The silence of the Winter Palace was deceptive—majestic, yes, but also stifling. I walked through the marble-floored corridor, flanked by high windows draped in crimson velvet, trying to keep my expression neutral, regal even. Each step echoed like a challenge, a reminder: I didn't belong here.
My name used to be Andrei Vlasenko. Engineer. Historian. A man of the twenty-first century. But that identity had vanished the moment I died—on a highway, no less—only to awaken in the trembling body of an eighteen-year-old prince who had just inherited an empire.
Now, I was Alexander II. Tsar of all the Russias.
Still half in disbelief, I struggled to keep my breathing steady. My pulse thundered in my ears as the grand double doors to the imperial council chamber loomed ahead. Servants bowed low as I passed, their expressions unreadable. Did they see the hesitation in my step? Did they notice how my eyes flicked around the hall like a cornered animal?
Two guards opened the doors, and I was ushered into the council chamber.
It was a vaulted room, dimly lit by a chandelier of cut crystal and candles. Around a long mahogany table sat the empire's most powerful men: graying ministers, solemn generals, sharp-eyed bureaucrats. All of them stood as I entered, bowing deeply.
"Your Imperial Majesty," said a voice near the head of the table—Count Alexei Orlov, if I remembered right. A man once feared for his brutal efficiency and unwavering loyalty to the autocracy. "We are grieved by the Emperor's sudden death. But we rejoice that the crown passes to worthy hands."
Worthy. If only they knew.
I gave a small nod, hoping the motion was both royal and minimal. "Thank you, Count Orlov. My father's passing… was sudden. A loss for us all."
He gestured to the empty seat at the head of the table. I sat, heart hammering. My hand trembled slightly as I placed it on the table. Focus. Breathe. These men expected a monarch—one trained since birth to rule. Not a reincarnated engineer who had read about them in college.
"Your Majesty," said General Chernyshev, his mustache twitching with tension. "There are several matters we must address with urgency. The Polish territories remain restless. Reports from Congress Poland suggest growing agitation among the landed gentry. And in the Caucasus—"
"Later," I interrupted, surprising myself. "I need… a summary. An overview. I must understand the whole situation before addressing the details."
A few ministers exchanged glances. I pressed forward.
"In the next few days, I want a report from each department: internal affairs, the army, the treasury, and foreign affairs. Be candid. I want to understand everything. We cannot solve problems we do not name."
Silence. Orlov raised an eyebrow. "As Your Majesty commands," he said, slowly.
I relaxed slightly. That bought me time.
The meeting continued, and I mostly listened, nodding occasionally, noting how different this reality was from the textbooks. Some things matched what I knew—others diverged subtly. The empire felt… brittle. Like a great, gilded machine built on outdated blueprints and cracked steel.
After an hour, the council was dismissed. I stood, stiff but composed. I could feel their eyes follow me as I left.
Back in my private chambers, I collapsed into a high-backed chair, head in my hands.
This was insane.
This wasn't some harmless time-travel daydream. This was an empire teetering on the brink, and I was expected to guide it.
In a drawer of the desk, I found a blank journal. I opened it, dipped a quill in ink, and began writing—not as a tsar, but as a man clinging to reason.
Day 1
I have inherited the Russian Empire in the year 1836. Nicholas I is dead, though history says he lived until 1855. Cause of death unknown. His death has altered the timeline—perhaps this entire world is different.
I am now Tsar Alexander II, aged eighteen. The ministers and generals accept me. For now.
I must gather information discreetly. I will not survive long as a mere imposter. I must become the ruler they expect—while preparing for reforms this empire desperately needs.
Above all, I must avoid disaster. The empire cannot collapse—not yet. I will not allow a second Time of Troubles.
I paused, dipping the quill again.
First steps:
– Assess military readiness
– Review treasury and budget
– Understand political factions in court
– Identify loyal allies
– Begin long-term plan for infrastructure, literacy, and eventual emancipation of the serfs
I looked at the last point and swallowed hard. That would be my great trial. In the real timeline, Alexander II enacted the Emancipation in 1861—twenty-five years from now. But what if I started the groundwork earlier?
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
"Enter," I called.
A servant entered with a silver tray. "A letter from the Austrian ambassador, Your Majesty. He requests an audience."
I took the letter. Austria. Metternich's empire. Conservative, reactionary, and watchful. I'd have to tread carefully.
"Tell him I will receive him in two days," I said, almost without thinking. "And find me a copy of our most recent treaties and diplomatic correspondence. All of them."
The servant bowed and withdrew.
I closed the journal and locked it in a drawer. My hands had stopped shaking.
For the first time since I awoke in this new world, I felt something like clarity. I wasn't here to play a role. I had a chance—a terrifying, unrepeatable chance—to change everything.
And I would not waste it.