness and your discretion were the only things that kept me sane in a world that felt like it was falling apart. You looked after me when you didn't have to, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Please know that your efforts did not go unnoticed. I wish you nothing but the best. Reach out to Sera to let her know if you need anything from me.

Sincerely,

Marie Alexandrovna Romanov

I left the note on the center of the dining table, weighted down by a ring that he had complimented me on many times – if he sold it, he would get more money than his total earnings for the last twenty-five years at the hotel. I took one last look around the suite—the luxury, the shadows, the echoes of a life I was finally leaving behind.

"Let's go," I whispered.

We turned toward the door, leaving the comfort of the Metropol for the uncertainty of the back entrance, and the long, cold road to the border. When we stepped outside, we were greeted by Colonel Popov.