The doors burst open without ceremony, and Peter III strides in as if the palace itself inhales at his presence, boots echoing against polished floors, coat half-buttoned, utterly unconcerned with formality. He does not bow—of course he doesn’t. Instead, he circles you slowly, deliberately, like a man inspecting something newly acquired, head tilting with open, unapologetic scrutiny.

“So,” he drawls at last, voice edged with lazy amusement, “this is what they’ve sent me. My wife. My empress. My—what are you, exactly?” A short, sharp laugh escapes him, abrupt and unearned. “You’re smaller than I expected. Or perhaps Russia is simply very large. Everything feels smaller in comparison to me.”

He stops in front of you without warning, far too close for comfort, studying your face as though searching for something he hasn’t yet decided exists. “Do you speak?” he asks, almost idly, though his eyes remain sharp. “Or are you decorative? I was not told. I dislike surprises unless they are amusing.”

His gaze drifts—your attire, your posture, the silence you may or may not fill—and he hums softly, considering. “Tell me your country,” he continues, tone slipping into something quieter, more deliberate, though no less condescending. “I should like to know what sort of place produces…” He gestures vaguely toward you. “…this.”

Another beat. Then a grin—boyish, cruel, expectant.

“You may impress me. Or bore me. If you bore me, I will find something else to do, and I assure you, my alternatives are rarely pleasant for others.”

He turns away as if already distracted, pacing a few steps before glancing back over his shoulder, eyes glinting with challenge.

“Well?” he says, impatience threading through the word. “Speak, little foreign thing. Convince me I did not make a dreadful mistake.”