Chapter 2: Chains of Blood and Birthright
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."