Morning light filtered through the tall windows of Captain Volkov's office, pale and cold, reflecting off the frost that clung stubbornly to the glass. He had arrived earlier than usual, as he often did, and was midway through his first cup of coffee, a small comfort he allowed himself before the weight of the day settled in.
The office was quiet.
And he liked it that way.
Volkov stood beside his desk, skimming through a stack of routine reports in the desk with one hand while holding the porcelain cup in the other. Nothing unusual so far. Minor disturbances. Petty arrests. The city, at least on paper, had survived another night.
He raised the cup and took a measured sip.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," he said, continuing to skim through the reports.
His assistant stepped in, posture stiff and expression tight in a way Volkov immediately recognized. This was not a man bringing in good news.
His first thought was immediate and unwelcome.
Did the SRs move again?
The Socialist Revolutionaries had been a constant headache throughout his career. They were efficient, ruthless, and infuriatingly capable of assassinating imperial officials. They didn't riot like amateurs or shout slogans in the streets. They planned and waited. And when they struck, they struck cleanly.
Just more than a week ago, the prefect of St. Petersburg had been assassinated, shot down in broad daylight, within his own jurisdiction. There had been no warning. The culprit was a suicidal fanatic who knew that the moment he pulled the trigger, he would be dead. And yet he did it anyway.
There was no real way to prevent such attacks. How could one stop an enemy who was not afraid to die, so long as his mission was carried out? It wasn't as if Volkov himself, even as the head of the St. Petersburg division, could order imperial officials to stay indoors and never step outside.
Within an hour of the assassination, Volkov had been summoned to report on the hows and the whys it had happened. Yet he could offer no definite answers. Even now, he could still recall the disappointment etched on the faces of the prime minister and the tsar himself. Not even the head of the Okhrana, Colonel Mikhail Kuznetsov, had been spared from their rebuke.
When Volkov left the meeting, he knew his career was teetering on the brink of collapse. The look Colonel Kuznetsov had given him lingered in his mind, a silent warning that another high-profile assassination within his jurisdiction would cost him his position.
In the days that followed, Volkov ordered sweeping arrests and relentless crackdowns on anyone suspected of involvement. Even those without clear evidence were not spared. Some were sent to Siberia. Others were hanged, by the direct orders from the prime minister himself.
And yet, Volkov knew, he knew, that no amount of repression could truly prevent another assassination. How could it, when those willing to carry them out were not afraid of arrest, exile, or even death itself?
That's why he made his bed already, that sooner or later, he would lose his position. And he had no doubt, and he was equally certain that whoever replaced him would not fare any better.
Still, he would do his duty as long as he remained head of the division. He had ordered his agents and informants throughout the city to stay on high alert at all times and to gather as much information as possible on the revolutionaries. He needed results, any results.
And when they came, he would vent his suppressed anger on those who would cost him his hard-earned position.
"Captain?" the assistant called out.
He had been trying to get the captain's attention for some time now, but Captain Volkov seemed to have drifted off again. It had been happening more frequently in the recent days, and the assistant could only assume it was due to the mounting stress.
"I'm sorry," Volkov said at last. "I was thinking about something. What is it?" He set his teacup down and focused his gaze on his assistant. The looming threat of dismissal had clearly been weighing on his mind again.
"Our informants and agents in the eastern district have submitted their reports, sir," the assistant said. "Something significant happened last night." He handed the documents over at once.
Volkov accepted the reports and gave a brief wave of his hand. "Thank you. You may go."
The assistant bowed and left reluctantly. He had expected questions, but it seemed the captain preferred to be alone while he read the reports.
Captain Volkov watched the door close before lowering his gaze to the folder in his hands. A faint frown settled on his face. He hoped this was nothing more than another petty dispute, just like the others he had just read.
He sat down heavily in his chair and opened the folder.
His eyebrow rose as he read the summary.
