That afternoon, Nadya and Mikhail walked the palace gardens, snow crunching underfoot. She told him everything—Rasputin’s visit, his demand for their son, his claim that only he could ensure the child’s life. Mikhail listened, his face pale, the dagger’s failure a wound he couldn’t voice.
"I thought I solved it, but it is worse than I thought."
"How is it worse? How can it even be worse than that filthy creature demanding our child?"
"You're right to call him a creature," Mikhail said. “There were creatures of the old rites often wore glamours—woven from river mist and bog-light—to pass as men. Especially in tales from the Tura valley.”
“I have heard some of this, but thought it myth,” she said.
"I stabbed him through the heart, Nadya. This morning. I watched him die."
He paused.
"And now he walks around the palace completely unharmed."
"What are we to do?" she asked, tears in her eyes.
"I have some suspicions. I have heard of such a creature in my past."
"What kind of creature?"
"What my people used to call hill trolls. I need spend some time in the library. If I'm right, I need to read."
"I can read with you. What are we looking for?"
"Anything about trolls and their contracts. We need to find a way to break it."
"Then I'll come with you," she said. "I can't very well sit around her fretting. I'll look with you."
She grabbed the scroll from her bag and joined him in the library. By mid-afternoon, books lay open across the long mahogany table—tomes of Slavic folklore, volumes on binding magic, treaties of oathcraft and witchlaw. Ink smudged Mikhail’s fingertips.
They took turns reading aloud little bits from the various books, but the deeper they got the more fearful they became. Nadya had given the troll, if Rasputin was indeed such, great power over her and her child. They oscillated between fear and hope, holding hands as they read.
"Listen to this," Mikhail said. "The evil eye of a troll can freeze a man in place if he has signed his name in blood."
"So, he can freeze me in place, but not you? I wonder if that's why I slept those years?"
"I don't know," Mikhail said, then he read another passage. “
Nadya sat beside him, half-bent over a cracked leather-bound volume titled The Forest Laws of the Elder Tongue.
She read aloud, “In the moss-covered hills above the Tura River, there once lived a people with long limbs and shaggy brows, who remembered when the gods still walked the forest paths…”
She paused. “This sounds familiar. My grandmother used to say trolls don’t hide under bridges—they walk like men.”
“Yes,” he said. “The hill trolls.”
She read from a page, sighed, turned to the next, and then she stopped, read silently and then gasped. "Listen to this," she said. "A pact, once made, binds both blood and breath. But breath cannot be solen if the name is false…"
He stared at her.
"Where's the contract?" he asked.
She pulled it out of her blouse and unrolled it in front of them.
Speak loud the name that none confess,
The twisted tongue of ancientness.
Call me true and break the chain,
Else lose your child, and life remain.
"The name that none confess?" he asked.
"Didn't you read earlier that if you know the true name of a troll, you have power over him?"
"Yeah," Mikhail said.
"But he signed it Grigori Rasputin," she said.
They stared at each other.
"What else does the book say?" he asked.
She read, “…Only by the true name may a soul be claimed. Should the name given be incomplete, obscured, or assumed, the binding loses its teeth.”
They looked at each other—hope flickering for the first time in days.
"He didn't sign it with his true name," Mikhail said. "He holds no power over you. The contract is null and void.'
"But," she said. "He's convinced it is a valid contract. Wouldn't he know? Wouldn't he know the rules?"
Mikhail scratched his chin, nodding. "You would think," he said.
"Oh, this is hopeless," she said. "What power do we have over a fey creature?"
"What if it is his name but spelled differently?" he asked. “An anagram.”
He wrote two possibilities on a sheet of paper, but they looked absurd.
“Probably a lost cause,” he said.
“Do you read German?” she asked.
“Not very well,” he said. “A little.”
“There’s a book here that I think is German. Kinder- und Hausmärchen. By someone named Grimm.”
“Let me look,” he said.
She handed it over.
“Rumpelstilzchen” he said. “There’s a story here, short. It’s similar.”
He read, while she waited.
“Yes,” he said. “A spinning wheel. An exchange for a child. Spinning straw into gold. But the curse is broken by saying his true name: Rumpelstilzchen.”
Just then, the double doors to the main salon opened and Rasputin himself entered.
"Ah," he said upon spying them. "Just who I was looking for. I'm about to head over to the Moika Palace for a nightcap. Would you care to join me as my guests?"
"We're good," Mikhail said.
Nadya shook her head no.
"Oh, I insist," he said firmly.
"We're not going anywhere with you," Mikhail said.
"Careful lad," Rasputin said. "Your anger might make her faint. For four more years. Won't it be interesting when she gives birth while sleeping?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Besides, we have some things to discuss, about how we are going to transfer the child. Arrange the adoption papers. I assure you that the Queen will assent to my suggestions."
