The young man awoke to the sound of church bells tolling across the Sava River, their deep bronze voices echoing through the open window of the royal bedchamber in the Old Palace. Sunlight slanted through heavy velvet curtains, catching motes of dust that danced like tiny soldiers in formation. His head throbbed—not from wine or fever, but from the sudden, violent collision of two lives.
One life belonged to Prince Aleksandar Obrenović, sixteen years old, only son of the abdicated King Milan I and Queen Natalija, now King of Serbia by the grace of his father's unexpected flight from the throne four years earlier. A boy raised in luxury yet isolation, tutored in French, German, and the classics, but kept at arm's length from real power by regents who feared his mother's influence and his father's lingering shadow. A prince who, in the real timeline, would one day marry a scandalous widow, alienate his people, and die hacked apart by his own officers in the blood-soaked halls of this very palace.
The other life was... different. It belonged to a man named Marko Petrović—thirty-eight, born in Chicago to Serbian immigrant parents, a software engineer turned amateur historian who spent nights on forums debating "what if" scenarios for the Balkans. He had died on a rainy interstate in 2024, hydroplaning into a semi after a twelve-hour coding sprint. No dramatic last words, just the screech of tires and darkness.
Now the two were one.
Aleksandar—no, Marko inside Aleksandar's body—sat up slowly, heart hammering. The silk sheets slid away, revealing a lean, adolescent frame unmarked by the scars or softness of middle age. He flexed his fingers, marveling at their youth, then touched his face: smooth cheeks, no stubble yet, the sharp Obrenović jawline already hinting at the man he would become. The mirror across the room, framed in gilded wood, showed a boy with dark eyes that now burned with alien intelligence.
He laughed—a short, disbelieving bark that startled the footman waiting silently by the door.
"Your Majesty?" The servant bowed low, voice trembling slightly. "Shall I summon the physician? Or Her Majesty Queen Natalija?"
"No," Marko said, voice cracking only a little on the unfamiliar timbre. He cleared his throat. "No physician. Bring me coffee—black, strong. And every newspaper from the last month. Also maps: the Balkans, Austria-Hungary's borders, the sanjak of Novi Pazar, Bosnia. And summon my tutors. Tell them today's lessons are canceled. We're studying... something else."
The footman hesitated, eyes wide. Kings did not speak like this. But obedience won out. He bowed again and vanished.
Marko stood, pacing the room in bare feet on the cool parquet. The palace smelled of wood polish, incense from the private chapel, and the faint river dampness that never quite left Belgrade. Outside, the city stirred: vendors calling, horses clopping on cobblestones, distant military horns. Serbia in 1893—a kingdom of perhaps three million souls, mostly peasants scratching at small plots, exporting pigs and plums to pay Austrian loans, dreaming of unification while chained to Vienna's economic orbit.
In his old life, Marko had read obsessively about this era. The Obrenović dynasty teetered: Milan had abdicated in 1889 after the disastrous Serbo-Bulgarian War and Radical Party pressure, leaving a teenage king under regents. Alexander (the historical one) would seize power this very year—April 1893—arrest the regents, declare himself of age, and restore the conservative 1869 constitution. Then the spiral: bringing Milan back, marrying Draga Mašin, alienating everyone, coup in 1903.
Not this time.
Marko stopped at the map table, fingers tracing borders. Serbia proper: from Belgrade south to Niš, east to the Timok, west to the Drina. Bosnia under Austria since 1878 occupation, full annexation looming in 1908. Montenegro independent but tiny. Macedonia still Ottoman, full of competing claims. Vojvodina in Hungary, millions of Serbs under Habsburg rule. Bulgaria—rival, but potential ally against Turks.
Resources: coal in the east (Majdanpek, Bor—copper too, untapped properly), iron ore, forests, fertile Morava valley for grain. But no real industry. No railroads beyond the Belgrade-Niš line (built with French loans, bleeding interest). Army: decent infantry tradition from uprisings, but outdated rifles, no artillery parity, crushed by Bulgaria in '85.
Diplomacy: Milan had sold out to Austria in 1881—secret convention giving Vienna veto on foreign policy for trade concessions. Russia sulked, France and Germany watched. The great game in the Balkans: everyone wanted influence, no one wanted a strong Serbia.
Marko smiled thinly. "That's about to change."
The coffee arrived on a silver tray, steaming. He drank it scalding, letting the bitterness ground him. Next came the newspapers: Politika wasn't founded yet, but Srpske Novine, Videlo, various Radical sheets smuggled past censors. Headlines screamed of cabinet crises, Radical demands for power, Austrian customs threats, peasant unrest over taxes.
