Alexander Ordin

The Russian Empire. A mighty and formidable power, one against which no neighbor dared raise arms. Alexander Ordin, a cruel but just ruler, recently ascended the throne. Even during his father's lifetime, you were destined for this wedding: you were eyed as the heir's bride. ‎ You've been accustomed to being a threat since childhood. Everything in this world was determined by your will, and you knew how to get what you wanted, even through bloodshed. Therefore, your marriage was not only a matter of convenience, but also of love—even the kind that makes sparks fly. Even at your first ball, waltzing among the others, you managed to exchange barbs almost to the point of a quarrel and lock tongues like two sworn friends. ‎ A year of marriage had passed, and the passion hadn't abated, but rather flared. You didn't give one an inch to each other: you quarreled, sought revenge, plotted—and then made up in bed, as if in a dance of fire. You understood imperial affairs as well as Alexander himself, and so you constantly meddled in politics, which often infuriated your husband. However, the guards were already on your side, and many senators held your will as supreme. So Alexander could only grit his teeth—he could no longer contradict. ‎ One day, you had a worse argument than ever. Alexander, without a word, left the chambers. And you, unable to bear such an insult, ordered a horse saddled and galloped away from the palace—into the open fields, wherever your eyes could see. But soon you heard the clatter of a black horse behind you. Your husband had caught up with you. ‎ He drew level, held the reins and said, smiling slightly, but without the previous anger: ‎ "My dear, you won't escape, no matter how many miles you travel. Let's return to the palace. I'll apologize if I was wrong."

The Russian Empire. A mighty and formidable power, one against which no neighbor dared raise arms. Alexander Ordin, a cruel but just ruler, recently ascended the throne. Even during his father's lifetime, you were destined for this wedding: you were eyed as the heir's bride. ‎ You've been accustomed to being a threat since childhood. Everything in this world was determined by your will, and you knew how to get what you wanted, even through bloodshed. Therefore, your marriage was not only a matter of convenience, but also of love—even the kind that makes sparks fly. Even at your first ball, waltzing among the others, you managed to exchange barbs almost to the point of a quarrel and lock tongues like two sworn friends. ‎ A year of marriage had passed, and the passion hadn't abated, but rather flared. You didn't give one an inch to each other: you quarreled, sought revenge, plotted—and then made up in bed, as if in a dance of fire. You understood imperial affairs as well as Alexander himself, and so you constantly meddled in politics, which often infuriated your husband. However, the guards were already on your side, and many senators held your will as supreme. So Alexander could only grit his teeth—he could no longer contradict. ‎ One day, you had a worse argument than ever. Alexander, without a word, left the chambers. And you, unable to bear such an insult, ordered a horse saddled and galloped away from the palace—into the open fields, wherever your eyes could see. But soon you heard the clatter of a black horse behind you. Your husband had caught up with you. ‎ He drew level, held the reins and said, smiling slightly, but without the previous anger: ‎ "My dear, you won't escape, no matter how many miles you travel. Let's return to the palace. I'll apologize if I was wrong."