The corridor was narrow, lined with stone so old it seemed to sweat with the weight of history. Mikhail's boots echoed with each step, the sound bouncing off the walls like a war drum in miniature. He moved carefully, still adjusting to his younger body—leaner, lighter, less burdened by the aches of a world that no longer existed.
The guard said nothing. Only the clink of keys at his hip and the scrape of iron-toed boots accompanied them. Mikhail stole glances out small slitted windows. Beyond them, snow fell in heavy sheets. St. Petersburg in winter—unforgiving, beautiful, dangerous.
They emerged into a corridor rich with candlelight and velvet drapes. Mikhail's rough linen clothes stood out like ash on silk. Passing nobles in powdered wigs and fur-lined cloaks sneered or whispered behind gloves. He caught a name—"bastard prince"—hissed like venom.
He was led into a study lined with books and war maps. An older man, hawk-nosed and silver-haired, looked up from a leather chair. His uniform bore the twin-headed eagle of the Empire.
"Leave us," the man said.
The guard bowed and withdrew.
"Mikhail Alexeyevich," the man said, measuring the name like an accusation. "Do you know why you are still alive?"
Mikhail straightened. "Because I'm still useful."
The man raised a brow. "So you do remember how to speak like a Romanov."
The name echoed in his mind—Romanov. It hadn't sunk in until now. His full designation by the system wasn't just a placeholder.
He was Mikhail Alexeyevich Romanov. An illegitimate son of Grand Duke Alexei Petrovich—born of a court scandal, exiled at birth, buried in shame.
"Your father was a fool," the man continued, "but your mind is sharp. The Tsar is dead. The army is divided. And your brother plots with reformists."
Brother? Mikhail's mind raced. So many names from history… who was his sibling in this life?
"Some," the man said, rising, "believe the throne belongs to Constantine. Others to Nicholas. You, meanwhile, were supposed to rot quietly in a cell."
He stepped closer. "But then you started writing."
Mikhail blinked.
"We intercepted pamphlets. Essays on reform. Modern economics. Anonymous, yes—but printed in ink that traced back to your dungeon candles."
The older man's expression twisted into something like amusement. "You've been educating the rats, Your Grace."
Mikhail said nothing. The Sovereign Protocol pulsed softly behind his eyes, awaiting input.
[System Notice: Political Capital Opportunity Detected]
[Decision Required: Accept Patronage of Count Orlov | Reward: Influence Access, Intelligence Network, Monthly Funding]
[Alternative: Refuse Patronage and Seek Independent Alliance | Reward: Legacy Points Bonus if Successful, Higher Risk of Assassination]
Count Orlov. That was his name—the Tsar's spymaster. A kingmaker.
"I propose a deal," Orlov said. "You continue your… theoretical exercises. I ensure your safety. In return, you'll help me shape what comes next."
Mikhail met his gaze.
"Fine," he said. "But I don't write theories. I write futures."
Orlov laughed. "Then write me a strong one, boy."
As Mikhail turned to leave, the system chimed again.
[Patronage Accepted: Count Orlov]
[Access Granted: Imperial Archives (Level 1)]
[Unlocked Module: Political Web I – Track Relationships, Intrigue, Blackmail Risk]
[Legacy Points +50]
Outside the study, Mikhail didn't return to the dungeon.
He was escorted to guest quarters—small but heated, with a writing desk and access to fresh ink.
He sat that night, staring at a blank page. The Empire was crumbling. His name was dirt. His blood was royal.
Chains of blood, he thought. Chains of birthright.
Then he began to write.
Not memoirs. Not letters. Blueprints.
The future, born in ink and ambition.