St. Petersburg in the winter of 1904 was a city of whispers. In the officer's clubs, the whispers were of defeats in Manchuria. But on the street, the talk was of something new: the Russo-Imperial Bank. The "Victory Bond" campaign, a joint creation of Mikhail and Witte, hit its mark perfectly. The posters showed heroic soldiers and promised a share in the nation's future industrial might. It worked. From the wealthy merchants on Nevsky Prospect to the grain traders in the outer districts, a new class of investors emerged. They lined up for hours outside the new bank headquarters, not just out of patriotism, but for the novel idea of personally profiting from the strength of the Empire itself.
The flood of new capital stabilized the nation's finances, but Mikhail had no intention of simply handing the funds over to the ministries. The Russo-Imperial Bank asserted its influence immediately, wielding its massive purse with precision. A loan for a new cannon factory was approved, but only on the condition that it adopt Volkovo's modern production standards. A grant to a provincial governor was fast-tracked after he agreed to implement Mikhail's logistical reforms. Capital was now a weapon, and Mikhail was using it to systematically reshape the Russian economy in his own image.
His power was now immense, a quiet, sprawling empire of industry, logistics, and finance. During a private dinner, Princess Sofia looked at him with an expression of awe mixed with a trace of fear. "You are no longer just a player in the game, Mikhail," she said. "You are beginning to own the board itself."
He gifted her a substantial, private share in the new bank. "An investment in a more interesting future," he said, echoing her own words back to her. Their alliance was now cemented in shared power and fortune.
But as Mikhail consolidated his power from the top down, the reports from Captain Orlov's Directorate showed a different kind of power bubbling up from below. The war's hardships were breeding deep unrest among the urban workers. Orlov's reports spoke with increasing frequency of a charismatic priest, Father Georgi Gapon, who was organizing the factory laborers of St. Petersburg into a massive "Assembly of Russian Factory and Mill Workers."
Alistair's memory screamed at the name. Father Gapon was the man who would lead a march on the Winter Palace.
On a cold January evening, Orlov delivered the final, critical report. "Gapon's Assembly is planning a march for this Sunday, the 22nd. They intend to march to the Winter Palace to deliver a petition to the Tsar in person. It is to be entirely peaceful. Women and children will be present. They will carry icons and portraits of the Tsar."
Mikhail stood before the fireplace, Orlov's report in his hand. The name 'Father Gapon' and the date—January 22nd—clicked into place with a chilling certainty from Alistair's memory. He saw the entire sequence of events laid out before him: the peaceful march, the panicked soldiers, the gunfire, the blood on the snow. He saw the precise moment the people's faith in the Tsar would be irrevocably broken. He weighed his options. Intervening would prevent the massacre but would also save the monarchy from its most self-destructive blunder. Allowing it to happen would give him the chaos he needed to seize power. A third option, colder and more precise, began to form in his mind.
He turned to Orlov, his course decided.
"Contact Matvei Gromov at the railway union. Tell him to support Gapon's march. I want his men there, disciplined and orderly, to swell the numbers."
More people meant the eventual tragedy would be even greater, the public outrage more profound.
"Also," he continued, "ensure your own men are positioned near the palace square. Not in uniform. I do not want them to interfere. I want them to observe, to identify the officers who give the orders to fire, and to be ready to extract certain individuals from the crowd if necessary. We will need credible, sympathetic witnesses later."
Finally, he sent a message to the commander of the military garrison at his Volkovo works, putting them on a state of heightened, but discreet, alert.
As Saturday night fell over St. Petersburg, a tense quiet settled on the city. Mikhail stood at the window of his office, looking out at the snow-covered rooftops and the distant, golden dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral. He had arranged all the pieces on the board. He had gathered his industrial, logistical, and financial might. He had allowed the historical tragedy to proceed, even subtly amplifying its potential, all to create the perfect conditions for his own ascent.
Tomorrow, the Russian Empire would inflict a mortal wound upon itself. And in the ensuing chaos, the nation would be desperate for a savior. The Shadow Architect was finally ready to step into the light.