He read voraciously, cross-referencing with memories. The regents—Jovan Ristić, Protić, others—were liberals but weak, tied to Queen Natalija's faction. Natalija herself, exiled briefly, back now, ambitious and popular among Russophiles. Milan abroad in Biarritz or Karlsbad, gambling and plotting return.
This was the window. Historical Alexander would act in days—arrest regents April 13 (Julian calendar? Wait, Serbia still used Julian then—convert: roughly late April Gregorian). Marko had perhaps a week before the real coup moment.
He needed leverage. Knowledge. Allies.
First: military. The army was key—officers young, nationalist, frustrated. In real history, many joined Black Hand later. Win them early.
Second: economy. Pigs and plums wouldn't cut it. Serbia needed cash crops, processing, light industry. Attract foreign capital carefully—not Austrian. French? Belgian? Even American mining experts for Bor copper.
Third: diplomacy. Play Russia against Austria. Hint at Slavic unity without provoking Vienna too soon. Marry smart—perhaps a Russian grand duchess later, or Bulgarian princess for alliance.
Fourth: unification. Bosnia first—stir unrest subtly. Then Macedonia when Ottomans weaken.
But start small. Survive the next month.
A knock. "Your Majesty, the tutors await in the study."
Marko straightened his nightshirt. "Tell them to prepare the large map room. And fetch Colonel... who commands the palace guard? Raša, isn't it? Bring him too."
The servant blinked. "Colonel Raša? He is... not usually summoned so early, sire."
"Now."
Alone again, Marko dressed quickly—simple uniform jacket, no decorations yet. He looked in the mirror once more. The eyes staring back were no longer a boy's.
"Time to build an eagle," he whispered.
The study was paneled in dark oak, bookshelves groaning with volumes in French and German. Maps covered one wall: detailed Austrian staff maps (smuggled? gifted?), Ottoman vilayets, Russian ethnographic charts showing Serb populations.
The tutors—three elderly men in frock coats—bowed nervously. Colonel Raša, burly, mustachioed, entered last, saluting stiffly.
Marko wasted no time. "Gentlemen, forget Caesar and Voltaire today. We study Serbia's survival."
He unrolled the Balkan map. "Austria controls Bosnia—two million Slavs, many Serbs. They will annex it one day. Russia wants influence but is weak after Crimean humiliation. Ottomans decay. Bulgaria eyes Macedonia. We are squeezed."
The tutors exchanged glances. This was not protocol.
Marko pointed. "First: army reform. Colonel, our Mauser rifles are good—1884 model—but ammunition factories? None. We import everything. Artillery? Krupp knockoffs. I want plans for domestic powder mills, cartridge plants. Use local charcoal, sulfur from mines."
Raša's brows rose. "Sire, the budget—"
"Will change. Second: economy. Our peasants farm backward—three-field rotation, no fertilizer. Introduce American corn hybrids, better plows. Export processed goods: plum brandy distilleries, not raw fruit. Coal in Aleksinac—mine it properly."
One tutor coughed. "Majesty, such matters belong to ministers..."
"Ministers serve me. Or they won't." Marko's voice hardened—Marko's voice now. "Third: diplomacy. Austria owns our trade. We need alternatives. Rail to Salonika via Ottoman lands—French money. Or Danube shipping improvements."
He paced. "But first—the regents. They plan to keep me leashed. In days, perhaps, I act. When I do, I need the army loyal. Colonel?"
Raša hesitated, then straightened. "The officers respect strength, sire. Not boys playing king. Prove it, and they follow."
Marko met his eyes. "Then prove I am no boy."
He turned to the tutors. "Write letters—discreet. To Radical leaders: Pašić in exile? No, he's back sometimes. Promise reforms if they support me against regents. To Queen Mother: assure her place, but under my direction."
Hours passed. Plans sketched: secret committee for industrial survey, military modernization commission (himself chair), diplomatic feelers to St. Petersburg via Orthodox channels.
By evening, exhaustion hit. Marko dismissed them, mind racing.
Dinner with Natalija—tense. She eyed him strangely. "You seem... different today, my son."
He smiled. "I have awakened, Mother."
She frowned but said nothing.
That night, in bed, Marko stared at the ceiling frescoes. History was malleable now. The May Coup of 1903? Butterflied. Black Hand? Redirected. Yugoslavia? Perhaps earlier, stronger, under Obrenović—not Karađorđević.
But first: survive. Then conquer.
Tomorrow: the coup.