The double doors of the grand dining room splintered under my boot, swinging wide with a crash that echoed like thunder through marble walls. Chandeliers trembled, their crystal prisms chiming with the violence of my entrance.
The nobles gasped, hands flying to their mouths, wine spilling across silk tablecloths. Dozens of guards leapt to their feet, chairs toppling as they drew sabers and rifles, barrels leveling toward me in the instant.
And yet, I did not flinch. I stood in the doorway, cloaked in shadow, violet flames smoldering faintly in my eyes.
Before the first shot could be fired, a voice rang out across the hall.
"СТОЙ!" Nicholas Romanov's command cut through the chaos. (Stop!)
The Tsar himself had risen from the head of the table. His face was pale, but his eyes—those same sharp eyes that once softened when they looked upon me in boyhood—were locked to mine with something between recognition and disbelief. He raised his hand, holding back the guards.
"Оставьте нас!" he barked. (Leave us!)
The guards hesitated, rifles half-raised, glancing to one another in confusion. But Nicholas' gaze brooked no argument. Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons, though they lingered near the edges of the room, hands still tight on their grips.
Nicholas stepped forward slowly, his boots clicking against the marble floor, every eye in the hall following his movement.
"Где ты был, Jeanyx?" His voice trembled at first, but steadied as he came closer. (Where have you been, Jeanyx?)
"Месяцами ты исчезал. Мы думали, что ты погиб." (For months you vanished. We thought you were dead.)
I did not answer. My stare remained blank, cold, the silence stretching heavy. Nicholas' steps faltered slightly under the weight of it, but he pressed on, his tone rising.
"Почему ты молчишь? Почему ты вернулся именно так?" (Why do you stay silent? Why do you return like this?)
I reached into my coat. The nobles gasped again, some ducking low as if expecting steel. Instead, I pulled out a thick bundle of papers bound in wax and slammed them down upon the nearest table. Silverware rattled, goblets spilled red wine like blood across white cloth.
The sound echoed like a gavel.
Nicholas froze, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the bundle. He reached with a tentative hand, fingers brushing the first page.
"Что это?" (What is this?)
My voice was low, sharp as broken glass.
"Это приказы моего отца. Его подпись. Его приказ предать меня." (These are my father's orders. His signature. His command to betray me.)
Nicholas' eyes flicked across the first few lines, his face paling. His lips moved, whispering as he read.
I stepped closer, my voice rising.
"И это не всё." (And that's not all.)
My hand slammed another set of documents atop the first. The nobles jumped at the sound.
"Вот предательство Дмитрия. Его отчёты—ложь. Он никогда не отправлял тебе правду о моих миссиях. Он скрывал мои победы. Превратил их в поражения. А моё арест—он даже не сообщил тебе." (Here is Dmitry's treason. His reports—lies. He never sent you the truth of my missions. He buried my victories. Turned them into defeats. And my arrest—he never even told you.)
Nicholas' jaw clenched. His hands trembled as he turned the pages, scanning the damning evidence. Each line of ink twisted the disbelief in his face into something harder, darker.
Finally, he looked up at me, his voice breaking.
"Ты хочешь сказать, что всё это время… я жил во лжи? Что твой отец… мой брат… использовал меня?" (You mean to say, all this time… I lived in lies? That your father… my brother… used me?)
I said nothing. Only stared, violet fire flickering in my gaze.
Nicholas staggered back a step, clutching the documents. His voice cracked with anguish, but also anger.
"Почему ты молчал все эти годы? Почему не пришёл ко мне раньше?" (Why did you stay silent all these years? Why did you not come to me sooner?)
My reply was a whisper, but it carried through the hall like thunder.
"Потому что ты никогда не услышал бы меня. Потому что он сделал всё, чтобы ты увидел во мне лишь тень." (Because you would never have heard me. Because he made sure you saw only a shadow when you looked at me.)
The room held its breath. Nobles shifted uneasily, whispering to one another, but none dared interrupt. Nicholas stood alone before me, his hand still clutching the damning proof, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
For the first time in my life, the Tsar looked not like a ruler draped in power… but like a man cornered by truth.
