Across the Siberian Tundra: No SV, You Are Not Here to fight for the Revolution, You Are on an Adventure Across Revolutionary Russia

Adventure 0: The Winter Palace Gambit

The Winter Palace Gambit – Stealing the Imperial Regalia: The Bolsheviks have seized the Winter Palace, looting its treasures for redistribution or sale. Rumors spread that the imperial regalia—crowns, scepters, and priceless Fabergé eggs—are locked in a secret vault beneath the palace. Since they have you, you can lead them through it.
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You were surprised when Rostov smiled at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a sharpness that made you uneasy. He leaned forward slightly, cigar smoke curling around his face like a specter of old indulgences.

"Do you know the layout of the Winter Palace, Ana?" His voice was smooth, amused, but there was something else beneath it—something that made you feel strangely small under his gaze.

He puffed on his cigar, savoring the taste, before passing around a few others to the group. The acrid scent thickened the air, making your throat tighten. You did not take one. You were too focused on trying not to breathe in the burning ash, too aware of the weight of their stares. Everyone was watching you.

You nodded, though the motion felt stiff. The memories clawed their way up before you could stop them. The gilded halls of the palace had once been your home, but they had become something else entirely. You could still see the grand ballroom—your father's namesake hall—transformed into a makeshift hospital, filled with the dying and the screaming. You remembered the bloodstained floors, the way the air had reeked of sweat, infection, and death. No matter what you did, how many men you tried to save, it had been for nothing. They had all died, one after another, their bodies carried out in the dead of night.

Swallowing hard, you forced the words out. "I know much of the upper floors. But I was never allowed into the vaults. I know they're locked—secured with keys I don't have."

Alina scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "We don't need keys." She jerked her chin toward Rostov. "We have him."

You turned just in time to see Rostov idly flick a piece of cloth in his hands, as if it were nothing more than a handkerchief. But when he let it slip through his fingers, it revealed something far more interesting—a sleek, refined lock-picking tool, glinting in the dim light.

Vlad, for his part, seemed completely disinterested. He sat back, arms folded, eyes fixed on the night sky through the grime-covered window, as if he could already see himself soaring through it. You wondered if he was even listening.

Oleg, however, was far less detached. He leaned forward, his face drawn in a frown. "You're mad, Rostov. There are over a thousand Bolsheviks stationed in the palace alone. Even if we make it inside, how do you know the artifacts are still there? They could've been sold off already, scattered across Siberia, lost to the chaos."

Rostov only chuckled, his grin widening as he reached into his coat. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled out a letter—a very official-looking one, its edges creased and worn. He unfolded it and held it up just long enough for you to catch the unmistakable signature at the bottom.

Lenin.

"People's Commissariat for Finance
Petrograd, Soviet Russia
Novmber 15th, 1917

To Comrade Ivanov, Commissar for the Redistribution of Former Imperial Assets,

Comrades,

With the fall of the Romanov tyranny and the triumph of the workers and peasants over the forces of oppression, it is imperative that the wealth hoarded by the aristocracy be put to proper use in service of the people. The treasures once locked away in the palaces of the former Tsar are not the property of a single man or his family but belong to the proletariat, to whom the future of Russia now belongs.

Effective immediately, all valuables—including gold, jewels, artworks, and other assets of material significance—are to be cataloged and assessed for redistribution. Items deemed of historical or cultural significance will be secured under state protection for future generations, but those of monetary value must be liquidated and their funds directed toward the needs of the revolution.

Priority shall be given to the funding of the workers' councils and the provisioning of the Red Army, whose efforts are essential in securing the future of the Soviet Republic against the counter-revolutionary menace. The resources extracted from the former palaces will serve as the lifeblood of the struggle, ensuring that the soldiers of the revolution are armed, clothed, and fed.

Comrade Ivanov, you are entrusted with overseeing this operation with the full authority of the Soviet government. Any individual found hoarding, embezzling, or withholding resources from the people's cause will be treated as an enemy of the revolution and dealt with accordingly. The time for hesitation has passed—act swiftly and decisively.

The revolution does not wait.

V. Lenin
Chairman of the Council of People's Commissars
Moscow, Soviet Russia"


Silence filled the room.

It wasn't just a theory. The treasures were still there. At least, some of them.

And if they were still there, it meant they could be stolen.

