Ruslan Bogdanovich Makarov's spoiled, twisted family is desperate to retain their power, but refuse to name him Tsesarevich, the crowned prince or heir apparent, because of his birth gender. Instead, they've welcomed Alexander Vissarionovich Sokolov...
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"Never leave The Hollows," his father had told him when he was but a boy, and just on the verge of understanding the world and its inner workings...
The Dukes had the Dales, and the Earls got the Shires, but The Hollows would always be theirs.
Bohort Hollow had been bequeathed to their family generations ago as recompense that they might remain there—forgotten, and silent as an unmarked grave. And there they had indeed remained, but not so forgotten and not so silent, for it seemed the royal messenger from the mountain palace still found the way down through the passes to the small hamlet and its equally small estate.
The roads were less like roads and more akin to thick mud traps laid by the late thaw and early rain, which left the ground soft and sopping wet. The lowlands that the Hollow inhabited became more like a bog this time of year, and many of the farmers spent their days dragging their livestock free of particularly treacherous holes in the muck.
The Royal messenger's once white steed was painted brown and black by the time he came to rest in front of the Sokolov's home. Like the rest of Bohort Hollow, the estate was modest and neglected—well past its prime, and in need of many things, least of which was company, the messenger wagered as he approached...
He was instructed to remove his boots. An odd request, but necessary as it was, for the tiny manor had an equally tiny staff, who lacked the luxury of continually clearing the foyer of mud. They did have a butler, who offered to take the note to the lord of the house, but the messenger held to his strict instructions. The message must be delivered, by hand, to Alexander Vissarionovich Valentyn Sokolov , and so he was brought to the parlor.
The room was grand, though heavily dated and dark. Bare, leafless branches obscured most of the view out the large windows and cut grim shadows across the floor. At the far end was Alexander, named after the great, but far removed of such title himself. He was the last heir in a dying line, a forgotten branch of a withering tree, much like those lingering outside the window.
"I hear you have word from the tsar, but refuse to give it to my loyal servants."
"Beg your pardon, My Lord, but I was instructed to relay it in person."
"Then give it here and see your obligation concluded," Alexander said, holding out his hand until the letter was laid within it. Without another word from either of them, the messenger left, and Alexander turned, drawing a blade from a small scabbard on his belt. In one smooth, swift cut, he'd parted the royal seal from the letter, sheathed the blade, and unfolded it...
His lips and eyes moved as he read, but no sound accompanied them. Then, as promptly as he'd opened it, he closed the letter and tossed it to his desk, stalking towards a large liquor cabinet.
"Ready my carriage," he said to his servant as he poured himself a drink. "...I leave for the palace at first light."
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