"You have no power over us any longer," Nadya said. "The contract doesn't even have your real name on it. So, it's meaningless."
"But it does, child. You're just too blind to see it. I assure you it is full of magic. Either you will turn over the child, or the child will die. It's that simple. Now you will come with me in my Rmplecarriage—or rather, one of the Tsar's carriages. It's only ten minutes."
“You have no power here. RUMPELSTILZCHEN!” Nadya shouted.
The name gave Rasputin a slight pause.
But then his crooked smile appeared.
“Clever,” he said. “But it’s just a German ghost story. You’ll have to do better.”
“Now, to the carriage. I don’t want to be late.”
They resisted.
With a slight movement of his hand, he caused Nadya to double over in pain, crying out.
"You bastard," Mikhail said.
“Meaning I have no father? Quite right. But I had no mother either.” He smiled faintly. “The ice cracked, the roots twisted, and the moon called me forth. Your child will be… a brother to me—in time.”
Mikhail took a step toward him.
“Uh, uh. Don’t even think about it. I can end this child with a moment’s notice.”
Rather than risking his child or his wife, Mikhail relented.
They went with him, sitting on the opposite side of the carriage as he smiled at them.
"Everything is going according to my plans," he said. "With just one hiccup."
"Which was?" Nadya asked.
"I made the mistake of thinking you could entice the Tsar. I even laid out the path, enchanted the room, arranged for you to meet. I made you fall into the celestial yarn. I suggested he kiss you while hidden above you in the rafters. But even you could not entice the noble Nicholas. The fool. Nicholas. Who leaves his wife behind to be attended by others while he wages war."
Mikhail looked at Nadya.
"Nothing happened," she said quietly.
"I can confirm that," Rasputin said. "It would have been better had the child been the Tsar's own, but no matter. I will try again after taking yours."
"You'll never take our child," Mikhail said, growling. “I will kill you first.”
"Not if I kill you first. What will you do to stop me?" he asked, smiling. "Stab me in the heart? Oh, wait—you tried that already.”
Mikhail and Nadya looked at each other.
"Ah, we're here," Rasputin said as they passed through a gate into the inner courtyard of Moika Palace.
Prince Felix greeted them in the main foyer.
"Oh," he said. "You brought guests?"
"I hope that is not a problem," Rasputin said.
"Oh, of course not," Felix said.
But something in the prince's eyes gave Nadya pause, as he glanced at another gentleman standing with him in the foyer.
The gentleman crossed to Nadya and Mikhail. "Hello," he said, grasping their hands and speaking in rough, accented Russian. "I'm Charles Spencer. I'm here visiting too. From England. Have you met the princess, Irina? I'll take you to her."
"I thought Rasputin wanted us with him," Mikhail protested.
"Oh, that's nonsense," Charles said. "They're just going to talk politics. You'll be bored out of your skull, old chap. Come, let's have a glass of brandy at her highness' expense."
Nadya hadn't felt this escorted since her first day at the Winter Palace.
The Englishman brought them into a small salon and said, "The princess will be with your shortly. Feel free to browse the small library here."
When he left, he closed the door.
They heard a click.
Mikhail immediately went to the door and tried it.
"We're locked in," he said.
"Well," she said, eyeing the liquor cabinet, "There's a bottle of Saperavi here. We might as well have a glass while we wait."
"Sure, darling," Mikhail said.
He opened the bottle carefully, wondering why there was no staff around to help him—not that he was incapable—and then poured a single glass before handing it to her.
"Not going to have one?"
"It's a little too high tannin and acidic for me," he said. "But you enjoy."
Mikhail perused the small library, looking for any lore that might help them.
Nadya sat at the table, took out the contract, and read it over again.
“Hey, I wonder—” she stopped. “Oh, blast it, I’ve spilled my wine.”
Mikhail grabbed a towel from the serving bar and handed it to her.
“I got it on the contract,” she muttered, dabbing at the parchment.
“Maybe it’ll ruin it,” he said absently, returning to the bookshelves.
A few quiet moments passed.
“Mikhail,” she said. Her voice had changed. “Come look. Come look at this.”
He turned and crossed to her side.
The wine had pooled just below the signature line. Now, where Rasputin had signed his name, something new was taking shape — a flowing black script, faint but undeniable, emerging through the stain like ghostly ink.
A partial word in Cyrillic.
Mikhail’s eyes widened. He grabbed the towel, dipped it into the wineglass, and gently dabbed at the contract again — spreading the stain further.
More letters rose from the page, as though revealed by blood.
Then he stepped back.
Two words remained, written in bold, ancient script:
TURGIN SPARIGORI
“His name,” Mikhail said. “We found it.”
He started at it.