Nicholas stood silent for a long time, the bundle of papers trembling faintly in his hands. His eyes darted across the signatures, the falsified reports, the confessions written in ink that could no longer be denied. I could see the war inside him—one half of him the ruler, clinging to order, the other half the uncle who once ruffled my hair when I was a boy and called me by name with pride.
At last, he exhaled, his breath sharp.
"Я хочу верить тебе, Jeanyx… но это слишком велико, чтобы решить одному."
(I want to believe you, Jeanyx… but this is too great to decide alone.)
He turned, his voice echoing through the dining hall.
"Позовите Начальника Императорского Штаба. Немедленно."
(Summon the Chief of the Imperial Staff. Immediately.)
One of the aides bowed and fled the room, boots striking marble as he vanished down the corridor. Murmurs rippled through the nobles, their faces pale, their goblets trembling in uncertain hands. The guards, though ordered to hold, kept their fingers tight against their rifles, their eyes fixed on me as though I were a wolf that had walked calmly into their parlor.
Then the air shifted.
The tall doors at the far end of the hall opened again—not with violence, but with the soft gravity of inevitability. A man entered, his presence bending the atmosphere before him.
Long hair and beard, dark as midnight, eyes glimmering like oil lamps in a cavern. His cassock hung loose on his frame, his steps unhurried. Whispers rose like a tide among the courtiers.
Rasputin.
The holy man's gaze swept the hall once before settling upon me. And in that moment, the memory struck—the first time I had met him, years ago, when Nicholas had brought him into the court's orbit. We had not spoken much, but respect had been exchanged like a coin neither of us had any intention of returning. He had seen something in me then, and I had seen in him the unshakable will of a man who walked paths no priest should.
Now, across the hall, Rasputin and I nodded once—a silent recognition. There was no warmth in it, but neither was there hostility. Merely acknowledgement.
Nicholas noticed, his eyes narrowing with unease. He looked between us, his hand tightening on the documents.
"Так… вы знали друг друга."
(So… you knew each other.)
Rasputin's lips curved into the faintest smile, his voice smooth and low.
"Я давно знаю, что этот человек вернётся. Судьба держала его слишком прочно."
(I have long known this man would return. Fate held him too tightly to let him go.)
The Tsar's voice cracked, the weight of betrayal heavy on his tongue.
"Jeanyx… если это правда… то твой отец не только предал тебя. Он предал меня. Он предал всю империю."
(Jeanyx… if this is true… then your father did not only betray you. He betrayed me. He betrayed the entire Empire.)
I said nothing, my gaze locked with Nicholas'. My silence was answer enough.
The hall trembled not with violence, but with the burden of what had been laid bare. And for the first time, I saw the cracks in Nicholas II—not the cracks of a Tsar, but of a man who realized the foundations beneath him were built on lies.
The heavy doors swung wide again, and the Chief of the Imperial Staff entered with a measured stride. His uniform gleamed with medals, his expression a mask of military stone. He bowed briefly to Nicholas, then cast a cautious glance in my direction before stepping toward the table where the damning documents lay.
Nicholas gestured sharply.
"Проверь это. Немедленно."
(Examine this. At once.)
The chief adjusted his spectacles and began leafing through the papers. His eyes flicked quickly across the lines, trained by years of war reports and intelligence dossiers. For several minutes, the only sound was the turning of pages and the hushed breath of courtiers watching from the corners of the hall.
Then his face stiffened.
He tapped a particular page with two fingers, his voice low but edged with steel.
"Ваше Величество… вы это видели?"
(Your Majesty… did you see this?)
Nicholas blinked, frowning, and leaned in. The chief pointed at a paragraph buried deep within the treasonous reports—dry clinical lines describing an "asset of Romanov blood" subjected to experimental procedure with foreign biological material, overseen by Dmitry.
Nicholas' eyes widened as he read further, the words sinking into him like blades. He looked up at me, pale as marble, horror etched across his face.
