Snow lashed the Neva like a whip.
Beyond the frosted windows of the Winter Palace, the city of St. Petersburg glowed under a pall of stormlight, domes and spires jutting from the frozen dark like the ribs of some ancient leviathan.
Inside, the fire burned low, crackling in the hearth as shadows wavered across gilt frames and painted saints.
Elsa von Zehntner, Tsarina of Russia, sat curled in a high-backed chair draped in sable.
Her gloved hands rested lightly on a stack of reports, the seal of the General Staff pressed in wax.
She had read them twice already, though she barely needed to.
She knew the words, the tone, the rhythm of half-truths disguised as progress.
Across from her, Alexei, Tsar of All Russia, leaned over the table with his fingers tented beneath his chin.
His face was pale in the firelight, marked by the exhaustion of endless briefings, but there was still a flicker of pride in his eyes.
Pride and defiance both.
