Seven Witches

thirty-one

Vladimir;

Vladimir did not trust any of his officers or generals to be sent to Wallachia to sign his treaty. He did not trust that they won't cause any more ruckus in his name, did not trust them to paint the picture of Russia as a strong nation that held.

He had a few people in mind; prince Pyotr Bagration, Michael Andreas, and Mikhail Kutuzov. The three were noble men, however out of the three only the last was pure Russian.

Even when Mikhail repulsed him, he could not deny his huge contribution to the Russian throne, the battles he fought with Vladimir's father, and of course the people's love for him. He was a war hero and for that, the Tsar decided to choose him.

At least he was better than prince Pyotr who had the arrogance of five drunk men combined, and then the hatred of seven.

The Tsar wrote a letter to the officer, telling him that he is to head to Wallachia as soon as possible, and that when he is there he is to not disappoint him. He hoped he loved his life as much as he loved his food and cock, considering his large physique and unpleasant rumours of his affairs.

He signed his name at the end of the letter and placed it inside of an envelope, sealing it with golden wax and giving it to his servant boy to deliver it. Flipping through the papers and reports, a silver envelope caught his gaze.

It was a letter, from the British Empire, sealed from King George III. Carefully as to not mar the seal, the Tsar opened it. His eyes went over it, reading it once and then twice to make sure he was reading it correctly.

And he had hoped his eyes fooled him. The king was giving him one thousand men.

One thousand men.

His fucking marriage is worth one thousand men.

Vladimir threw the paper on the floor, crumbling it right before picking it back up. The king was mocking him, did he really think that one thousand men will be sufficient? Did he think the Tsar so stupid to accept?

He took out his pipe and lit it, placing the crumbled paper in his pocket as he headed out. He wore his anger like a man wore his knifes, hidden underneath their clothes, ready to be sheathed any moment.

The Tsar stood before Princess Eva's door, taking deep inhales through his pipe before stepping back to let the guards open the door for him. He could feel the shift in the room, especially as he did not knock, he didn't need to, he was the fucking Tsar.

"You can go back to home," he said calmly, throwing the letter at her feet. Her hair swayed as she flinched, shoulders rising. "You can go home to your coward of a father. Go tell him I called him a coward, or you know what would be better? Tell your eldest brother, the heir, tell him Tsar Vladimir sends his fucking greetings."

Her honey eyes widened, "What has happened?"

Vladimir rolled his sleeves, laughing and pausing only to smoke. "What happened is that your father does not have the balls to go against the French," he began. "What he doesn't know is that he can take all his men and fuck them in their asses, I'll win this war by myself, and if he decides to start his own war then I'll win that one too."

Eva scrambled away, collecting her skirt, face red with shame. "You leave today night," he stated, leaving her to pack.

Big words, he only had big words.

In truth, there was a big chance that he would lose, especially that he had just ended one war. He had little resources and even less motivation to give his men.

He remembered the crowd that came to greet him yesterday, how they saw a Tsar and not Vladimir, how he felt as powerful as they saw him. He wanted to be that man again. If only he could be that man again.