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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It was nearing noon, though the clouds expertly disguised the time of day as they emptied themselves as a slow misty rain. A single black carriage with two black horses was met at the gates of the palace by no less than a dozen men...
"What is all this?" Alexander questioned through the small door that allowed him to speak to his driver. Pasha was not just his driver, though—he was his personal attendant, advisor, and on rare occasion, friend. He'd served their family all of Alexander's life. The lines of wisdom well beyond Alexander's years were etched into Pasha's face.
"Your welcoming party," Pasha replied easily as the carriage slowed to a stop and he tied the reins into the fastener before hopping down and opening the door for his lord. "You didn't think they'd let just anyone waltz up to the palace, did you?"
"I might have hoped as such..." Alexander murmured under his breath, his words a white wisp on the chilly air, as he stepped out and onto the gravel.
Staring him and his servant down were a group of guards and servants, and behind them, just in front of the gates, were three tents. The group split as a single man wearing an ornate robe that looked more like a tapestry, and a very elegant hat, stepped forward to greet them.
"Welcome to the grand palace. I am Razvan Andreevich, the imperial advisor to the tsar and tsarina. If you would follow me, we'll begin your...processing," he said, with a motion of his hand.
"Processing?" Alexander echoed.
"All must be vetted before setting foot on the palace grounds, I'm sure you understand. It's all formalities, really. Come." The imperial advisor motioned again, this time with enough force that his long sleeve wiped back and forth like a flag in the rainy breeze.
Alexander stood nearly a foot taller than the small advisor, who only sported a pencil thin mustache in contrast to Alexander's thick, dark stubble.
Before they entered the first tent, he caught sight of the guards as they descended upon his carriage. Two began unloading his bags, another was looking over his horses, and the last was already climbing inside. He couldn't say exactly what they were hoping to find or not find, but he suspected that he and Pasha would soon be subjected to much the same in short order.
At least it was warm inside the tent, which was a deep, purpley red, with golden fringe on the edges. The ground was covered in beautiful rugs. A small stove in the center was responsible for the comfortable temperature within, and two incense burners hanging on either side, filled the area with a deep floral scent and streams of delicate white smoke.
Without any warning, the two guards who had been standing outside, followed in behind them and began 'helping' Alexander out of his cloak, and then his overcoat, and then his belt... When he looked to Razvan for some sort of explanation the man was already sitting down and pouring himself a cup of tea, with seemingly no interest in what plight Alexander was currently finding himself in.