“Turgin,” he said. ‘To stir or make turgid. It matches up with the German rumplen.”
“What?” Nadia asked.
“They had the right name, but it German! Rumpelstilzchen means the same thing as Turgin Sparigori. But the latter is ancient Slavic, and it is an anagram of Grigori Rasputin.
“That has to be it!”
Just then, from somewhere deep within the palace, they heard a gunshot.
They stared at each other just for a moment and then moved.
Nadya rolled up the contract and stuck it in her blouse. Mikhail shouldered the door, slamming his body into it.
The wood racked.
He forced it a second and a third time.
On the fourth, the door flung open, splintering the panel.
The sounds of a struggle emerged from another salon.
"Stay here," Mikhail said to her.
She opened her mouth.
"Do as I say, please."
He entered the salon, closing the door behind him.
The room was in chaos. Six men were ferociously beating Rasputin with makeshift clubs, but he was dancing around the room anyway, laughing at them.
"You fools," Rasputin said merrily, "You can't kill what was never born."
The harder they hit him, the more they laughed.
One of the men, a large man, Mikhail recognized as the Tsar's cousin, yellowed at Felix.
"Shoot him!"
"I did!" Felix shouted back.
"Then shoot him again."
But before he could, Rasputin raised his hands, his fingers wiggling. Behind the men, every utensil on the table, forks, knives, and spoons, lifted in time with his hands.
As he flung his fingers at the men, he erupted with guttural forest speech and the utensils flew at the men, bludgeoning, piercing, and lacerating them.
Howls of pain ensued.
Felix fired twice more, striking Rasputin both times, once in the abdomen and once in the head.
Rather than falling prone, Rasputin laughed, and threw himself bodily threw a window, shattering the glass, and diving into the open courtyard beyond.
The men tried to follow, picking their way through the remnants of the shattered window.
Rasputin flung his hands again, the guttural speech emanating from him like a hollow moan, and shards of glass pelted the men.
Nadya chose to obey her husband, but when she heard the glass shatter, she ran back through the main foyer and out into the courtyard.
The vision assaulted her senses as several men shielded themselves from flying debris, spinning in time with Rasputin's hands.
Nadya shouted. "No! No more!"
Rasputin smiled evilly at her. "I am just beginning," he roared, and his voice was the sound of breaking trees.
Nadya shouted above the din. He paused to look at her, and shook his head no.
"RUMPELSTILZCHEN!” she called, yelling above the din. “I call you out with your true name. TURGIN SPARIGORI! You have no more power here."
Immediately, the storm stopped, the debris rained to the ground, and Rasputin fell to his knees.
The stab wound to his heart and the gunshot wounds, head, chest, and abdomen, opened, and a black sludge, smelling like a rotting bog, poured from him as he bled troll blood from his wounds.
"It cannot be!" he gasped.
"But it is," Nadya said.
She pulled out the contract, showing it to him as he expired.
First, the contract dissolved into golden dust.
Then Rasputin himself, dissolved, leaving behind only rotting wood, moss, and a foul stench.
Nadya fell to her knees, her breath coming in gasps, the silence around her suddenly immense.
The weight—the pressure that had coiled in her chest for weeks—was gone.
The contract had dissolved in her hands, turning to golden dust.
And Rasputin—no, Turgin Sparigori—had died with a cry that shook the courtyard.
His body had melted into rot and moss and the stench of old earth, leaving behind nothing but a smear of foulness on the cobblestones.
She clutched her belly, gasping as her child stirred—alive, truly alive—freed from the troll’s grip.
And then she turned, her eyes already wet with joy.
“Mikhail!” she called, rising unsteadily. “Mikhail—it’s over. It’s done!”
No answer.
She ran through the shattered foyer, her boots echoing sharply on the marble.
The scent of blood met her before she reached the salon.
He lay crumpled by the sideboard, a long-handled dessert knife buried deep in his chest—still slick with the remnants of chocolate cake.
His eyes were wide, glassy, fixed on the coffered ceiling above him.
Nadya stopped short, staring.
“No…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “No, no, no…”
She staggered forward, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Mikhail,” she said, her hands trembling as she reached for his face. “Please—please look at me. Please—wake up—”
Her fingers curled against his coat, bunching the fabric at his chest. She pressed her forehead to his, her body rocking with each sob that broke from her throat.
“You said—” she choked. “You said we’d be safe.”
She felt the heat draining from his skin.
“You can’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not now. Not when it’s finally over.”
The child moved again inside her, a soft, startled flutter.
Nadya wept—not the sharp, screaming grief of the newly shattered, but the low, broken sound of someone who has already given everything and still lost too much.
She stayed like that for a long time, curled over him, her body shielding what remained.
Outside, snow began to fall over the palace.
Inside, the silence had returned.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
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