The summer heat baked the fields of Volkovo, but for the first time in memory, it felt productive. The peas they harvested were not plentiful, but they were filling, a welcome change from the thin gruel that had defined their existence. The cow, fattened on the rich clover Mikhail had insisted upon, gave milk that was creamier, a small luxury that felt monumental. These were small victories, hard-won through sweat and Mikhail's strange new methods. The tenants no longer looked at him with suspicion; they watched him with a wary curiosity that was slowly hardening into loyalty.
Now, as the potato harvest was brought in, all eyes turned to the strange, modified copper still gleaming in the shed. The real test was about to begin. Following Mikhail's precise, almost fanatical instructions, Pyotr nervously managed the fire while Mikhail monitored the strange new additions to the still. Instead of the harsh, throat-burning swill they were used to, the spirit that dripped from the condenser was clean, clear, and carried only a faint, almost sweet aroma.
When Semyonov's wagon arrived in late autumn, it was driven not by the merchant himself, but by a sour-faced clerk named Pavel. He stepped down with the weary air of a man sent on a fool's errand, carrying a stack of empty bottles.
"Baron Volkov," Pavel sighed, not bothering to hide his disdain. "The master sends his compliments and bids you fill these with your… potato spirit."
Mikhail said nothing. He simply ladled a small amount of the new vodka into a cup and handed it to the clerk. Pavel, expecting to spit the foul liquid out, took a tentative sip. His eyes widened. He took another, larger swallow, his expression shifting from contempt to disbelief, and then to avarice. The spirit was impossibly smooth, with none of the oily burn of common moonshine. It was better than the rye vodka his master sold for three times the price.
"How much of this do you have?" Pavel asked, his voice now an urgent whisper.
"Two hundred liters from this first run," Mikhail replied coolly. "As per the contract."
The clerk hastily loaded the casks, his hands treating them like precious jewels. He paid Mikhail the agreed-upon one hundred rubles—fifty kopeks per liter—and left with a new and profound respect for the impoverished boy-baron of Volkovo.
The small pouch of coins from their first sale felt dangerously light, a reminder that this success was fragile. It wasn't enough to celebrate; it had to be planted like a seed. Mikhail rode their only mare to Pskov two days later. Leaving the quiet destitution of his lands for the provincial capital was a jarring shift. Pskov was a noisy, chaotic collision of eras. The ancient stone walls of the Kremlin brooded over streets choked with the traffic of a changing Russia: merchants in fine coats, uniformed soldiers, anxious-looking bureaucrats, and the ever-present shadow of the poor.
He ignored the taverns and fine shops. His first stop was a bookseller. He spent hours Browse the dusty shelves, his heart pounding with an academic's thrill. He purchased a German text on inorganic chemistry, a French treatise on metallurgy, and a well-regarded Russian manual on agronomy. He also acquired a detailed set of topographical maps of the surrounding governorates. The bookseller, intrigued by the young nobleman's strange and technical selections, gave him a curious look but dutifully took his money.
His second stop was for hardware: high-quality steel spades, a fine-toothed saw, a surveyor's chain, and several lengths of copper tubing. With every purchase, a piece of his plan slotted into place.
He was tying the last of the rope when the texture of the city's noise changed. The usual din was pierced by shouting. Near the gates of a textile factory, a cluster of men—all sharp angles and worn-out fabric—were yelling at a stout official. It was the kind of scene Alistair had read about, but one the boy Mikhail knew instinctively. The raw, guttural Russian of the factory floor, a language of grievance, flowed into his mind without effort. He paused, feigning an adjustment to his saddle, and listened. "How are we to feed our families on this?" one of them cried, his voice raw. "Our children fall ill while the master builds a new house!"
Two policemen with thick mustaches and heavy batons quickly moved in, their expressions bored and brutal. There was no negotiation, no discussion. The lead officer simply struck the shouting worker across the back with his baton. The man crumpled, and the small protest dissolved into fearful murmurs. The official watched, unmoved, before turning and walking back into the factory.
Alistair the historian had read about such scenes a thousand times. But for Mikhail the Baron, witnessing it firsthand sent a cold fury through his veins. It was the inefficiency that angered him as much as the injustice. This was the rot at the heart of the empire. Discontent wasn't being managed; it was being beaten down, left to fester in the dark until it exploded. A smart owner would have paid a decent wage and gotten better productivity. A wise state would have arbitrated. The current regime did neither. It was a system that created revolutionaries out of sheer, stupid neglect.
On his way out of the city, he passed the governor's mansion. A lavish carriage was pulling away, and through its window, he caught a glimpse of a young woman. She was exquisitely dressed, her face a perfect, porcelain oval framed by an elegant hat. Her eyes, cool and intelligent, met his for a fleeting second. She saw a boy in dusty, provincial clothes on a tired-looking horse. In her, he saw an effortless authority, the embodiment of the power and position that seemed as distant to him as the moon. The gulf between his muddy boots and her silk dress was the chasm he intended to cross.
The ride home was long, but his mind was anything but idle. The sight of the beaten worker had clarified something for him. His ambition wasn't simply a lust for the throne. It was the cold recognition that the entire imperial system was inefficient, brittle, and destined to shatter. It wasted its people and invited rebellion through sheer incompetence. What it needed was not a kinder master, but a ruthlessly logical one. He wouldn't just rule; he would re-engineer the state itself.
Back in the dusty study of his dilapidated manor, Mikhail carefully unpacked his acquisitions. He spread the new maps over his table, their crisp paper covering the old, tattered ones. He laid out the books, the tools, the copper tubing. This was his arsenal. These were the weapons of his quiet revolution.
The vodka had saved him from drowning. But it was here, in these books of science, these tools of creation, and these maps of his future battlefields, that the true work of building an empire would begin. He would start with the soil of his own land, but he would not stop until he had reshaped the soul of Russia itself.