[The Morning After]
The soft, cold breath of morning brushed gently against Alexei's delicate skin. Not a single sound stirred in the vast garden where the young Tsar stood—only the joyful melodies of birds greeting the dawn. Yet joy was a stranger to Alexei. Illness had shadowed his life for as long as he could remember, and even now, at his tender age, it clung to him like a silent ghost.
He said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the dazzling purple blossoms blooming at the heart of the imperial garden, but his mind wandered far beyond them—traveling inwards, as he so often did when the world fell quiet.
The silence broke only with the soft rustle of footsteps.
"Why, my little lord... why are you awake at such an early hour?" asked his governess, her voice filled with a gentle concern.
With a faint smile, Alexei turned to her, his voice barely louder than a whisper, smooth and calm like still water.
"I couldn't breathe in that stifling room. I wanted to share the morning with the birds... to welcome the day as they do, with joy."
A flicker of worry passed through the heart of Margarita Eiger.
Why has my young lord been so... different, lately?
Though he lived in the grandest chamber of the imperial palace, he called it suffocating. Though the garden sang with life, he met it with silence. Though the world saw a child, she saw someone far older behind those pale eyes.
And just as her thoughts tangled in unease, Alexei broke the quiet once more:
"Margarita... am I normal?"
The question struck like a sudden wind.
She hesitated. Then, with careful warmth, replied:
"My little lord, why such a strange question? You are the heart of this empire. The heir long awaited, born when hope had all but faded. You are more than normal—you are needed."
But Alexei said nothing in return.
Sensing his mind retreat once again into depths she could not reach, Margarita bowed her head.
"pardon me , my young master, I shall leave you to your thoughts."
And with grace, she turned and walked away.
Now alone, Alexei stood still, eyes following the movement of the blossoms as they swayed in the hush of wind—watching them as if they held a secret written behind the fabric of reality itself.
"Everyone in this world…" he thought, "plays a role. Bound by rules they did not choose. Rules forced upon them."
To him, life was no gentle flow, but a vast stage with invisible scripts. Roles carved in silence. Movements performed without question. No one asked why.
Then, under his breath, almost too soft for the wind to carry, he whispered:
"Love?"
The word hung in the air, trembling with weight.
He frowned.
"This world is no simple place. It's a web—dense, delicate, dangerous. Everything crafted to maintain the illusion of order."
"And love…" he thought, "is one of its most intricate laws. A beautiful illusion. A noble lie where emotions are spent like currency… in the name of sacrifice."
His gaze remained fixed ahead, not in sadness, but in cool, calm observation. He wasn't searching for comfort, or even answers—he was studying the world as it was. Watching. Dissecting. Not to feel, but to understand.
And within this silent understanding, a thought emerged—sharp, cold, and uncertain:
Perhaps the world is nothing more than a sealed map.
One that does not offer answers…
Only a question:
Will you follow the path drawn for you—
Or will you tear it apart?
---
While Alexei was lost in thought, quietly watching the purple flowers sway with the gentle breeze, he suddenly sensed familiar footsteps approaching. He slowly turned his head and saw his father, Emperor Nikolai II, walking toward him.
Alexei said nothing, lowering his eyes as he always did when his body betrayed him.
Nikolai sat beside him silently, then after a few moments spoke softly, his voice carrying a rare paternal warmth:
"Is the pain strong this morning?"
Alexei shook his head in denial but did not lift his gaze.
Another silence followed, but this time it was filled with unspoken emotion.
The Tsar Nikolaevich looked out over the garden and said,
"When I was your age, I hated silence... and now, I envy it. It seems you resemble your mother more than me."
It was not just a casual remark, but his way of saying, "I see you, even if I cannot free you from what burdens you."
Finally, Alexei spoke in a quiet voice:
"I feel like everything… is not mine. This body, this place—even the air."
The Tsar looked at him with a sad surprise, then gently reached out and placed his hand over his son's.
"I know, my little one… I know. But all of this… has always been heavier than any child should bear.
And because you carry it in silence… you are stronger than many."
---
Alexei gazed at the Tsar's warm hand holding his small one, his innocent eyes full of life. Then, suddenly, he lifted his gaze to his father's face and smiled with a bright, childlike innocence.
"Father… will I ever see the world?"
Emperor Nikolai paused for a moment, looking at his son with silent surprise before his eyes softened with tenderness and whispered to himself:
"After all… he is still just a small child."
Then, he answered gently, with a hint of firmness:
"Yes, of course, my little baby."
---
In the eastern wing of the palace, behind a thick silk curtain, stood Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, watching the scene without being seen. She was not spying—no, she was simply there, as she was every morning, drawing strength from seeing her little one breathe, speak, smile… live.
But today, it was Alexei's different smile—that deep, childlike smile—that gave her hope that life was still fair. She spoke softly with noble calm to her personal maid,
"Isn't the weather beautiful today?"
