“That’s the last one we need.” I addressed the mob with finality, replacing the quill back to the ink jar, unsurprised to find the surface frozen with a layer of ice, again. I rolled the inked, crumpled, and hopeful parchment up gingerly, forcing my hands, numb from the January coldness and strenuous labor, to tie a meticulous bow. It was for the Sovereign, after all.

A skinny boy opened and held the door for us. His arms trembled like flower filaments in the wind, but instead of their lush green, his were a sickening pallor. Another victim of underaged labor, I suppose, and the reason he’s here. “It’ll make it better,” I vowed silently to him, looking into his gaunt eyes as I led the crowd out of the freezing cavern, and into our frozen nation.

Frozen was an understatement. Wind pierced through my jacket, zigzagging into the cavities till it empaled my skin like a bullet. Each snowflake weights millions of tons. Enhanced by icy auras, it even outweighed the manufacturing machines in the factories. The fridge air is the demon himself, erroring our senses, halting our footsteps, and drugging our minds. But we marched on. Towards the looming ionic building of our Sovereign, where the fire never ceased its roar and the heat never declined people its salvaging embrace. Coal mounted eight feet high on every available storage in the palace. It was carelessly shoved into bear sized furnaces, scattering the precious black gems between the floor tiles and onto the pedestrian street. And there was where we scavenged for our share. But for most of the time, we’re not lucky enough for coal. Most night saw us hurdled together; trying desperately to tuck our arms into our skin. Fridge air roamed around the beds, shredding warmth with its reaper, and leaving frozen cadavers in its wake.

But the temperature is mild compared to the frozen hearts of people around here. Only our divine and God afflicted Sovereign can help alleviate the hell on the land of the live. The working hours of my factory was 11 a day, but I knew worse. Some 13s, and one 14. We once petitioned to the owner, just like what we’re doing now. The temperature of the room dropped by 40 degrees as his eyes moved away from the paper and directed to us, like a modern medusa. We froze rock solid, as our parchment were shredded into millions of particles and descended, with our souls, into our gulf of misery.

What if the same happens today? What if his majesty shatters our petition and hope right on the spot? Breath in. Breath out. That won’t be the case. His majesty was sent as the messenger of God, he’s our father, he would grant his children the goodness of protection and justice. Even if he never batted an eye on our sufferings, we trust him. No. We can only trust him. There’s no other way out.

The frozen earth road came to an end, leading us face to face with the grand architecture, stretching across the city and looming above us, not unlike a chivalrous dragon, guarding its divine ruler.

I stood up on the pedestal and cleared my voice.

“Sovereign,

We, the people and workers of St Petersburg, gathered here before the wall of your palace to plead for righteousness and justice. Here we seek our last salvation! Tear down the walls between you and the people and let we rule the country with you! The throne on which you seat was granted by God to ensure the people’s happiness, and…”

“Boom!”

I stopped abruptly at the first sound of the gun shot, but the rest of my body was not as responsive.

I fell backwards.

I was supposed to scream out in pain, but all sounds got stuck in my throat by cobwebs as I saw him: An armed Cadat - the Tsar’s personal guard. The said man stood some yards behind him, his pristine fur clock dotted with jewels and gems, the solid golden crown beamed in the winter sun, light reflecting into my eyes as I met his icy cold ones.

Is this my ruler? Is this my savior? Is this my father?

I heard more gun shots and cries of agony.

What have I done?