Author's note: This is actually an older story I've been playing about with for some time. I suppose that submitting it will work to stop me tinkering with it endlessly.
Just a few quick notes: Russian names as they appear in this story have three parts: a given name, a patronymic derived from the father's name and a family name.
Likewise, the given name often has two forms. The regular form and a shortened form used amongst friends or informally. Hence Nataliya and Natasha.
Although there is the Kremlin in Moscow. The word kremlin means fortress or castle and in this story is used generically like that.
Thanks
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Chaos.
That was all she could think as she saw the crowd packing the banqueting hall.
A maelstrom of noise and movement, a thousand different conversations all being held at the same time with absolutely no regard for their neighbours. People flowing around tables, stopping or starting seemingly at random - sitting down or standing up as whim took them. Through it all threaded masses of servants and slaves in the Stygian livery of House Azarov - black clad servitors guiding, cajoling, prompting. Even so, it was taking an age to get everyone seated - families pouring in through the great door following the backs of the people in front like sheep.
At the far end of the room, Nataliya noticed soldiers in Azarov livery discreetly positioned between the main throng and the high table. Two near a set of ebon double doors were actually wearing armour - the chitinous plates making them appear insectile and threatening. Intrigued now, Nataliya scanned the crowd. Sure enough, scattered around the periphery of the room, islands of stillness in the chaos, she spotted more soldiers - hard eyed and professional, weapons sheathed discreetly but present nevertheless. She didn't know if she was meant to feel reassured or intimidated.
Finally it seemed that the game of musical chairs was exhausting itself and Nataliya found herself sat next to her mother's slim shape and opposite the reassuring bulk of her father, his dark beard and sparkling blue eyes. They were seated close to the entrance doors - a lowly position, as befitted their status. Like most in the room, they wore uniform: the short military cut jackets in the colour of the ruling family faced with their own House insignia. Her family wore a white leaping wolf stitched to their breast but were not sufficiently senior for shoulder boards - or detailing in any colour but black. About her she picked out the insignia of myriad other families and, toward the head of the table: flashes of red, silver and, occasionally, gold as the more senior families gathered.
On the raised dais at the head of the room, the far end from her family, the high table stood empty, waiting.
Despite the chaos of the banquet it was obvious that the room could hold a far greater number than it currently accommodated - its vaulted ceilings giving the room a sense of space but also making the throng seem small, somehow insignificant. She couldn't help wondering if this was deliberate - some elaborate lesson to the Minor Families. The room was certainly a very real display of opulence: the pale ceiling richly decorated with frescoes, the walls covered with frighteningly expensive gilded carvings. As a demonstration of the wealth of House Azarov it was unsubtle but effective.
Gradually subtle changes in the timbre of the noise made Nataliya aware of rising anticipation in the room. No longer was the noise constant, it had taken on a punctured rhythm as people alternately gave their attention to the high table and to their neighbours. Her eyes drifted to the ebon doors at the far end - a new tension had entered the stance of the two armoured soldiers. Looks like waiting is coming to an end, she thought.
She was pulled back from her reverie by the feel of her mother's hand on her arm and, momentarily, looked her way - seeing her mother's mouth open to say something before events overtook them. As a result, she didn't see the ebon doors open and only realised what was happening when the massed guests rose to their feet with a roar of scraping chairs. She rose too, her mother's hand heavy on her arm.
Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch Azarov strode out at the head of his family: a tall, slim man, his hair dark and his beard neatly trimmed, his black uniform unadorned save for the golden dragon of House Azarov on his breast. On his arm was his wife, Ilsa, uniquely dressed in a white gown amidst the sea of black. And then his children led by Lord Prince Vasily Mikhailovich, the fair-haired heir apparent, and Princess Anna Mikhailovna, pretty with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Other members of the family followed them out, uniforms trimmed and striped with gold: the myriad brothers and sisters of House Azarov. But suddenly Nataliya didn't care about them.
He was walking at the back of the procession: tall, slim, skin the shade of rich honey, hair the colour of a raven's wing - just long enough to shadow his eyes and rest on his shoulders. He seemed to move with a natural grace that she found captivating - like a dancer. Chatting casually with the other Azarov family members he took a seat near the edge of the table. God, she thought, he was so beautiful.
The crowd slowly sank back into their seats and conversation resumed, but to Nataliya the room had ceased to exist - she struggled to even take her eyes from him.
"Natasha..." her mother said, her soft brown eyes touched with impatience.
"Sorry, what?" Nataliya realised she had missed something.
"Drink. Do you want wine?" her mother said.
"Um...yes, please. Sorry, I was distracted." She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way.
"Yes, I noticed," her mother gestured and the house slave filled her glass. "Nataliya Fyodorovna, pay attention, you might learn something."
"Yes, mother. I will."
"Good," she said, her eyes seeking out the source of Nataliya's distraction.
Slowly her mother's eyes narrowed. "That young man caught your eye, has he?"
Nataliya blushed, looking down. It was all the answer her mother needed.
"Do you know who he is?" her mother asked. "No, of course you don't, how could you? Nataliya... No, you don't need to know any more, just stay away from him, okay?"
"Mother, I'm eighteen - I'm not a child," she said, although she had to admit she did sound a little petulant. "Who is he?"
Her mother sighed. "I can see that if you don't know your curiosity will lead you astray. So... He is Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov. Bastard son of House Azarov and a very dangerous man indeed. He is a killer and a womaniser. Do you need to know more? Or is that enough for you to promise me you'll stay away from him?"
"Of course," she said, laughing, trying to shrug it off. "I promise."
But as soon as her mother turned to speak with the man next to her, she felt her eyes drift furtively back to the Lord Prince. He was chatting to his brother, making animated gestures with his wine glass. She noticed that he had fine hands, his fingers long and delicate where they held the glass. His face was sharply boned, his eyes exotic - a touch of an angle to them, she thought.
