I may be kindly, I am ordinarily gentle, but in my line of

Host: The palace corridors echoed with the ghost of power — long marble halls, cold and resonant, lined with portraits whose eyes followed like silent witnesses. Outside, a blizzard raged across the Russian night, howling against the great iron windows, as if the world itself were trying to claw its way inside.

In one of the grand rooms, firelight flickered across gold trim and deep red drapes. Two figures stood at opposite ends of a massive oak table: Jack, his grey eyes hard as steel, and Jeeny, her black hair undone, her face pale but alive with defiance. Between them, maps were strewn — battle lines, borders, plans written in the ink of ambition.

The air carried tension like a current — the scent of smoke, wax, and will.

Jeeny: “Catherine the Great once said, ‘I may be kindly, I am ordinarily gentle, but in my line of business I am obliged to will terribly what I will at all.’”

Jack: “That’s not a confession. That’s a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “It’s a warning — that even gentleness has claws when duty calls for them.”

Jack: “Duty?” He scoffs. “That’s the word people use to polish ambition. Catherine wasn’t gentle; she was strategic. Empires aren’t built by kindness, Jeeny — they’re built by control.”

Jeeny: “Control isn’t cruelty, Jack. It’s resolve. She understood that softness without strength is suicide.”

Jack: “And strength without conscience is tyranny.”

Host: The fire crackled sharply, casting moving shadows across their faces. Jeeny’s eyes glinted like glass — fierce and luminous.

Jeeny: “Tyranny is blind will. Hers was enlightened — brutal, yes, but purposeful. She didn’t just seize power; she civilized it. That’s what she meant — to will terribly what must be willed, no matter the cost.”

Jack: “Cost always looks poetic when you’re not the one paying it.”

Jeeny: “And yet the world still quotes her. Still admires her. Because she dared to lead where men trembled. That’s the paradox of power — it demands both mercy and ruthlessness.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. She overthrew her husband, crushed revolts, and ruled by fear when she had to.”

Jeeny: “Because she had to. History remembers the will, not the hesitation. You call it cruelty — I call it survival.”

Host: The storm outside grew louder, slamming against the windowpanes. The candlelight flickered, dancing wildly between their silhouettes — two minds on opposite poles of principle and pragmatism.

Jack: “So you think power excuses everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it demands everything. And those who can’t stomach that should never reach for it.”

Jack: leaning forward, his voice low “That’s exactly how monsters start talking.”

Jeeny: “And how leaders stay alive.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer to the table, her fingers brushing over the map’s inked lines — rivers and borders like veins pulsing through parchment.

Jeeny: “Every ruler in history — from Alexander to Elizabeth — understood this truth: compassion means nothing without command. Love can’t govern. Will can.”

Jack: “Will corrupts. Every empire begins with ideals and ends with executions.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe ideals are the first lie we tell ourselves — a necessary one. Catherine didn’t hide from her contradictions. That’s why she endured.”

Host: Jack turned from her, walking toward the window. Beyond the glass, the snow swirled like ash — beautiful, merciless. He pressed his hand against the cold pane, his reflection fractured by frost.

Jack: “You admire her because she was decisive. I admire her because she was lonely. Every absolute will isolates the soul. ‘Terribly’ is the right word — it’s not strength without consequence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe loneliness is the price of greatness. Do you think Michelangelo wasn’t lonely? Or Napoleon? Or Catherine herself? Every creator of order suffers exile from the ordinary.”

Jack: “Exile doesn’t make you divine, Jeeny. It just means you chose power over people.”

Jeeny: “And people over peace, Jack. Which do you think is harder?”

Host: The firelight pulsed — a living, breathing witness to their argument. The sound of wind outside was now a symphony, a chorus of nature raging at the audacity of human control.

Jack: “You want to justify cruelty by calling it leadership.”

Jeeny: “No. I want to recognize that leadership often looks like cruelty to those who can’t see the cost. Catherine didn’t enjoy her power — she endured it.”

Jack: “That’s what they all say — after the blood’s been spilled.”

Jeeny: “Because only from a throne can you see how fragile mercy really is.”

Host: The room dimmed for a moment as the wind howled through a crack in the window. The fire hissed, its embers glowing like scattered rubies.

Jeeny: quietly now “You think kindness can rule the world?”

Jack: “No. But it can survive it. And maybe that’s the greater victory.”

Jeeny: “Then you’d rather live gentle and powerless?”

Jack: “Than will terribly? Yes.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll always be ruled by those who don’t hesitate.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp — a blade hanging in the still air. Jack’s eyes met hers again, and for a moment, their reflection in the glass merged into one — will and conscience, each trying to see which one would blink first.

Jack: “Maybe. But at least I’ll keep my soul.”

Jeeny: “And Catherine kept a civilization.”

Host: The fire roared suddenly, sparks spiraling upward as if protesting the cold outside. The golden light caught Jeeny’s face, illuminating the steel in her expression.

Jeeny: “You think will is corruption, but it’s creation. To will terribly is to bring something new into being — even if it costs you everything. That’s the truth of power — not pleasure, but purpose.”

Jack: “And purpose without restraint becomes ruin.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe ruin is the womb of progress.”

Host: The storm began to quiet, its violence spent. The windows fogged, hiding the world beyond — as if the palace itself had retreated into contemplation.

Jack stepped closer to the table again, his gaze fixed on the map between them. His fingers traced the inked borders — lines drawn by force, but kept by vision.

Jack: “So you’d rather rule in fire than live in peace.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather burn than fade.”

Host: He looked at her, truly looked — the intensity, the conviction, the quiet fury that felt both noble and terrifying.

Jack: “You’re dangerous when you believe.”

Jeeny: “And you’re harmless when you doubt.”

Host: The words struck like lightning, but neither flinched.

Then — slowly — Jeeny smiled. Not arrogance, but understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why the world needs both of us. I’ll will terribly. You’ll remind me why it’s terrible.”

Jack: after a long pause “And between the two of us, maybe something human survives.”

Host: Outside, the storm broke. The moonlight returned — pale and pure, slipping through the frost-streaked window to touch the old maps with silver.

The fire softened. The room breathed.

Two figures — one born of will, one of conscience — stood side by side, no longer enemies, but two halves of the same dilemma: mercy and power, the eternal debate of creation.

Host: Perhaps Catherine’s words were not arrogance but lament — a truth whispered by every soul who dared to shape the world:

That to rule, to build, to create — one must will terribly.

And to remain human while doing it — that is the truest, most terrible act of all.