The air in the Winter Palace was heavy with the scent of waxed floors and fresh ink. Maps were spread across the long mahogany table like a general's feast. Alexander leaned forward, his fingers tracing the new rail lines and military garrisons sketched in fine hand. The candlelight cast long shadows on the faces of the men gathered around him — his closest circle: Count Orlov, General Paskevich, young Sergei Witte now a promising mind at the Ministry of Finance, and a few trusted officers molded by reform rather than bloodline.
"How fares the new artillery tests?" Alexander asked without looking up.
General Paskevich, weathered by years of service yet sharp as ever, cleared his throat. "The Krupp cannons your Majesty ordered have performed admirably. The steel rifling gives them range and precision beyond anything we have used before. Training manuals are being rewritten as we speak."
Alexander allowed himself a slight smile. Progress — slow but tangible. "And the Academy?"
Count Orlov answered this time, pride gleaming in his eyes. "The Imperial Academy of Military Sciences has been formally inaugurated, Sire. The first batch of cadets arrive next spring. We have even received applications from abroad — a few promising minds from Prussia and Austria."
Good. Alexander leaned back, folding his hands. Every rail laid, every academy founded was a blade sharpened for a future Russia that would not be mocked or trampled. His mind, however, was not entirely at ease.
"What news from London and Paris?" he asked.
There was a heavy pause. Sergei Witte, still young but already proving himself a master of patterns and projections, took the floor cautiously.
"British agents have been observed around Odessa and Sevastopol, Sire. They pose as merchants, scholars, or consuls, but their questions are... pointed. They wish to know the extent of our dockyard expansions and our troop movements in the south."
Alexander nodded slowly, his expression tightening. He had anticipated this. Russia's slumber was ending — and the world, especially the old colonial powers, would not enjoy seeing a giant stir.
"And Paris?" he pressed.
Orlov frowned. "French diplomats have grown increasingly inquisitive. They speak of friendship but urge us to limit our influence in the Balkans. They fear we intend to challenge Ottoman holdings."
Alexander scoffed quietly. France, Britain, Austria — they would rather Russia remain broken and feeble, a beggar at Europe's table. Their fear was confirmation he was on the right path.
He stood and crossed to the tall windows, gazing out at the snow-blanketed courtyards. His reflection stared back: the features of young Alexander Nikolaevich, yet inside, the mind of another man — a modern man, armed with a future no one else could see.
"We will not provoke," Alexander said finally, his voice calm but firm. "But neither shall we shrink like cowards."
The room stood silent, awaiting his orders.
"Double the patrols along the Black Sea coast," he continued. "Discreetly. I want our diplomats to sing songs of peace and brotherhood in London and Paris — let them believe we are harmless for now. Meanwhile, accelerate the outfitting of our new steel-hulled ships. Sevastopol must be impregnable."
Paskevich bowed slightly. "As you command, Sire."
"And the Academy," Alexander turned to Orlov. "We need the finest minds of Europe. Engineers. Chemists. Mathematicians. Offer scholarships, titles, whatever it takes. Russia will become a furnace of innovation."
Witte's eyes gleamed. "I have a few names already, Sire. Men who will shape industries if we but give them a chance."
"Good," Alexander said. "Prepare the offers discreetly. And draft a proposal for a civilian polytechnic institute as well — not just for soldiers."
He returned to the table, the atmosphere charged with quiet determination. The next few years would define a century.
After the council dispersed, Alexander remained behind, staring at the flickering flame of a single candle. Outside, the city slumbered under a veil of frost, unaware of the quiet battles fought in shadowed rooms.
He thought of Britain — vast, arrogant, and utterly ruthless. He thought of France, still nursing its wounded pride after Napoleon's fall. He thought of Austria, decadent and fractious.
Russia could not afford mistakes. Not anymore.
Slowly, he took up his pen and began drafting a letter — one that would summon young minds to the Empire, offering them dreams and fortunes in exchange for loyalty. A gamble, yes. But every empire was built on gambles.
As he wrote, the snow fell harder, blanketing St. Petersburg like a shroud. Somewhere beyond the horizon, forces stirred — watching, waiting.
But Russia would be ready.
This time, history will not repeat the same as my world before.