Prologue
“I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.” - George Orwell
While memories of revolutions heavily focus on the fire and ash, let us not forget the humble spark. It’s the incendiary device that rips fabric from the seams, pulls hearts from their chests, and babes prematurely from their mothers.
Before the fires and the firing squads, before the wretched rumors and the gossip that tore a dynasty apart — the smallest of sparks, the brightest of flames, brought 300 years of history and divine rule to its knees. Yet, it was not bombs or bullets that provoked a revolution and toppled the gold-drenched domes of Russia.
It was but two people who fanned a spark that became a flame; one that lit the match that burned down life as they knew it; all while the couple danced in the center of the fire’s afterglow and kissed the ash from one another’s cheeks.
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St. Petersburg was a haven for the rich, the mighty, and the occult. In 1901, she was a glistening whirl of parties, balls, masques, rituals, sacrifices, and holy baptisms — all baking together under fur trappings and operatic arias.
The Romanov dynasty had been in effect for over 300 years, bringing about the belief of a god-divined right to rule Russia. Which, in turn, created a passive view towards their positions as totalitarian rulers. It bred the rationalization that God found them worthy to rule over the country, which meant, whatever happened to Mother Russia had to be His will. Why else would their lineage have stayed in power through the decades?
Tsar Nicholas II believed their only responsibility was to keep up the iron fist under which eighty percent of the country suffered; the Romanovs had increased in power and decreased in commitment. Famine stretched as far as it did wide, and a shortage of firewood plagued the poor — while the wealthy hosted dinners that displayed caviar purely for the aesthetic and held celebrations where half the food prepared was wasted.
But all that glitters is not gold.
In reality, something far more sinister lurked underneath the silver plating and rough-cut gemstones. It was a front that disguised old-world rituals that had been in effect for centuries.
There was an innumerable amount of secret cabinets, courts, and committees — all with one tie to some religion or another or some secret lord of the state — turning the political subterfuge in the Winter Palace into a melting pot of black magic and Latin recitations of the Lord’s Prayer.
Every dance held midnight incantations where saints walked the halls of the Winter Palace like shadows, every song was a prayer played backward, and every jewel was cursed; when there was a masque, there was hardly ever not a hidden priest or khlyst devotee behind it.
The Romanovs' increasing paranoia and grip on the edge of their dynasty’s gilded seat caused them to seek counsel in the arms of thedvoryanstvo,the nobility, and, more secretly, their priests. A delicate balance between money and religion rocked the family into two separate directions, the Tsarina clinging to her priests as the Tsar did to his nobles.
It was this whirling family portrait of fanaticism and opulence that Anastasia Romanova was dropped into, carrying the last of her father’s family magic, which her mother had prayed against, and her father had exorcised.
At her fingertips, she held the beginnings of a spark that would incinerate everything around her, leaving behind nothing but ashes that would give way to only two names that rang through history itself: Rasputin and Anastasia.
1
Anastasia hated her prayers.
As she pushed a blonde curl back behind her ear and mouthed the words that she was forced to memorize ten times over, she couldn't help the look of exasperation that worked its way into her features. Even if the only person who saw it was the gleaming marble statue of the Virgin Mother.
"Anastasia," her mother, Alexandra Feodorovna, hissed, kneeling at the bench beside her, "Do it again." Her mother's delicate hand reached over and pinched Anastasia’s arm so hard she almost yelped, which was impressive in its own right, considering the layers of Anastasia’s dress. Apparently, it wasn’t just the Virgin Mother that saw her grimace.
The church in the Winter Palace looked more like an opulent dressing room than a sacred space. While it was littered with relics and mystical objects alike, there was an energy about it that kept people on edge. It was far from the kind of consecrated ground that would make one feel at peace or closer to a higher power.
Instead, it felt like something dark and sinister. The cruelest irony of all was that due to its location inside the Winter Palace, the church only served those who viewed themselves as the mouthpieces of God himself, which didn't include clergy.
With its arched ceilings and gold filigree, the domed ceilings created a permanent echo that made the space feel cold and empty. Thick incense smoke mingled with that of a hundred candles hung in the air and stuck to the plush tapestries on the wall.
Anastasia knew how often her mother traded acolytes like dinner plates, always fawning after some new cleric. Each one allegedly held all the answers to their woes, which always made Anastasia's stomach turn uncomfortably. What woes? They were praying in a golden silo.
"Anastasia Nikolaevna," her mother hissed, "Do it again."
This time, the priest had overheard them, turning towards the duo in prayer with a mocking expression of contriteness. Anastasia didn't know which priest this was, only that he was a new possession in her mother’s occultist pockets that she’d spent little time with. Alexandra's face was one of genuine disbelief and horror as she stared at the priest with dismay.
"Father, she won't say her prayers. I told you," the Tsarina's expression shifted from dismay to frustration. "You said that this would work."
Anastasia stopped, sitting up on her knees as she leaned away from the prayer bench.
"What would work?" Her stomach dropped as she saw the look passing between her mother and the priest. At only thirteen, Anastasia had seen enough political and religious conflict to know when she was being used as a pawn.
"It's for your own good," Alexandra turned and grasped her daughter's hands as her face turned white, an expression Anastasia believed her mother could summon on command due to her tendency to fall into a religious fervor. "You must say your prayers, perfectly, one hundred times tonight, so that your child will save our family!"
