The Eyes of Rasputin
The Winter Palace groaned under the immense weight of the Russian winter. Outside, Petrograd was a ghost city buried in a white shroud; inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and the metallic tang of an approaching storm.
Fox Smith sat by the frost-etched window of their guest chamber, his gaze fixed on the Hub bracelet. Its once-vibrant pulse had dimmed to a rhythmic, dying ember. He could feel the reality of 1913 pushing back against them, trying to eject the "foreign objects" they had become.
"He’s watching us," Fox said, his voice barely a whisper.
Nathan stopped sharpening a pencil he’d found. "The Tsar? His guards are everywhere, Fox. Of course we’re being watched."
"Not the Tsar," Fox corrected, his eyes reflecting the blue ice outside. "Rasputin. I can feel him pressing against my mind, like he’s trying to read the index of our lives."
"That guy is a walking nightmare," Andrew muttered, shivered. "He looks at you like he knows your middle name and your worst memory."
"He might," Fox said. "He isn't just a mystic playing a part. He’s touched the Frequency. Maybe he didn't have a Hub bracelet, but he’s walked the halls. He’s a fracture that learned how to talk."
The heavy oak door groaned open. Two guards, their faces as cold as the bayonets they carried, stepped in to flank a towering figure in black. Rasputin’s eyes glinted like oil on water.
"The Tsar requests your presence," Rasputin rasped, a thin smile curling beneath his beard. "The emperor wishes to conclude the mystery of the Four Strangers."
They were led through the palace’s labyrinthine heart, passing portraits of long-dead Romanovs whose eyes seemed to follow them. They reached a private study—intimate, yet suffocatingly regal. Tsar Nicholas sat at a writing desk; his posture slumped under the invisible weight of a collapsing empire. Alexandra stood behind him, her knuckles white as she gripped the back of his chair.
Rasputin lingered by the door, a shadow that refused to blend in.
"I have conferred with my advisors," Nicholas began, his voice weary. "And with Grigori. You claim to be from a time yet to be born. You claim to have saved my son's life."
"We did," Nathan said, stepping forward. "We didn't come to steal or kill. We’re just travelers who took a wrong turn."
Rasputin took a step into the light. "They lie with every breath. They are not travelers—they are fractures. Their very presence is a wound in the skin of Russia."
Michael stood his ground. "You’ve seen the Hub, haven't you? You know what we are."
Rasputin’s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "I have walked the Corridor of Doors since before your fathers were born. I have seen the rooms that remember and the hallways that lead to Nowhere. I have seen the Girl with the Golden Eyes."
Fox’s breath hitched in his chest. "You’ve seen her?"
"She is the Echo," Rasputin hissed. "She walks ahead of time, sowing the seeds of the Unbound. You bring her closer with every step you take. You are the beacon; she is the flame."
"Enough!" Nicholas shouted, slamming his hand on the desk. He looked at the boys, his eyes filled with a mixture of pity and fear. "You are not spies, but you are a danger I cannot define. You are to leave my Russia immediately. If you are found within these walls by sunrise, the Ochrana will ensure you never see your 'future' again."
The boys were separated. Fox found himself in a cell deep beneath the palace kitchens, where the stone walls sweated brine. He sat in the dark, tracing the edge of his bracelet.
"She’s not supposed to be here," Fox whispered to the darkness. "The Girl with the Golden Eyes... she’s the 2nd Edition. She’s the bridge."
He closed his eyes and felt a psychic ripple. He saw her—standing in a hallway of mirrors, her golden gaze fixed on a point five hundred years away.
Hours passed until the lock on his cell door clicked with a soft, metallic chime. It wasn't a guard. It was the Tsarevich Alexei, wrapped in a fur cloak that swamped his small frame. He held a heavy iron key, his face pale but his eyes burning with an unnatural clarity.
"I followed the thread," Alexei whispered. "The golden thread you left behind."
Fox stood slowly, stunned. "Alexei? You shouldn't be able to see the threads. You’re not Unbound."
The boy smiled, a sad, knowing look. "Maybe I was never meant to be just a prince."
He led Fox through the dark service tunnels, moving with a silent grace that his hemophilia should have made impossible. They freed Nathan, Andrew, and Michael one by one.
"We have to go," Fox told them. "A fracture is opening near the servant's entrance. I can feel the Hub calling us back."
As they reached the door marked 1913 – Зимний дворец, Fox looked back. He felt the history of Russia—the coming fire, the blood on the snow—and he felt the boy's hand one last time.
"Remember the stars, Alexei," Fox said.
"I’ll see you in the mirrors," the prince replied.
The boys stepped through the shimmering veil. The brass plate on the Hub side went dark, its frequency satisfied.
Back in the empty throne room, Rasputin stood alone. He knelt and pressed his palm to the cold marble floor, whispering in a tongue that sounded like grinding stones. Behind him, a door opened in the empty air—black, humming, and rimmed in the same gold as the girl's eyes.
Rasputin did not follow them. He simply watched the space where they had been.