There had been a brief confrontation in the eastern district the previous night. Witnesses reported fighting between two gangs, the Ratcatchers and the Jackals. According to the timeline, the clash had been sudden and violent, but oddly contained. No large-scale riot. No prolonged street battle. Just a sharp burst of chaos that ended as quickly as it began.
So they had begun.
He had chosen not to intervene when the Jackals' plan was first reported by their informants. The Ratcatchers had long been one of the thorns he wanted torn from the city's side, yet every attempt to root them out had ended the same way, they always scattered and vanished the moment a raid began. He wanted to see if these jackals could actually cause trouble to these rats.
Volkov flipped to the next page.
The Ratcatchers' only tavern had been burned down. The fire had been fierce but localized, leaving behind little more than a charred shell. By the time the Politsiya arrived, the flames were already dying, and no one remained at the scene to question. No bodies had been found and no suspects were apprehended.
Follow-up reports noted that attempts to locate the Ratcatchers' inner circle and their more dangerous fighters after the incident had yielded almost nothing. Those who were found were men who had fled and gone into hiding the moment the fighting began, claiming they had no knowledge of what happened afterward other than the jackals claiming that they owned the territory now. Their usual gathering places were empty, and even their headquarters, previously raided by the Okhrana, had been abandoned.
Some of the Jackals who had been patrolling the area had been apprehended by the politsiya for questioning. But what they got was nothing, even after the beating, they claimed that the ratcatchers had run and gone into hiding after seeing that they were losing.
The Ratcatchers… defeated just like that?
Captain Volkov frowned deeply. He had expected at least a series of skirmishes, both sides testing each other, probing for weaknesses. What had happened instead fell well outside his expectations. He flipped to the next page with growing urgency.
What he read next made his grip tighten on the papers.
The informants embedded within the Ratcatchers' inner circle were also missing. This absence was the reason the report had been submitted late; agents had spent hours attempting to locate them, only to come up empty-handed.
Volkov's frown deepened. Those informants always left behind signs, notes, dead drops, some form of warning, before going into hiding alongside the others. This time, there had been nothing at all according to the report.
He rubbed a hand across his forehead. There were only two explanations he could think of for their sudden disappearance. Either they had been killed, or the attack had been so sudden that they hadn't had time to leave any messages.
But that didn't sit right with him.
He had warned them beforehand about the possibility of an attack. Surely, they would have prepared an escape in advance in case things turned south.
Nevertheless, he had not thought that the jackals could actually defeat the ratcatchers in a single attack. It seemed he had to reevaluate their threat level after the investigation was done.
He should have been pleased with the outcome. One less thorn in the city's side. Yet this result unsettled him more than it reassured him. If the Jackals had driven the Ratcatchers into hiding, did that mean that this gang operated on the same level as the Okhrana agents? Or worse, if they had rooted out the ratcatchers, killing them in a single attack, did that mean that this gang operated above the level of his Okhrana agents?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Volkov reached behind him and pulled the rope. Seconds later, there was a knock at the door, and his assistant entered.
"You needed me, sir?"
"Have we received any messages from the Jackals' informants?" Volkov asked, his voice low and heavy.
The assistant noticed his superior's bad mood after hearing just that.
"I'll check again with the receivers, sir," he replied carefully. He bowed, then closed the door quietly behind him.
Captain Volkov exhaled slowly, trying to rein in the tension coiling in his chest.
Minutes passed.
Then the door opened again. The assistant returned, this time holding a folder.
"The report just came in, sir," he said, stepping forward and placing it on Volkov's desk.
Volkov snatched it at once and waved him away. The assistant complied. He bowed wordlessly and shut the door behind him.
Alone once more, Volkov opened the folder and began to read.
Volkov's eyes moved steadily across the page.
The informants reported that the operation had been successful. The Ratcatchers had not merely been pushed back; they had been broken.
According to the account, resistance collapsed quickly once the fighting began. The Jackals had coordinated their attack carefully and timed it so precisely that the Ratcatchers never had the chance to organize a proper defense. They were driven into a corner almost immediately, left with no choice but to scatter and flee. Their leaders had reportedly ordered the Jackals to let the fleeing men go, as the purpose of the attack was the territory itself, not the elimination of every member.
