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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The news of the King's death swept through the palace and soon would reach beyond it, like a shadow across the empire.
Alexander turned an hourglass over and watched as the black sand within it began to fall steadily.
Now, the court had seven days of mourning before the people would expect a new tsar to be declared...
That didn't leave him much time.
He lit one candle, scribbled something across an odd piece of paper, and then sealed it with wax. After murmuring something to himself, he pulled a blade from his waistband and cut his ring finger, allowing a few drops of blood to stain the paper before he kissed it and then held it over the flame until it caught. Alexander dropped it into a pan to let it burn into ash.
From across the room, Pasha looked up from the boot he was busy shining, pausing only to eye his master's work for a moment before wordlessly going back to his own task.
"It'll be tea soon," Alexander said as he put on his coat. "I'll be back later."
"Shall I take the ash out with the water, then?" Pasha wondered casually without looking up.
"Leave that one until after dark," the lord instructed before exiting the room, out into the hall.
He wasn't particularly interested in tea, but it was a social obligation he couldn't miss, and he suspected there was at least one other person who found it as unpleasant as he did...
Over the past few days, Alexander had slowly started to put faces to the many names of the Tsar's extended family. Most, if not all, were life-long royals—born and raised in comfort, with very little to offer the world other than their pedigree. They enjoyed their luxuries, their self importance, and their social engagements... Except for the lowly aunt Raya.
No one spoke to her. No one sat with her. Everyday at tea, she had a table to herself in the corner, and that was the only time that Alexander had seen her.
This had piqued Alexander's interest.
What sort of person must she be to be so outcast by her own family, yet still dwell within the palace? But he knew better than to approach her at tea. Clearly, being seen with her was frowned upon; he couldn't imagine that asking to hear her story would be a less condemnable offense. But he wanted to know and, more importantly, he wanted to know from her—not anyone else.
So, he hoped that by setting out for tea early, and taking a different hall, that he might be so lucky as to catch her alone. He did catch something as he went, though it wasn't the outcast aunt that had drawn his notice, but instead, the not-so-hushed voices speaking in one of the side rooms...
"...And what else am I supposed to do? I've all but thrown myself at Ruslan's feet, and do you know what he called me? A friend! Hah! He'd sooner marry that goat!" the first voice scoffed, and though Alexander couldn't see him, he'd come to know his voice well enough to know who it belonged to—Nikolai Olafovich.