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You all ascended the narrow staircase, the wooden boards groaning underfoot as you followed Rostov to his rented room. The air inside was thick with the scent of smoke and aged fabric, the dim candlelight flickering against the peeling wallpaper. And as you stepped inside, you realized something—Rostov was far more prepared than you had anticipated.

A small writing desk had been transformed into a strategist's table, maps of Petrograd and its key locations pinned down with brass paperweights. A leather-bound ledger, its pages filled with careful notations, sat beside a silver cigarette case. A pair of revolvers rested near the inkpot, one of them open, its chambers gleaming with fresh cartridges.

You turned to Rostov, curiosity taking hold. "What were you before the revolution?" you asked.

He smirked, settling into the worn chair with a casual grace. "Oh, me? Just another idle nobleman, counting my coin and waiting for the days to pass. My father had grand ambitions for me—an education in law, a comfortable place in court. I was meant to be a gentleman of leisure, never to dirty my hands with the affairs of war."

"So you learned to pick locks and steal instead?"

Rostov let out a quiet chuckle. "My dear, what is a nobleman if not a thief in fine clothes? We take from the weak, hoard wealth for ourselves, and call it birthright." His tone was smooth, self-satisfied, but Oleg scoffed audibly from across the room.

"And here I thought the count might have some dignity left," the soldier muttered.

Rostov only smiled, undeterred. "Oh, I am many things, Oleg. A thief, yes. But also a hunter, a fisherman, a marksman. I can track a man through the woods, I can shoot a coin out of the air with a pistol. I've dueled in candlelit salons and outrun debt collectors in three different countries. And I don't pretend to be anything more than what I am."

Oleg walked past him, shaking his head as he moved toward a battered suitcase on the floor. He flipped it open, sifting through fine silk shirts and scattered valuables before pulling out a pistol—sleek, foreign. An American autoloader. He examined it with a practiced eye, pulling back the slide, the metal clicking with deadly precision as he loaded a magazine into the grip.

"A fine weapon," Rostov mused.

Oleg didn't respond immediately, staring at the firearm in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, bitter. "I was a patriot once. And look where that got me."

Across the room, Vlad sat on the edge of the bed, rolling a cigarette between his fingers without lighting it. His gaze was distant, locked onto the tarnished wings sewn into his jacket. The insignia of the Imperial Air Service. A relic of a world that no longer existed.

"Can you both shut up?" Vlad muttered, his voice edged with something weary, something broken.

His hands, rough and calloused from years in the cockpit, trembled slightly as he held a worn photograph. The paper was creased, its edges softened from being handled too many times. In the sepia tones of the image, a group of young men stood beside a biplane, their uniforms crisp, their smiles wide and unburdened by the weight of war.

At the center of it all was Vlad himself, younger by a year, but seeming an entire lifetime removed from the man sitting before you now. His arms were draped around two fellow pilots, their camaraderie evident even in the stillness of the image. A scrappy little mutt, its fur dark and wiry, sat proudly at their feet, its tail a blur as it wagged excitedly. The men had all been laughing, jostling to be part of the frame, their attention stolen by the dog rather than the camera.

It must have been taken last year, during the Brusilov Offensive.

That was before the world had truly collapsed around them. Before comrades had disappeared, either into the mud of battlefields or the cold grasp of revolution. Before, loyalty had become a question of survival rather than honor.

Vlad exhaled slowly, running his thumb over the faces in the photograph, his jaw tightening.

"Where are they now?" you asked, though you already feared the answer.

He didn't look up. His fingers pressed against the image of a man standing just beside him—a pilot with sharp features and an easy grin.

"Dead," he said simply. Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Or worse."

"Take off your clothes," Alina ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. She rummaged through her trunk, pulling out a simple shirt, a pair of worn trousers, undergarments, and boots that looked a size too big.

"What?" you blurted, taken aback.

She shot you an unimpressed look and gestured toward your attire. "You're not going to run around wearing that, are you?"

You glanced down at your fine clothing—soft silks, delicate embroidery, fabric that still carried the scent of perfume and a life now long gone. It was the attire of someone who belonged to a different world, a world that no longer existed. Wearing it felt like carrying a target on your back.

Still, the idea of stripping down in front of the others made your stomach twist. You swallowed hard. "Now? Here, with them?"