"Они… они проводили эксперименты над тобой… моим племянником?"
(They… they experimented on you… my nephew?)
He stumbled from his chair, rushing forward without thought of protocol or crown. His hands gripped my shoulders, shaking me as though to reassure himself I was still whole, still flesh and blood. His voice broke with anguish.
"Где ты был? Что они сделали с тобой?"
(Where have you been? What did they do to you?)
I did not answer. Instead, I let the silence stretch. Then, slowly, I lowered my head.
And laughed.
The sound was hollow, echoing, wrong.
Before Nicholas could recoil, the flames erupted. My skin peeled away like burning parchment, skull blackened beneath, violet fire blazing from my sockets. The polished uniform of the palace guard shredded and melted into ash as Nyxia hissed her delight in my mind.
I rose taller, cloaked in fire and shadow, my skeletal hands still bound by the silver panjas bracelets. Chains coiled into existence, clattering against the marble floor. Gasps erupted throughout the hall; nobles fell to their knees, some screaming, others crossing themselves in frantic prayers. Guards leveled their rifles, their courage wavering against the infernal figure before them.
Nicholas staggered back, his face white with shock.
"Господи… Jeanyx… что они сделали с тобой?"
(My God… Jeanyx… what have they done to you?)
The floor beneath my feet cracked as black mold spread outward like veins of corruption. It crawled across the polished marble, swallowing the Tsar's double-headed eagle mosaics beneath its growth. From the patches of spreading decay, the first molded clawed their way free, hissing and snarling, their bodies twisted parodies of men.
The nobles screamed louder now, stumbling over one another in their silks and jewels, knocking over golden platters and crystal goblets in their desperation to flee. Guards opened fire, bullets sparking harmlessly off the creatures as more tore themselves from the living floor.
The dining hall had become a battlefield.
And I stood at its heart—flames and mold, fire and rot, vengeance incarnate—staring with empty sockets at the Tsar who had once called me his blood.
The molded shrieked, their claws tearing grooves into the marble floor as the last of the nobles scrambled out through side doors. The guards kept firing, desperate, hopeless, their bullets sparking off blackened hides and vanishing into the smoke of fire and rot.
And then—just as quickly as they had emerged—they were gone.
One by one, the creatures dissolved into sludge, their snarling mouths collapsing inward as if swallowed by invisible jaws. The mold receded from the floor in thick black veins, contracting, pulling back toward me. My flames dimmed, shrinking into violet embers, until even they were swallowed. My skin began to knit itself anew, raw bone vanishing beneath pale jade flesh. In seconds, the monstrous figure of vengeance was gone, leaving only me standing in the silence of a ruined dining hall.
I inhaled once, a deep and steady breath. My ribs rose and fell as though nothing had happened. My uniform was whole again, boots polished, the scent of smoke clinging faintly to the air.
Nicholas stood frozen, his hand clutching the edge of the long banquet table for balance. His face was pale, his lips trembling, eyes wide in disbelief. Around him, his guards lowered their rifles, fear outweighing discipline.
I looked at my uncle with calm, almost casual detachment.
"Это то, что они сделали со мной."
(This is what they did to me.)
I raised one hand and flexed my fingers, the skin still glowing faintly violet beneath the surface, as though embers burned in my veins.
"Они сделали меня… таким. Очень трудноубиваемым. Почти невозможным."
(They made me… this. Very difficult to kill. Almost impossible.)
The words hung heavy in the air, not as a boast but as a statement of fact. The truth was colder than fire, colder than mold.
Nicholas' eyes glistened, torn between horror and sorrow. He whispered, almost pleading,
"Мой племянник… что ты стал?"
(My nephew… what have you become?)
I did not answer immediately. For the first time since I had entered the palace, the silence belonged to me—and everyone in that chamber knew it.