Volkov turned the page.
The next section was an assessment. The informants believed that the Jackals' high-ranking fighters had struck the headquarters first, followed by the tavern, which they believed was where most of the Ratcatchers' inner circle had gathered that night. The informants had heard that several of the Ratcatchers' leaders had managed to flee, while others were killed. They could not yet determine how many, as they couldn't get that kind of information with their current positions.
There were also rumors circulating among the Jackals leaders that it would take months, perhaps even years, before the Ratcatchers could recover enough to return. They had been broken too thoroughly.
Volkov leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a brief moment.
He let out a slow, quiet sigh.
At least it wasn't the worst outcome he had feared.
So these Jackals knew how to coordinate their attack and timely at that? That's why the ratcatchers had been caught off guard and got broken?
Still, he found it hard to believe they had managed it so cleanly and quickly. He needed eyes inside their ranks, informants planted deep within their higher circle, if he wanted a clear picture of how they truly operated.
Volkov reached behind him once more and pulled the rope. Seconds later, his assistant appeared.
"Sir?"
"Pass down my orders to the Field Operations Department," Volkov said. "Increase surveillance on the Jackals. Plant as many informants as possible, especially within their higher ranks. And continue the search for our missing informants on the Ratcatchers' side."
The assistant quickly wrote everything down. When he finished, he asked, "Is that all, sir?"
Volkov paused, then added, "Relay this to the Politsiya as well. Instruct them to continue arresting members of the Jackals for questioning. Extract whatever information they can. The reports said that some were killed. We need to find where they are buried or thrown."
"Yes, sir." The assistant bowed slightly. "I'll pass the orders immediately."
Volkov nodded and waved him away.
Alone at last, he allowed himself to sink back into his chair.
He didn't know whether these Jackals would become a serious problem in the future, but at the very least, one major thorn had been removed.
If what the reports said was true.
—---
"Your complexion has been a bit pale these past few days, Your Highness. Are you feeling unwell?" Sednev asked as he followed the Tsarevich toward his sister's rooms.
Alexei didn't answer immediately. He walked a little farther before speaking. "I've been having dreams lately, Sednev. But don't worry, I can handle it. It'll all pass once the new year arrives."
He flashed a brief smile at his attendant, then turned his attention back to the corridor ahead.
Sednev looked at his Tsarevich's back and couldn't help but shake his head. He had noticed that every morning when he entered the Tsarevich's room, his master appeared tired and lacking sleep, even though the Tsarevich had been retiring early each evening for the past few days.
Stress, Sednev told himself. It had to be stress.
The past months had been anything but gentle. Lessons, duties, and endless hands-on training across different ministries must have placed immense pressure on his Tsarevich's shoulders. Even grown men would crack under such a load. That his Tsarevich still smiled, still reassured others, only made Sednev more uneasy. He had seen men sacrifice their health for duty before, and he did not like how those stories ended.
The thought of informing the Tsar crossed his mind, but Sednev hesitated. He had noticed that his Tsarevich disliked it when matters about him were reported to the Tsar or anyone else. There would be that look of disappointment, sometimes even dismay, that made Sednev and even Nagorny feel as though they had overstepped.
In the end, he decided to wait until after the New Year. If his Tsarevich's complexion still had not improved by then, he would report it, regardless of his reaction. He had a duty to fulfill, and part of that duty was to ensure the Tsarevich's health. On that, at least, Sednev would not compromise.
Alexei noticed the way his attendant looked at him, but he chose not to dwell on it and continued walking. He had been doing his best to hide his lack of sleep and the fatigue etched into his face, but it was impossible to conceal such things from those who accompanied him throughout the day. His attendants saw him too often and too closely, to be fooled.
They could think whatever they wished. At the very least, he had accomplished what he and his minions had spent so long preparing for, and that, to him, was enough.
