The palace corridors were dim even at midday, lit by gas lamps that hissed softly against the spring chill seeping through stone walls. Prince Aleksandar—Marko within—walked them with deliberate steps, flanked by Colonel Raša and two trusted subalterns from the palace guard. Their boots echoed in perfect rhythm, a sound that carried authority the boy-king had never wielded before.
It was April 12 by the Julian calendar Serbia still clung to—April 24 Gregorian, though few in Belgrade bothered with the Western reckoning. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, history would record the moment a teenage monarch seized power from his regents, dissolved the puppet cabinet, and proclaimed himself ruler in full. In the original timeline, Aleksandar Obrenović had done exactly that: arrested Jovan Ristić and the others in a swift, bloodless move backed by loyal officers and popular discontent. The act had been celebrated at first—Radicals cheered the end of conservative regency, peasants hoped for tax relief, officers dreamed of promotions.
But Marko knew the sequel. The boy-king would recall his wastrel father Milan from exile, surround himself with sycophants, marry the unsuitable Draga Mašin in 1900, and lose the army's loyalty. By 1903, the May Coup would see him and his wife butchered, their bodies mutilated and thrown from palace windows. Karađorđević would return, and Serbia would lurch toward another decade of instability before the Yugoslav dream.
Not this time.
Marko had spent the previous night refining the plan. It was simple in outline, complex in execution: co-opt the historical coup, but twist it. Make it his own. Ensure the army saw him as the strong hand, not a puppet. Neutralize threats before they formed. And begin planting seeds for the long game—industrial, military, diplomatic.
He paused outside the regents' council chamber. Inside, voices murmured: Ristić's dry, legalistic tone; Protić's gruff interruptions; Avramović's nervous interjections. They were discussing the latest Radical demands—Nikola Pašić, freshly returned from exile, was agitating for constitutional revision, lower taxes, and more Slavic autonomy from Austrian influence.
Perfect timing.
Marko nodded to Raša. The colonel rapped sharply on the oak door.
"Enter," came Ristić's voice, expecting a servant or messenger.
The doors swung open. Marko stepped in first, uniform impeccable, saber at his side. Behind him, Raša and the subalterns fanned out, hands resting casually near holsters. The regents froze mid-sentence.
"Your Majesty," Ristić said, rising slowly. The old statesman's face was a mask of polite surprise, but his eyes flickered with calculation. "We were not informed of your intention to join us."
"I was not informed I needed permission to enter my own council chamber," Marko replied evenly. He took the head of the table without invitation—the king's seat, empty since Milan's abdication. "Sit, gentlemen. We have much to discuss."
They sat, wariness thickening the air like smoke.
Marko placed a folded document on the table—a draft proclamation he had written in the small hours, inked in his own hand. "As of this moment, the regency ends. I am of age, and I assume full powers as guaranteed by the constitution of 1869. The cabinet is dismissed. New ministers will be appointed within the week."
Silence.
Protić's face reddened. "Sire, this is… irregular. The Skupština must—"
"The Skupština will be informed," Marko cut in. "And it will approve. The people are tired of divided rule. They want a king who leads, not a committee that debates."
Ristić leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Your Majesty is young. The burdens of state—"
"Are mine to bear." Marko met his gaze. "You have served faithfully. For that, you will receive pensions, honors, and no prosecution. Refuse, and the army will escort you to comfortable exile. Choose."
The subalterns shifted slightly—enough to remind everyone of the bayonets outside.
Avramović swallowed. "We… accept, Sire."
Ristić studied Marko for a long moment. Something in the boy's eyes—too steady, too knowing—made the old liberal hesitate. But he had no cards left. "As Your Majesty commands."
Marko exhaled inwardly. First hurdle cleared. Bloodless, as history intended, but with him firmly in control.
He stood. "Colonel Raša, see the gentlemen to their residences. No one leaves Belgrade without my permission for the next month. Inform the garrison commanders: double pay for the next quarter to loyal units. Announce a review tomorrow at Kalemegdan."
Raša saluted. "At once, Sire."
As the regents were led away—stunned but unharmed—Marko turned to the map still spread on the table. He traced the Drina River, the border with Austria-Hungary. Bosnia lay just beyond, occupied since 1878, full of Serb peasants chafing under Habsburg officials.
"Time for the next move," he murmured.
That afternoon, Marko summoned Queen Natalija to the private salon. His mother entered like a storm—tall, dark-haired, still beautiful in her thirties, dressed in severe black that accentuated her regal bearing. She had been exiled once by Milan, returned after his abdication, and now hovered on the edge of power like a hawk.
"You dismissed the regents," she said without preamble. "Without consulting me."