Nicholas staggered back, his legs trembling as if the weight of the entire empire had suddenly fallen upon his shoulders. He collapsed into his chair at the head of the banquet table, the carved wood creaking under his weight. His hand went to his brow, fingers digging into his temples as he tried to steady himself. Around him, the remains of his court whispered in fear, silk rustling like the wings of trapped birds.
I could see it in his eyes: his world was crumbling.
Here sat the Tsar of All Russia, Emperor of a nation stretched from ocean to ocean—and yet he looked less like a sovereign and more like a man watching his family slip through his fingers. His lips trembled as he looked at me, but it wasn't with disgust. It was grief.
"Мальчик… ты был для меня больше, чем сын." His voice broke, softer than I had ever heard it. (Boy… you were more to me than a son.)
The words struck with a weight heavier than any bullet. He had never spoken them outright before, though I had always known. His own heir was fragile, distant, locked in a world of sickness. I, on the other hand, had been strong, eager, disciplined. I had been his pride, his hidden hope. And now… now he looked upon me and saw a monster wrapped in mold and fire.
Nicholas lowered his gaze, staring at the documents scattered before him. His hands shook as he pressed them flat, as though trying to keep the papers from blowing away, as though he could hold the world steady by force of will alone.
"Что они сделали с тобой… это невыносимо. Но я не слеп. Ты всё ещё здесь." His eyes rose, locking onto mine with a fierce clarity. (What they did to you… it is unbearable. But I am not blind. You are still here.)
For a moment, silence held the hall. The nobles dared not breathe. Even the guards shifted uneasily, their weapons slackening. In Nicholas' words was the echo of the man who had once been more uncle than emperor—the man who had pulled me onto his knee, who had sparred with me in the courtyards of Tsarskoye Selo, who had told me I carried the strength of our line.
But that moment of warmth was fleeting. Duty crept in behind his grief, a shadow reclaiming its throne.
The Chief of Staff stepped forward, his boots sharp against marble. He cleared his throat, his tone clipped, cold, and deliberate.
"Ваше Величество, с позволения… это не только вопрос семьи. Это угроза. Мы должны понимать, чем он стал."
(Your Majesty, with permission… this is not only a matter of family. This is a threat. We must understand what he has become.)
Nicholas turned sharply, his voice thunderous.
"Это мой племянник!" (He is my nephew!)
The Chief bowed slightly but did not yield.
"Он также может быть оружием, Ваше Величество. Несокрушимым. Если то, что он говорит, правда—он неубиваем. Подумайте, что это значит для Империи."
(He is also a weapon, Your Majesty. Indestructible. If what he says is true—he cannot be killed. Consider what that means for the Empire.)
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Some nobles clung to Nicholas' grief, whispering about family and honor. Others leaned into the Chief's pragmatism, eyes gleaming with the prospect of power. The divide in the court was as sharp as a blade, and I could feel it pressing against my throat.
Nicholas' hands curled into fists on the table. He looked at me again, his face caught between two roles: the uncle who loved me, and the Tsar who ruled millions. His voice wavered when he spoke, caught between heartbreak and steel.
"Jeanyx… скажи мне прямо. Ты всё ещё человек? Или ты уже нечто другое?"
(Jeanyx… tell me plainly. Are you still a man? Or are you something else now?)
The flames inside me flickered in response, violet light pulsing faintly beneath my skin. Mold stirred at the edges of my boots, eager, restless, loyal. Nyxia whispered amusement in my mind, her voice lilting, playful. "Tell him, beloved. Tell him you are both—and neither. Tell him what it means to be unkillable."
I held Nicholas' gaze, unblinking. Then I spoke, slow and deliberate.
"Я человек, которого они пытались уничтожить… и существо, которое они сами создали. Я — оба. И теперь меня убить почти невозможно."
(I am the man they tried to destroy… and the thing they created themselves. I am both. And now I am nearly impossible to kill.)
The hall erupted in whispers again, louder now, voices clashing. Some nobles crossed themselves, muttering prayers. Others leaned forward, hungry, whispering words like непобедимый—invincible.
Nicholas fell back in his chair, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of centuries pressed upon him. He rubbed his face with his hands, whispering brokenly to himself.
