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November 10th, 1939 – St. Petersburg, Ruthenia Empire

The streets of St. Petersburg were a portrait of chaos. Once grand boulevards were now filled with angry crowds, their voices rising in a deafening symphony of rage and despair. The defeat in the war against Valoria had devastated Ruthenia, and the wounds of humiliation were fresh. But it wasn't just the military loss that fueled the unrest—it was the crumbling economy, the rising cost of basic goods, and the growing divide between the rulers and the ruled.

Outside the Winter Palace, the heart of imperial authority, thousands of protesters gathered. They carried makeshift banners scrawled with angry slogans: "Down with the Tsar!" "No more suffering!" "Bread, not bullets!"

Police and soldiers formed a shaky line between the palace and the mob, their expressions betraying their own doubts. Some had families in the same streets, facing the same hunger, the same hopelessness.

In the midst of the turmoil, Ivan Petrov, a factory worker and father of three, stood atop a crate, his voice cutting through the crowd. "How long will we suffer for their failures? How long will our children starve while they feast behind those walls?"

The crowd roared in agreement, fists raised high.

Tsar Ivan Alexandrovich sat at the head of the council chamber, his advisors arguing amongst themselves. The once-proud ruler now looked weary, his eyes shadowed from sleepless nights.

"We cannot ignore this any longer, Your Majesty," Count Mikhailov said, slamming his fist on the table. "The people are starving. The treasury is drained. If we do not act, this unrest will become a full-blown revolution."

"And what do you suggest?" snapped General Orlov, his uniform immaculate despite the chaos outside. "Capitulate to the mob? Let them dictate terms? That will only embolden them!"

Count Mikhailov retorted, "Ignoring them has done nothing but worsen the situation. The cost of bread has tripled, and wages have stagnated. We promised sacrifices for victory, but all we've delivered is defeat and despair."

Tsar Ivan Alexandrovich raised a hand, silencing the room. His voice was quiet but firm. "Enough. We are not here to bicker like children. What are our options?"

Finance Minister Ivanov cleared his throat nervously. "Your Majesty, we could impose price controls on essential goods to ease the burden on the people. It would be a temporary solution, but it might buy us time."

"And what of the treasury?" Ivan asked, his tone sharp.

Ivanov hesitated. "The treasury is... severely depleted, Your Majesty. Additional measures would be required—perhaps loans from Francois or Britannia."

The room fell silent. Turning to the window, Alexei gazed out at the distant flames of street bonfires, the voices of the people faint but unrelenting.

Near Nevsky Prospekt, clashes erupted between protesters and police. A line of mounted officers charged into the crowd, swinging batons to break up the demonstrations. Screams echoed as people scattered, some fighting back with whatever they could find—bricks, wooden planks, even bare fists.

A young woman named Anya, barely twenty, stood her ground. Her father had died in the war, and her family now survived on scraps.

"They cannot silence all of us!" she shouted, her voice filled with defiance.

But the force of the police was overwhelming. Anya was struck down, her cries drowned in the chaos. Ivan Petrov rushed to help her, pulling her to safety as the crowd retaliated, forcing the police to retreat.

"You're brave," Kalashkov said, helping Anya to her feet. "But bravery won't fill our stomachs."

"No," Anya replied, wiping blood from her lip. "But it will remind them that we won't bow."

As night fell, the protests showed no sign of stopping. Tsar Ivan Alexandrovich paced the chamber, his nerves fraying. General Orlov stood by the window, watching the fires in the distance.
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"Your Majesty," Orlov said, "if this continues, the revolutionaries will grow bolder. They might storm the palace. We must consider declaring martial law."

Tsar Ivan Alexandrovich paused, weighing the suggestion. "And how many of our own people would die, General? How many soldiers would turn their guns on their neighbors, their families?"

Count Mikhailov stepped forward. "Your Majesty, we must address the people directly. A speech, a promise of reforms—something to show them you are still their ruler."

Tsar Ivan Alexandrovich shook his head. "Words will not calm the hunger in their bellies. But... you are right. We must do something."

***

The flickering light of torches illuminated the faces of the angry crowd as Tsar Ivan Alexandrovich took his place on the hastily erected platform. His imperial regalia, though meticulously crafted, could not mask the weariness in his movements or the tension in his voice. The square fell into an uneasy silence as thousands waited to hear the words of their beleaguered leader.

"My people," Ivan began, his voice carrying over the restless crowd, "I have heard your cries. I see your suffering, and I feel the weight of your pain. I stand before you not as a distant ruler, but as a man who understands the trials you endure."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. Some were hopeful, others skeptical. Ivan continued.

"Today, I announce immediate reforms. Price controls on bread and essential goods will take effect. Government support will be extended to reopen factories and ensure fair wages. These are not just words but actions that begin now."

The crowd responded with a mixture of cheers and jeers. Ivan raised his hand to quiet them, preparing to say more when a sharp crack rang out, splitting the tense air.

The Tsar staggered, clutching his left shoulder as a crimson stain spread across his golden robe. The crowd erupted in gasps and screams. Ivan's guards rushed to his side, their shouts of alarm cutting through the chaos.

"Sniper!" one of the officers yelled, pointing toward the rooftops.

High above the square, a shadowy figure darted out of sight, leaving behind only the faint glint of a rifle barrel. Police scrambled to locate the shooter, while the Tsar's guards began dragging him off the platform.

"Get him inside!" barked General Orlov, who had been overseeing security. His face was pale but resolute.

The crowd, initially frozen in shock, descended into chaos. Protesters surged forward, desperate to see what had happened, while the police formed a barricade to hold them back. Mistrust and panic spread like wildfire.

One of the police commanders, believing the sniper might be hidden among the crowd, shouted an order that would prove catastrophic: "Ready your rifles! The assassin is among them!"

The officers hesitated for a moment but then aimed their weapons at the restless crowd. Protesters near the front, unaware of the misunderstanding, shouted in protest, throwing stones and debris at the advancing line of police.

A single gunshot cracked the air, followed by another. Then came the roar of a full volley.