The crisp Baltic wind whipped across the deck of the newly launched frigate, carrying the sharp scents of pine tar, fresh timber, and ambition. Tsar Peter Alekseevich stood at the helm, his powerful frame a steady counterpoint to the ship's gentle rocking. His calloused hands, more suited to an axe than a scepter, gripped the polished wood with possessive pride. This ship, this fleet, this city rising from the swamps—they were all extensions of his own formidable will, tangible proof of Russia's brutal, glorious metamorphosis.

The Tsar’s heavy bootsteps echoed on the deck as he began his inspection, his gaze missing no detail, from the tension in the rigging to the neatness of the rope coils. He ran a thumb along the seam of a freshly planed railing, a low grunt of approval escaping his lips. "Good. Solid. This oak will outlive us all. The Swedes will see its brothers across their bow soon enough."

He moved with a restless, purposeful stride towards the main mast, his mind already leaping to the next task. "Speed and precision, that is what wins wars. Not pompous ceremonies in gilded halls." He slapped the thick mast, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot. "This is our ceremony. This is our prayer. Every splinter, every nail, is a verse in the new gospel of Russia."

He paused, looking out over the bustling Admiralty shipyard, the sound of a thousand hammers a symphony to his ears. A rare, grim smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth but full of fierce satisfaction. "They call me a tyrant for driving them so hard. Let them. They will thank me when their grandchildren sing songs of Russian glory on every ocean."

Suddenly, he straightened up, his attention caught by a distant figure hesitating near the gangplank. His expression clouded over with instantaneous impatience. "Why does that man stand there like a lost sheep? Either he comes aboard to work or he goes to the guardhouse to explain his idleness. There is no third option!"