"Боже… Россия рушится, и теперь даже моя семья рвётся изнутри…"
(God… Russia crumbles, and now even my family tears itself apart…)
He looked at me again, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes.
"Ты всё ещё мой племянник. Но если Империя решит, что ты только оружие… я не знаю, смогу ли я тебя защитить."
(You are still my nephew. But if the Empire decides you are only a weapon… I don't know if I can protect you.)
The Chief of Staff turned sharply toward the Tsar, his voice iron.
"Ваше Величество, с таким, как он, Россия не будет нуждаться в чудесах. Она станет чудом."
(Your Majesty, with one such as him, Russia will not need miracles. It will be the miracle.)
The room fell into silence, every gaze locked upon me—monster, nephew, weapon, son.
And I realized then: I was no longer simply a man standing in the court of an emperor. I was a question no one in that room knew how to answer.
The dining hall had become a battlefield of silence. Nobles still whispered in frightened tones, eyes darting between me, Rasputin, and the Tsar. But Nicholas was no longer listening to them. He stared at me as though he were trying to memorize my face—every line, every flicker of violet in my eyes—before the weight of empire crushed us both.
At last, he stood. His voice, when it came, was low and controlled, but it carried the authority of a man used to command.
"Все уйдите. Немедленно."
(Everyone leave. At once.)
The nobles hesitated. Guards looked to one another, unsure. Nicholas' voice rose to thunder.
"Я сказал — УЙДИТЕ!"
(I said — LEAVE!)
Chairs scraped. Silks rustled. One by one, they filed out, whispering like a tide of frightened birds. When the doors finally closed, only a handful remained: Nicholas, pale and exhausted; the Chief of Staff, stiff with military pragmatism; Rasputin, silent and watchful; and me, still kneeling before the throne of blood that had betrayed me.
Nicholas sank back into his chair, running a trembling hand down his face. His voice was heavy with sorrow.
"Если это станет известно, Россия рухнет. Люди будут видеть не моего племянника, а чудовище."
(If this becomes known, Russia will collapse. The people will see not my nephew, but a monster.)
The Chief of Staff's tone was sharp, unyielding.
"Или они увидят ангела мести, Ваше Величество. Символ, что удержит врагов вдали. Но это должно решаться здесь, в тайне."
(Or they will see an angel of vengeance, Your Majesty. A symbol to keep enemies at bay. But this must be decided here, in secret.)
Rasputin finally spoke, his words slow, dripping with certainty.
"Судьба поставила его перед вами. Не как сына и не как врага. А как испытание. Его нельзя показать миру пока он сам не решит, кем станет."
(Fate has placed him before you. Not as a son, not as an enemy, but as a trial. He cannot be shown to the world until he himself decides what he will be.)
Nicholas' eyes filled with tears again, though he tried to blink them away. He looked at me with the same grief a father has when looking at a son too far gone to save, and yet he reached out a trembling hand.
"Jeanyx… я не хочу потерять тебя снова. Но если ты останешься… ты должен принять, что отныне твоя жизнь — тайна. Ты будешь моим щитом и моим мечом, но только для семьи. Для России ты умрёшь — официально."
(Jeanyx… I do not want to lose you again. But if you stay… you must accept that from now on, your life is a secret. You will be my shield and my sword, but only for family. To Russia, you will be dead—officially.)
I bowed my head deeper, my voice like stone.
"Я согласен. Только ради тебя. Только ради семьи."
(I agree. Only for you. Only for family.)
The Chief of Staff gave a curt nod, already calculating the logistics of rewriting history. Rasputin's smile widened faintly, as though this had always been the shape of things. And Nicholas Romanov, Emperor of All Russia, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer—not to God, but to the ghost of the boy he once loved as a son.
Behind the closed doors of the Alexander Palace, the world shifted. The court would whisper of monsters and miracles, but none would know the truth. The Tsar had gained a weapon, the family had gained back a son, and Russia… Russia had gained a secret buried in mold and fire.