The Winter Palace loomed with austere elegance, but within its walls, Alexander felt more like a trespasser than a ruler. Marble statues and oil portraits of former emperors watched him with cold, timeless judgment. Their glinting eyes seemed to whisper, "Prove yourself."
The echo of his footsteps bounced down the gilded corridor as a valet led him toward the family wing. Servants bowed or stepped aside, but Alexander barely noticed them. His mind churned.
Today, he would meet the imperial family.
He paused briefly outside the familiar double doors to the salon. His mother—the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna—was waiting. She was one of the most influential women in the empire, and one of the few who had known Nicholas I not just as a tsar, but as a husband.
He exhaled slowly. How could he pretend to be her son?
The valet opened the door. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of lavender. Thick carpets muffled his steps.
Maria Feodorovna rose from a velvet armchair. Despite her grief, her posture was regal. Dressed in deep mourning black, her pale face showed the strain of loss—but also sharpness. Her gaze met his.
"Sasha," she said softly, using the affectionate diminutive of his name.
He stepped forward. "Mother," he replied, and embraced her.
For a moment, he allowed himself to be still in her arms. She felt real. Solid. It made the weight of the lie he was living heavier.
"You look pale," she murmured. "And thinner than last month. Have you eaten?"
He managed a small smile. "I will."
She stepped back, studying his face. "You're different. Since... since your father passed."
He kept his expression steady. "How could I not be? Everything has changed."
She nodded slowly and turned away, dabbing at her eyes. "He spoke often of you. He was proud. You must carry forward his legacy."
Alexander remained silent. The historical Nicholas I had been a rigid autocrat. His vision of Russia was an iron-fisted fortress of discipline and absolutism. Not exactly the legacy a modern mind wanted to inherit.
The moment was interrupted as the doors opened again. His younger brother, Konstantin, stepped in, followed by Grand Duke Mikhail and a few other Romanovs.
Polished smiles, curt bows, and murmured condolences followed. The court had taught them well. Alexander responded as best he could, falling into a rhythm of formalities he barely remembered from textbooks and documentaries.
As the family dispersed to light conversation, tea, and soft piano music, Alexander made his way toward a window overlooking the Neva. Snow clung to the rooftops outside. The empire stretched endlessly beyond that horizon—an empire now in his hands.
"Your Majesty."
He turned. A tall man in an impeccable military uniform approached with a deep bow. It was General Dmitri Arsenyev, an officer close to his father.
"General," Alexander said.
Arsenyev's voice lowered slightly. "I wish to express my deepest sorrow. The Emperor was like a father to me."
Alexander inclined his head. "And I will rely on your counsel as I find my way."
The general paused. "You have changed, Highness. There is a new... resolve in you."
"Responsibility has a way of doing that."
Arsenyev's eyes searched his face for a moment too long. Then he bowed again. "If I may, I request an audience in private tomorrow. There are matters of importance I believe you should hear from me directly."
Alexander nodded. "Granted."
The general withdrew. But the unease he brought lingered.
That night, back in his chambers, Alexander scribbled into his hidden journal.
Arsenyev is watching me closely. He suspects something—perhaps not the truth, but enough to be dangerous. Proceed carefully.
He set the quill down and leaned back. Was this how every day would be? Pretending, deflecting, dodging suspicion while guiding a nation?
He opened a cabinet and pulled out several maps and books. Candlelight danced over them. With a red pencil, he marked key rail routes—most incomplete, underdeveloped. He flipped to statistics on serf populations. Nearly 80% of the population bound to the land like medieval chattel.
A knock at the door.
He covered the materials quickly and called out, "Enter."
A young man entered—tall, wiry, with curious gray eyes. He bowed but not deeply. "Your Majesty, forgive the intrusion. I am Vasily Antonov, assistant to the court librarian. I've brought the documents you requested."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "You were fast."
"I read most of them already," Vasily said, a little too confidently. Then he added, "I… have a passion for statecraft."
Alexander smiled faintly. "Ambitious. Good."
He took the bundle and began leafing through it. Vasily lingered, as if uncertain whether to speak.
"Is there something else, Antonov?"
"I... only wished to say, Majesty. The tone of your requests—your emphasis on literacy and infrastructure... it gives me hope."
Alexander looked up.
"Hope?"
Vasily's voice dropped. "Russia needs change. Even in the library we feel it. Books banned. Scholars silenced. If you mean to change that... well, some of us will follow you to the end."
The young man's eyes gleamed with something Alexander hadn't seen all day: belief.
Alexander nodded slowly. "Thank you, Vasily. I will remember that."
After the boy left, Alexander leaned over the documents. Between old maps and outdated ledgers, he could feel the sluggish weight of empire. This was not a machine humming efficiently—it was a beast staggering under its own size.
And he was now riding it.
He flipped back to his journal and added a new name:
Vasily Antonov – intelligent, loyal, idealistic. Possible future aide.
The fire cracked in the hearth. Shadows danced on the walls.
Tomorrow, he would face ministers. Then generals. Then foreign dignitaries. But tonight, for the first time, Alexander II felt something approaching clarity.
He would not play a puppet emperor. Nor would he follow history like a script.
He had been given a second life not to repeat the past—but to rewrite it.