I woke in a cold sweat, my chest heaving as the remnants of a dream clung to me like cobwebs. The room was dim, with a faint glow creeping in through the heavy curtains. My mind felt foggy, disoriented, and for a moment, I wasn't sure where I was.
And then it hit me.
The Winter Palace. The room that surrounded me was not my apartment, not my home, but a space that felt alien, grand, and oppressive. My fingers trembled as I looked down at my hands—delicate, young hands that I knew did not belong to me. The reality of my situation slammed into me once again: I had been reincarnated into the body of Tsar Alexander II.
A figure from history. A man who had ruled an empire I had studied for years, but never dreamed I would become.
I was no longer an observer of history. I was living it.
I tried to steady my breathing, sitting up slowly, my head spinning as I took in my surroundings once more. The heavy velvet curtains draped across the windows, the marble floors beneath me, the ornate furniture—everything was too perfect, too foreign. I had studied it all, of course. The Winter Palace had been described in endless historical accounts, but to be surrounded by it, to live in it, was another matter entirely.
The woman who had spoken to me earlier, the one who had called me "Your Majesty," was still there, standing by the door, watching me closely. Her face was familiar to me from the few portraits I had seen of the Tsar's courtiers, but her name... her name escaped me.
"Your Majesty," she said again, her voice gentle but tinged with concern. "You must rest. You've only just ascended to the throne. Your coronation is soon, and you must be prepared."
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words I wanted to say were locked somewhere deep inside me. I was still reeling from the impossible reality that I was now Tsar. The weight of the crown felt suffocating, though I had not yet seen it. I could already feel its presence, looming over me.
"Who...?" I finally managed, my voice hoarse. "Who am I?"
It wasn't the question I wanted to ask, but it was the only one that made sense in that moment. I had to remind myself that I was no longer a man of the future. I wasn't a historian or an engineer. I was the ruler of the Russian Empire.
"You are Tsar Alexander II, Your Majesty," she answered, her eyes wide with concern as she moved closer. "You must rest. The council will be here soon. They have much to discuss with you."
Tsar Alexander II. The name echoed in my mind, but it felt strange, distant, like a name that belonged to someone else. I had read about him, of course. He was known as the "Tsar Liberator" for his reforms, especially the Emancipation of the Serfs. But those were just facts to me. Dates. Events. I had never imagined that I would be the one to carry out such changes, to face the pressures of ruling an empire that spanned across two continents.
"You're... you're sure?" I asked, my voice cracking as I tried to make sense of what was happening.
She nodded, her expression now softer. "Your Majesty, it is time for you to embrace your role. The empire needs you."
I wanted to argue, to scream that I wasn't the person for this, that I didn't belong here. But the words never came. Instead, a sense of inevitability settled over me. The empire did need me. In fact, it had always needed a ruler—someone to carry it forward, to shape its future. And now, that ruler was me.
But how could I do this? I wasn't prepared. I had read the history books, I had analyzed the decisions of Tsar Alexander II from the perspective of an outsider, a scholar. But now that I was in his shoes, the enormity of the task ahead was suffocating.
The woman stepped back, sensing my hesitation. "Your Majesty," she said softly, "The council is waiting for you."
The council. Another wave of panic surged through me. I had no idea what was expected of me. What were they going to ask? What decisions were they going to expect me to make?
I stood up slowly, trying to steady myself. The room seemed to tilt, and I had to grab the edge of the table to keep my balance. My legs were unsteady, the unfamiliar weight of my body almost too much to bear. I was supposed to be a ruler, but I felt like a child stumbling through an unfamiliar world.
"You must lead," the woman said again, her words now more insistent. "They are waiting."
I took a deep breath, swallowing the bile of panic that rose in my throat. I couldn't show weakness. I had to move forward. For the empire. For Russia.
As I made my way toward the door, my mind raced. My modern knowledge clashed with the reality of this world. Could I change things? Could I avoid the mistakes that history had already recorded? Could I prevent the unrest, the revolutions, the wars? Or was I doomed to play out the same tragedies that had already been written?
I didn't know the answers, but I had no choice but to try.
The door opened, and I stepped into the corridor, ready to face the council, ready to face the future—whatever it might hold.
But even as I walked toward my fate, one question burned in my mind, louder than all the others:
How had Tsar Nicholas I died so early?