Ruslan Bogdanovich Makarov's spoiled, twisted family is desperate to retain their power, but refuse to name him Tsesarevich, the crowned prince or heir apparent, because of his birth gender. Instead, they've welcomed Alexander Vissarionovich Sokolov...
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Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ruslan's gaze landed on his mother's hand; her ring, the source of the irritating sound, as she tapped it against the arm of her chair while she stared at nothing, much like he'd been before the disturbance yanked him back into reality...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
A nervous habit—one of many that Ruslan had observed in the days since his father's illness grew worse, finally leaving him bed-stricken.
"He's so dreadfully pale, isn't he?" Ruslan's Aunt Raya would say. "Yes, horribly so," Aunt Oksana would reply, all whilst his mother, the tsarina, the empress, stared at his father with eyes unblinking and nearly bulging, like she thought she could somehow will him to recover. She was the tsarina, after all! Surely, that should matter—should give her some cosmic power in the eyes of the universe...right?
Of course not.
Ruslan knew that. He understood. Being a royal didn't spare you from many of the same ailments that struck down the poor and destitute. Riches couldn't buy immortality, or favor from karma. If it could, then Ruslan wouldn't be in the situation he was in... The last living child of the tsar and tsarina of the great empire, Gornayagavan'...
He should be considered the tsesarevich, the heir-apparent. But Ruslan was cursed. He was a prince born in the body of a girl...
"What about cousin Olaf?" Aunt Oksana said suddenly, leaning over the arm of her seat towards his mother.
"Cousin Olaf is only related by marriage," was the tsarina's sharp reply.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Mmm..." Aunt Oksana sighed, deflating.
Ruslan's gaze drifted around the decadently ornate room as he pushed his thumb into his pounding temple. He had one leg draped over the side of his chair, and over the other, he draped an arm. This was infuriating. Absurd. The whole court addressed him as, "Young Lord." The servants! The servants, they did as well... And he could marry a woman, if that was what appearances required. He'd marry ten, for all he cared!
But in the eyes of his mother and father, he was their daughter. He was born a girl and always would be such, and therefore, whilst his father wasted away in bed, and his extended family converged on the palace, they made themselves sicker anguishing over who would be heir to the throne.What had they done to deserve such a fate? What had he?
Nothing. Nothing that he could reason, anyway, and that was why it all seemed so unfair.
The crown was without a male heir, and here he was—male in all but body parts... Ruslan's finger twitched. His hand was starting to go numb from the way his arm was draped...slowly dying from a lack of adequate blood... He smiled at the irony.