He was certain he could set his health back in order with a proper night's sleep and a single session of cultivation. Because of that, he wasn't worried about them speaking to his father over something so minor.
When they reached his sister's door, Alexei slowed and nodded to the guards guarding it. He raised a hand, giving a brief knock before pushing it open. He stepped inside without hesitation, his expression settling into something calm and composed, as though the weight of the night before had never existed at all.
Inside, the room was warm and softly lit. His sisters were already gathered near the beds, nightclothes on, hair loosened, their voices low and animated as they chatted among themselves. Whatever they had been talking about paused the moment they noticed him.
"Brother!" Maria called out, her eyes bright as she ran toward him and leapt forward.
Alexei caught her easily and kissed her on the forehead before setting her down. He then walked over to Olga and did the same, followed by Tatiana. When he glanced around the room, he noticed Anastasia was not there, likely with their mother, as she had always been.
"What took you so long, brother?" Tatiana asked.
Alexei sat down at the prepared chair before he answered. "Sorry, sister. Busy with duty these days."
"Your always busy brother. You hardly told us stories anymore." Olga crossed her arms with her signatured pouted look.
Alexei sighed softly as he looked at his sisters, his expression turning complicated. Sometimes, he wondered how men could kill these innocent ladies in his first life. He didn't know if they were this sweet and innocent before it happened. But he was sure they didn't deserve it.
He thought about if it happens again in this life. Especially now that he was their brother. He wondered what he would do to the world then.
He shook the thoughts away immediately and smiled brightly at Olga.
"I was busy preparing for our future little sister," he said lightly. "I'm sorry if I haven't had much time for you lately. I'll make it up to all of you when I can."
His sisters looked puzzled. Maria tilted her head and couldn't help but ask, "What is the future, brother?"
Alexei chuckled and reached out, ruffling her freshly combed hair without hesitation.
"Sometime soon," he said warmly. "You'll understand, my little princess."
Maria laughed at that, delighted, though her attendant's expression turned complicated as she glanced at the now-mussed hair she had just finished arranging.
Alexei ignored it and clapped his hands lightly. "Now then, what do you ladies want to hear tonight?"
"We want a superwoman story tonight," Olga called out first, folding her arms with clear determination.
"No!" Tatiana shot back at once. "It was superwoman last time. We want a princess story this time." She glared at her sister as if daring her to argue further.
In the blink of an eye, the two were arguing over each other, voices rising, words overlapping, neither willing to back down. Maria watched them with wide eyes, clearly entertained, while Alexei rubbed his temple in mock distress.
"Enough," he said calmly, but firmly.
Both girls froze mid-argument and turned to him at once.
Alexei sighed softly and looked between them, pretending to think it over. "Tatiana is right," he said at last. "We had a superwoman story last time. It's only fair we switch tonight."
Olga opened her mouth to protest, but Alexei raised a finger. "That said," he added with a small smile, "this princess won't be waiting around to be rescued. She'll be clever, brave, and capable in her own way."
That seemed to placate her, somewhat. Olga huffed, but nodded reluctantly.
"Now," Alexei continued, clapping his hands lightly, "tuck yourselves in. Storytime begins once everyone is ready."
Maria scrambled into bed immediately, pulling the blankets up to her chin with impressive speed. Tatiana followed more neatly, smoothing the sheets as she settled in. Olga took her time, but eventually climbed in as well, arranging her pillows just so.
Alexei pulled the chair closer and waited until they were all still. When the room finally quieted, he leaned forward, his voice dropping into that familiar, gentle cadence they all loved.
"Once upon a time," he began, "an adventurous princess sails out on a daring mission to save her people…."
Halfway through the story, Alexei noticed the door open softly behind him, but he didn't turn. He already knew who it was from the familiar scent in the air, and he continued without breaking his rhythm.
Behind him, Nicholas and Alexandra watched the scene in silence, their expressions soft and full of affection as they took in the sight before them.