The Last Tsar

"It's a dream, a fearful dream, life is."

~Marcus Aurelius

---

General Stroganov paced the length of his study, the heavy thud of his boots reverberating off the wooden floors. His normally confident demeanor was gone, replaced by furrowed brows and a clenched jaw. The walls of the room, adorned with military decorations and maps of the empire, seemed to close in on him as he replayed the events of the past week.

The Okhrana purge had started with whispers. Agents being detained, their allegiances questioned, their fates sealed in the cold rooms of interrogation chambers. But now, it had escalated into something far more threatening. Stroganov's own sources had gone silent, and the few messages he received were laced with panic.

"Damn that boy," Stroganov muttered under his breath, slamming his fist onto the edge of his desk. "What does he think he's doing?"

The young Tsarevich's actions had been unexpected, bold, and... if Stroganov was honest with himself, dangerously effective. He had underestimated Nicholas. Like many others, Stroganov had assumed the crown prince to be soft, a man unprepared for the ruthless reality of governing an empire. But this new Nicholas, orchestrating purges and consolidating power, was something entirely different.

A knock at the door startled him. Stroganov froze, his hand instinctively moving toward the pistol holstered at his side.

An offier loyal to him walked in.

"Sir, you called for me." He said.

Stroganov was visibly relieved, inwardly insulting himself and thinking he was a damn coward.

"Ah yes. Get me updates from every contact we have left," Stroganov ordered sharply. "I want to know everything. Who's been detained, who's being watched, and who's still loyal."

The officer saluted and hurried out, leaving Stroganov alone with his thoughts.

"It's falling apart," he muttered, running a hand through his graying hair. "If Petrov talks, we're finished."

Stroganov had always considered himself untouchable. His connections in the military and among the conservative nobility had shielded him from any real threat. But Nicholas's sudden assertiveness had disrupted everything. The Tsarevich wasn't playing by the old rules, and Stroganov had no contingency for this level of unpredictability.

He sat heavily in his chair, his mind racing. He had spent decades cultivating his influence, ensuring his place in the empire's power structure. But now, that foundation was cracking. The young Tsarevich wasn't just removing threats. He was rewriting the entire balance of power.

"If the boy wants war," Stroganov whispered to himself, his voice low and dangerous, "then war he shall have."

But even as he said the words, a sliver of doubt crept into his mind. The Tsarevich and his allies had proven theirselves cunning, and Stroganov's resources and loyal men were dwindling by the hour. Panic was beginning to set in, and for the first time in his career, Stroganov wasn't sure if he could win.

'Damn Pobedonostsev! He's the one who convinced me to do this, saying the Prince was just a cowardly punk! I would've never taken this risk if I knew this would happen... I thought they would support me unconditionally and I took a calculated risk.

Now, I'm already on a sinking boat, unable to leave... It's already too late and I probably took my family with me. Oh, God... what did I do?' Thought Stroganov depressed.

He stood in that state for a good while. But they say the cornered rat is the most difficult to deal with and that's exactly who he was right now. He was so desperate that he wasn't thinking about himself and his goals anymore like he always did... But about the survival of his sons and family. He stood up and moved to the window, staring out at the sprawling city. The lights of Saint Petersburg glittered in the distance, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his mind.

'I need allies,' he thought. 'It's not yet over! If I can rally the others, if I can remind them what's at stake, we might still have a chance. I must do it. For my sons!'

But even as he steeled his resolve, the shadows of doubt loomed large. Time was running out, and Stroganov knew that one misstep could mean the end of everything he had worked for.

...

The sky above Saint Petersburg was a dull gray, the air heavy with the foreboding chill of late autumn. Nicholas stood in the grand study of the Alexander Palace, his mind already in Crimea. His father's health was deteriorating rapidly, and though Dr. Hirsch's telegrams had been carefully worded to avoid outright panic, the message was clear: time was slipping away. Being a transmigrated man, Nicholas knew.

It was time.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity. The announcement of the Okhrana reform had sent ripples throughout the empire, and the capture of Petrov had only deepened the tension. Nicholas knew his departure for Crimea was inevitable, but he had to ensure the empire would not crumble in his absence.

He turned to the desk, where Sergei Witte and Alexei Brusilov stood side by side, reviewing documents. The contrast between the two men could not have been starker: Witte, with his sharp, calculating demeanor, and Brusilov, the embodiment of military discipline and pragmatism.

"Gentlemen," Nicholas began, his voice steady, "I leave for Crimea tomorrow. While I'm gone, the reforms must continue without delay. The purge must remain swift and uncompromising."

Witte nodded, placing a hand on the stack of papers before him. "Of course, Your Imperial Highness. I've already ensured that the financial resources are in place to support the restructuring. The first wave of inspections has yielded significant results. Several key figures within the Okhrana have been detained for questioning."

Nicholas's gaze hardened. "And their replacements?"

Brusilov spoke this time, his voice gruff but confident. "Loyal men, handpicked from the ranks. I've ensured that the military will be ready to support the purge should any resistance arise. But, Your Imperial Highness, with all due respect, your absence will embolden your enemies. They will see it as an opportunity to conspire."

Nicholas sighed, his shoulders tensing. "I understand the risks, General. But my place is with my father. His illness demands it. The good news is many of the influential nobles will have to be there too. Including my uncle Sergei and Pobedonostsev."

Brusilov inclined his head in understanding, though his eyes betrayed lingering concern.

"You will notify me of anything via telegram. I want to feel as if I'm here."

"As you wish, Your Highness." Said the two men while nodding at the same time.

Witte then turned to Nicholas, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

"Also, Ivan is doing rather great, Your Highness. You've found yourself a capable ally in that one. Sharp mind, unwavering loyalty. He reminds me of... well, a younger me."

All three men in the room laughed and Nicholas joked, allowing himself a brief smile.

"Let's hope he doesn't share all your qualities, Sergei."

Witte chucked, shaking his head. "I assure you, Your Imperial Highness, my ambitions have always aligned with the empire's interests.

Nicholas then dismissed Witte and Brusilov, both men bowing as they left.

Then, he went to sleep, knowing he had to depart on a long journey tomorrow.

While Brusilov and Witte had their own thoughts on their minds on the way back.

'It's finally my possibility to assert my authority.' Thought Witte enthusiastically.

Sergei was a pragmatist. In fact, every even slightly honest man had to be if he wanted to efficiently operate in a system filled with corruption, intrigue and autocratic power.

While his reforms had always been beneficial to Russia, they had also been self-serving. He was capable of being manipulative and opportunistic when it suited his goals. That's what made him dangerous.

'I have to use this opportunity well, since the Crown Prince's circle is still small, I have the possibility to dominate it early on. That youngster has done more than I have in this purge. It's my time to shine!' Sergei thought while smiling to himself like a madman.

...

On the other side, Brusilov was feeling the polar opposite.

'Fuck! Now Witte will overshadow me unless the nobles go crazy and I have to personally intervene...

I'm almost hoping they do now...

Mabye I should talk to Ivan and have him give my own troops more action?

Meh... that guy probably won't understand. He's too loyal and pure.' Thought Brusilov to himself, sighing.

...

The next day, Nicholas prepared to get into the carriage, but not before taking a last look at the Winter Palace, knowing he wouldn't ever return the same man that would leave today...

For better or worse...