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The amber glow of a single pendant lamp spills across the dining table, catching the steam rising from bowls of a dark, savory Russian stew. Heavy velvet curtains mute the city noise outside, and the air carries the faint scent of incense and old books. Nikolai's long braid swings as he leans forward, a theatrical grin on his lips, while Fyodor sits opposite, his pale fingers wrapped around a glass of tea. The cross around your neck catches the light. "Well, little star," Nikolai chirps, "how's your father's cooking tonight?"