"I am king, Mother," Marko replied calmly. "Consultation is courtesy, not requirement."
Her eyes narrowed. "You speak like your father. Arrogant. Reckless."
"I speak like a man who knows what happens if we continue as before." He gestured to a chair. She sat, reluctantly.
Marko poured tea—Russian samovar, strong and bitter, the way she liked it. "Austria strangles us with trade. Russia promises brotherhood but delivers meddling. The Radicals want revolution; the conservatives want stagnation. We need a third path: strength. Internal reform, external cunning."
Natalija sipped, watching him. "And you intend to provide this strength? At sixteen?"
"At sixteen I see what others do not." He leaned in. "I know the wars coming. Bulgaria will strike again if we are weak. The Ottomans will collapse in Macedonia. Austria will annex Bosnia outright. If we do nothing, we remain a pigsty between empires."
She set the cup down. "Bold words. What do you propose?"
"First: army. Modernize. Buy French Lebel rifles to supplement Mausers—better range. Build cartridge factories in Kragujevac. Train officers in staff college, not parade ground."
"Money?"
"French loans, but with strings we control. Belgian mining experts for Bor copper—sell to Germany at premium, undercut Austria."
Natalija's lips curved slightly—the first hint of approval. "And me? My role?"
"Ambassadress to the Slavs. Travel to Russia—Petrograd, Moscow. Charm the court. Secure a marriage prospect for me—perhaps a minor Romanov or Montenegrin princess. And whisper that Serbia is no longer Vienna's lapdog."
She studied him again. "You have changed, my son. Overnight."
"I awoke," he said simply.
Natalija rose. "Very well. I will play my part. But if you fail, the crown falls on both our heads."
She left without another word.
Evening brought the first real test.
A delegation from the Radical Party arrived unannounced—three men led by Stojan Protić, younger brother of the regent, fiery and ambitious. They were ushered into the throne room, where Marko waited alone except for Raša at the door.
Protić bowed stiffly. "Your Majesty. The people greet your assumption of power. But the people also demand—"
"Reforms," Marko finished. "Lower taxes on peasants. Land redistribution where possible. Freedom of press—within reason. Electoral changes to favor the countryside."
Protić blinked. "You… agree?"
"I agree in principle. In practice: gradual. Rush, and we invite Austrian intervention or peasant revolt we cannot control. First, stabilize finances. Then reform."
The Radicals exchanged glances. This was not the malleable boy they expected.
"And Pašić?" one asked. "He wishes audience."
"Tell Nikola Pašić he will be Prime Minister—when he proves loyalty to crown, not party. For now, he advises from the sidelines."
Protić bristled. "The party—"
"The party serves Serbia," Marko said sharply. "Or it doesn't serve at all."
Silence stretched. Then Protić bowed deeper. "As Your Majesty wills."
They left. Marko exhaled. The Radicals were tamed—for now. Pašić was a genius politician; better ally than enemy.
Late that night, alone in his chambers, Marko opened a ledger he had begun: "Ten-Year Plan."
Year 1–2 (1893–95): Consolidate power. Army reform (new rifles, artillery school). Economic survey (mines, agriculture). Diplomatic outreach (Russia, France).
Year 3–5 (1896–98): Industrial start. Cartridge/powder factories. Rail extension to Pirot, toward Sofia. Attract capital for copper/coal.
Year 6–8 (1899–1901): Military expansion. Conscription efficiency. Secret arms purchases. Stir Bosnia via cultural societies.
Year 9–10 (1902–03): Balkan opportunity. If Ottoman weakness, push Macedonia claims. If Austria moves on Bosnia, counter with alliance play.
He added notes in margins—future knowledge: dreadnought race coming, aviation experiments in France, internal combustion engines improving. Steal what he could via spies, students abroad, hired experts.
A knock. Raša entered. "Sire, officers request audience. They wish to swear personal loyalty."
Marko smiled. "Send them in."
Twenty young captains and majors filed in—faces earnest, mustaches waxed, eyes bright with nationalism. They knelt one by one.
Marko spoke quietly. "I will not promise easy victories. But I promise Serbia will rise. Not as beggar among empires, but as their equal. Swear to me, and I swear to you: no more defeats like Slivnitsa."
They swore.
As the last left, Raša lingered. "They believe in you, Sire."
"They believe in the idea," Marko corrected. "I must make it real."
Dawn broke over Belgrade. From the palace balcony, Marko watched the city wake—minarets and church domes side by side, smoke from chimneys, the distant call of muezzins and bells. A small kingdom, poor, divided, threatened.
But no longer leaderless.
Tomorrow: army review. First public display of the new king.
And the first step toward the eagle's flight.