The maid replied quietly, with respect,
"Yes, Your Majesty..
The maid then brought a message addressed specifically to the Empress. It was sealed with red wax bearing an unusual crest.
Alexandra looked at the letter, then took it calmly. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but her hand remained steady. With practiced grace, she opened the envelope and began to read.
The first lines were ordinary… until she reached a phrase that changed her expression. She did not falter, but she paused. It was as if something in her heart took a cautious step backward.
She whispered, without looking up from the paper,
"Take Alexei to his chamber, and tell him I will visit him later."
She said it softly, yet with a composed worry—noble and unyielding.
Then she sat down, her gaze fixed on the letter for a long moment.
The Empress's fingers trembled slightly as she held the letter, her eyes scanning the lines with growing unease.
_________________________
March 11, 1917
Petrograd
__________________________
To Her Majesty, Empress Alexandra Feodorovna,
With all due loyalty and respect,
We write to you at a most critical hour. The empire stands on the brink of transformation; the city swells with protests, soldiers abandon their posts, and voices in the Duma demand reforms unbefitting the crown.
News has reached us that His Highness, Prince Alexei, remains fragile. We know your heart is consumed by his condition, yet we fear this moment requires you to lift your gaze from your son's safety to the fate of the entire nation.
Though Rasputin's body may be gone, his shadow still hovers over the palace, his name fueling the public's ire against the throne. Your presence in Tsarskoye Selo has become a subject of open debate among soldiers and the political elite, with whispers growing louder that abdication may soon be inevitable.
We understand the weight of these words and that paper cannot carry the burden of the fears we all share. But time is short, and the ships of history wait for no hesitation.
Choose, Your Majesty—between the crown and blood.
With utmost sincerity,
General Mikhail Alekseev
Chief of the General Staff of the Russian Empire.
---
The Empress's breath caught in her throat. The letter's sharp edge sliced through the fragile calm she had been clinging to. Outside, the unrest in Petrograd grew fiercer with each passing day—food shortages and desperate living conditions igniting flames of rebellion that threatened to engulf the imperial palace itself.
In the shadowed corridors of the palace, far from the watchful eyes of guards and nobles, a clandestine council convened around a massive wooden table strewn with maps and coded letters. These men were the empire's insiders—generals and courtiers alike—who refused to accept its decline, yet served ambitions far removed from the Tsar or the people.
Their whispered voices trembled with tension as they exchanged cryptic plans for secret movements, forging alliances in darkness, plotting the overthrow of the Tsar and his family. A carefully crafted coup to topple the throne and forever alter Russia's destiny.
Among them were Alexander Kerensky, the ambitious head of the provisional government; Leon Trotsky, scheming revolution; General Kornilov, allied with the revolution against the imperial system; and even Fyodor Rasputin's lingering specter, casting suspicion over the royal family. Others from the Bolshevik party and their allies conspired as well, exploiting every crack in the empire's fragile foundation.
Alexei's illness was seen as the hidden weapon—the chink in the armor that would unseat a fragile regime. The child's weakness became a rallying point, a reason to sow discord and fan the flames of chaos.
Back in the eastern wing, Alexandra folded the letter with trembling hands. Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, fixed on the sealed envelope as if seeking answers there.
The fate of a child… the fate of an empire—both resting on the fragile edge of a knife.
As the secret whispers filled the dim chamber, General Lavrov suddenly stood firm, his gaze sharp as a knife's edge, his voice hoarse—commanding, accustomed to giving orders rather than taking them.
In a low but decisive tone, he said:
"The empire is collapsing from within—not because of an enemy, but because of a child who cannot bleed without dying, and a Tsar who hides behind his wife and the nuns."
He scanned the room, locking eyes with each man before continuing:
"The people in the streets are starving… while the Tsar sends grain shipments to the front lines… for a lost war. As for his heir, his secret has become a burden known to us… and soon, known to all."
One noble cautiously interjected,
"But the people still see the child as a heavenly symbol…"
Lavrov cut him off with a deadly glance:
"Symbols are made... and they are broken. All we need is to expose the throne's weakness. The medical letter from his German doctor… will be the beginning of the fall. We will plant it in the press… slowly… precisely."
He then turned toward Pavel Milyukov and added,
"And the Duma?"
Milyukov responded with a cold smile,
"I will set them ablaze from within."
Silence hung briefly, before the general ended in a barely audible voice:
"Russia must break the blue blood… until it bleeds and is reborn."
In a shadowed corner, a figure remained silent throughout the meeting—General Alexander Kerensky. He said nothing, but recorded every word in his black notebook. He was neither with them… nor against them.
And so, while the voices of conspiracy whispered in the darkness, the fate of the empire hung by a thread—between betrayal and survival—and on a single decision… that could change everything.