"Let them run," he whispered to the shadows of the empty palace. "The Hub is watching. And the Girl is waiting."
Fox Smith sat by the frost-etched window of their guest chamber, his gaze fixed on the Hub bracelet. Its once-vibrant pulse had dimmed to a rhythmic, dying ember. He could feel the reality of 1913 pushing back against them, trying to eject the "foreign objects" they had become.
"He’s watching us," Fox said, his voice barely a whisper.
Nathan stopped sharpening a pencil he’d found. "The Tsar? His guards are everywhere, Fox. Of course we’re being watched."
"Not the Tsar," Fox corrected, his eyes reflecting the blue ice outside. "Rasputin. I can feel him pressing against my mind, like he’s trying to read the index of our lives."
"That guy is a walking nightmare," Andrew muttered, shivered. "He looks at you like he knows your middle name and your worst memory."
"He might," Fox said. "He isn't just a mystic playing a part. He’s touched the Frequency. Maybe he didn't have a Hub bracelet, but he’s walked the halls. He’s a fracture that learned how to talk."
The heavy oak door groaned open. Two guards, their faces as cold as the bayonets they carried, stepped in to flank a towering figure in black. Rasputin’s eyes glinted like oil on water.
"The Tsar requests your presence," Rasputin rasped, a thin smile curling beneath his beard. "The emperor wishes to conclude the mystery of the Four Strangers."
They were led through the palace’s labyrinthine heart, passing portraits of long-dead Romanovs whose eyes seemed to follow them. They reached a private study—intimate, yet suffocatingly regal. Tsar Nicholas sat at a writing desk; his posture slumped under the invisible weight of a collapsing empire. Alexandra stood behind him, her knuckles white as she gripped the back of his chair.
Rasputin lingered by the door, a shadow that refused to blend in.
"I have conferred with my advisors," Nicholas began, his voice weary. "And with Grigori. You claim to be from a time yet to be born. You claim to have saved my son's life."
"We did," Nathan said, stepping forward. "We didn't come to steal or kill. We’re just travelers who took a wrong turn."
Rasputin took a step into the light. "They lie with every breath. They are not travelers—they are fractures. Their very presence is a wound in the skin of Russia."
Michael stood his ground. "You’ve seen the Hub, haven't you? You know what we are."
Rasputin’s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "I have walked the Corridor of Doors since before your fathers were born. I have seen the rooms that remember and the hallways that lead to Nowhere. I have seen the Girl with the Golden Eyes."
Fox’s breath hitched in his chest. "You’ve seen her?"
"She is the Echo," Rasputin hissed. "She walks ahead of time, sowing the seeds of the Unbound. You bring her closer with every step you take. You are the beacon; she is the flame."
"Enough!" Nicholas shouted, slamming his hand on the desk. He looked at the boys, his eyes filled with a mixture of pity and fear. "You are not spies, but you are a danger I cannot define. You are to leave my Russia immediately. If you are found within these walls by sunrise, the Ochrana will ensure you never see your 'future' again."
The boys were separated. Fox found himself in a cell deep beneath the palace kitchens, where the stone walls sweated brine. He sat in the dark, tracing the edge of his bracelet.
"She’s not supposed to be here," Fox whispered to the darkness. "The Girl with the Golden Eyes... she’s the 2nd Edition. She’s the bridge."
He closed his eyes and felt a psychic ripple. He saw her—standing in a hallway of mirrors, her golden gaze fixed on a point five hundred years away.
Hours passed until the lock on his cell door clicked with a soft, metallic chime. It wasn't a guard. It was the Tsarevich Alexei, wrapped in a fur cloak that swamped his small frame. He held a heavy iron key, his face pale but his eyes burning with an unnatural clarity.
"I followed the thread," Alexei whispered. "The golden thread you left behind."
Fox stood slowly, stunned. "Alexei? You shouldn't be able to see the threads. You’re not Unbound."
The boy smiled, a sad, knowing look. "Maybe I was never meant to be just a prince."
He led Fox through the dark service tunnels, moving with a silent grace that his hemophilia should have made impossible. They freed Nathan, Andrew, and Michael one by one.
"We have to go," Fox told them. "A fracture is opening near the servant's entrance. I can feel the Hub calling us back."
As they reached the door marked 1913 – Зимний дворец, Fox looked back. He felt the history of Russia—the coming fire, the blood on the snow—and he felt the boy's hand one last time.
"Remember the stars, Alexei," Fox said.
"I’ll see you in the mirrors," the prince replied.
The boys stepped through the shimmering veil. The brass plate on the Hub side went dark, its frequency satisfied.
Back in the empty throne room, Rasputin stood alone. He knelt and pressed his palm to the cold marble floor, whispering in a tongue that sounded like grinding stones. Behind him, a door opened in the empty air—black, humming, and rimmed in the same gold as the girl's eyes.
Rasputin did not follow them. He simply watched the space where they had been.
"Let them run," he whispered to the shadows of the empty palace. "The Hub is watching. And the Girl is waiting."