The three men—Rostov, Oleg, and Vlad—shared a collective look of exhaustion.

"Are you serious?" Oleg groaned.

Alina's response was swift. She pulled a knife from her belt and pointed it toward the door with a practiced ease. "Out," she said, voice like steel. "Or you'll find that we womenfolk stick together when it comes to protecting modesty."

The threat worked. The men, despite all their bravado, muttered a few curses and all but scrambled out of the room.

Alina smirked in satisfaction before turning back to you. "Hurry up. We don't have all night."

With a quiet nod, you quickly shed your old clothing, replacing it with the rougher, heavier garments she provided. The fabric was coarse against your skin, unfamiliar, the boots stiff and uncomfortable—but it was necessary.

When you finished, you hesitated before whispering, "Thank you."

Alina shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "I may not like royals," she admitted, "but even you deserve some privacy when changing."

And with that, she stepped out, leaving you alone in your new disguise, your old life discarded at your feet.

But you then looked to Alina. "Can I leave it with your stuff?" You asked.

"Of course." There was a softness in her tone as you folded it and looked at the garments that you had placed into the bag she had… and then you changed.
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The clothes felt wrong. Ill-fitting, rough against your skin, the fabric stiff and unyielding. They smelled of sweat and dust, of lives lived in constant movement, not of perfumed silks and tailored perfection. Every garment you had ever worn before had been made for you—stitched with precision, always comfortable, always effortless. But these? These belonged to someone else. They scratched at your skin, clung in awkward places, and sagged where they shouldn't. It was like wearing someone else's life.

Alina seemed to notice your discomfort but said nothing. Instead, she pulled a hat from her trunk and plopped it onto your head. The wide-brimmed, floppy thing was too big, dipping low enough that you had to tilt your chin up just to see properly.

Then, with practiced ease, she twirled a revolver in her hand before sliding it into a worn leather holster attached to an ammo belt. She held it out to you.

"Do you know how to use this?"

You hesitated, eyeing the weapon with unease. The cold, deadly weight of it seemed to press into your chest even before you touched it.

"No," you admitted. "It would be more dangerous for me to wield that than for you to hold onto it."

Alina sighed, shaking her head. "Just don't draw it unless you have to."

She fastened the belt around your waist, adjusting it until it sat snugly at your hip. The revolver was heavier than you expected, an unfamiliar weight pulling at you, making you acutely aware of its presence. It was a symbol of the world you had stepped into.

And putting trust in others that you never would before.
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Everyone was waiting. The cold bit through your ill-fitting clothes, seeping into your bones as you stood there, watching them, watching the city in chaos.

The streets were alive with movement, banners of red waving over a sea of bodies marching forward, some shouting slogans, others gripping rifles with the ease of men who had wielded them long before the revolution. Smoke curled from chimneys and burning barrels, the air thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and desperation.

You had a choice to make.

Who would you go with to sneak in?

[]Count Rostov: The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving—he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.

[]Vlad: Vlad stood apart, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rooftops. The city was burning, changing, but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere high above where the air was clear, where wings cut through the sky. Down here, among the filth, he was like a caged hawk—restless, displaced, a man waiting for wings he no longer had. He would play his part if needed, but there was something in his silence that spoke of a man who had already given up. Perhaps he was the most dangerous of all. But what made you most worried was the shotgun in his hands. He looked ready to start a massacre to get what he needed.

[]Oleg: His eyes never left you, studying you with an intensity that felt like a burden you were not prepared to carry. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, rough. "My brother was in the Winter Palace when it was a hospital." He hesitated, something unspoken lingering between his lips before he finally finished. "He said you were a good girl." There was more, so much more he wasn't saying. Regret. Respect. Maybe even a warning. Oleg was a soldier, a man who had once believed in things before the world ripped those beliefs apart.

[]Alina: She watched the crowds as they looted, stripping away everything of value in the name of revolution. Her expression twisted into something like disgust."You Russians are all the same," she muttered. "Stealing things that never belonged to you and calling it whatever makes you feel better—taxes, tribute, redistribution. Your people are nothing more than thieves, and you will never be anything more than that." Her words were meant to cut, to provoke. Maybe she wanted to see if you would snap back, if you had enough fire in you to fight her. Maybe she just wanted you to acknowledge the truth she saw.

AN: Enjoy.