《World of Iron and Blood [Kingdom Building]》


 Chapter 1. The Call of Steel and Blood

    The blaring sound of the alarm tore through the silence. Alexander flinched. The noise pierced his consciousness like a shard of glass wedged in his mind. Slowly, he sat up on the bed, running a hand over his face. The roughness of his stubble pricked his skin, the only sensation that felt remotely real.


    The air in the room was stale, unmoving. Cold light seeped through the gaps in the curtains, pulling the last remnants of warmth from the space. Shadows of tree branches trembled on the walls, fragile silhouettes ready to disappear. A new day had begun, but it meant nothing to him.


    Barefoot, he crossed the creaking floorboards, feeling small crumbs underfoot. The icy shower scalded his skin, but it brought neither wakefulness nor relief - only a faint tingling, as if his body reluctantly acknowledged life.


    The coffee, long cold, left a bitter taste on his tongue. Alexander raised the cup, his eyes catching the dried ring of coffee clinging to its edge. That was all he could muster: a sip, a glance at his blurred reflection in the black liquid, and forgetting.


    He looked out the window. Through the dust on the glass, his reflection appeared hazy, indistinct. Dull eyes, a gaunt face - he turned away. It was all too familiar.


    Mornings used to be different. Alexander remembered when bright sunlight beckoned him into a new day. When the aroma of fresh coffee filled the house with joy, and the crunch of snow underfoot brought a boyish smile. But that felt so distant now, more like a story someone else had told him rather than a memory of his own.


    On the table lay his phone. The screen, smudged with fingerprints, was silent, black, as lifeless as everything else around him. It was just another useless object, one that no longer held any meaning. Even books - his former refuge - now felt hollow. Their pages no longer came alive, and the heroic deeds of their characters felt like mere theater.


    He listlessly scrolled through an online store until his eyes landed on a peculiar title:


    "How to Survive and Change the Medieval World."


    Alexander was about to scroll past, but something stopped him. The title flickered on the screen, like distant firelight. It wasn''t just text - it was a call, one he couldn''t tear his eyes away from.


    His fingers hovered, then moved to open the description:


    "A guide for those who strive to survive where every day is a battle for the right to breathe. Secrets of farming, military tactics, court intrigues, and cold diplomacy - all in one book. This isn''t just survival. It''s the art of power."


    - What nonsense, - Alexander muttered with a smirk. - Who even writes stuff like this?


    But the smirk on his lips slowly faded. Something about those words struck a chord, resonating with a strange, familiar echo. He blinked, feeling a faint tension in his chest. A memory - or perhaps a dream from a long-forgotten past - flashed through his mind, leaving a bitter aftertaste.


    He wanted to scroll past but froze. His fingers trembled, as if the book was pulling him by the hand.


    - You know this is for you, - whispered a voice within.


    Nervously, he ran his hand through his hair, as though trying to shake off the strange compulsion, but he couldn''t resist. It wasn''t just curiosity.


    The screen lit up, revealing the first lines.


    From the very first sentence, the book dragged him into another world. The author didn''t merely describe - he seemed to carve each detail into the stone of memory. In Alexander''s imagination, castle corridors came to life: damp walls reeking of mold, black ash rising above a field where the earth still smoldered. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of footsteps resounded, heavy and hollow, like the strike of a hammer on a coffin lid.


    Alexander could almost feel the warmth of a dying fire and the rough texture of an abandoned parchment.


    "Remember," the text read, "in the medieval world, it''s not about what you have but how you use it. Skills, knowledge, connections - these are your tools for survival."


    Every line gripped him like an unseen hand, urging him to ask himself:


    - Could you do it?


    He snorted, but the smirk no longer felt confident. Something in those lines struck deep.


    He read, feeling as if each line was a vortex pulling him deeper. The book didn''t merely tell a story - it whispered memories that couldn''t exist. The words were so vivid that he caught himself thinking this wasn''t just text; it was life itself, imprisoned in letters.


    - Who could have written such a book?


    Questions ignited in his mind, but there were no answers. Time ceased to exist.


    Sunlight filtered through the curtains, but its rays felt lifeless - dim, as if veiled by dust. At first, he blamed it on his evening fatigue, but soon he noticed how the room was steeped in silence, as if sound had become trapped within the walls.


    Every sentence of the book felt like a door leading to another world, where the breath of the past was palpable with every page. He could hear the clash of swords and the distant thunder of hooves. His fingers unconsciously brushed the screen, as if trying to touch the reality that beckoned with its austere beauty.


    He didn''t tear himself away from the text until an abrupt notification popped up:


    "The continuation is available in the full version."


    - Are you kidding me? - he exclaimed, exhaling in frustration. It felt as though someone had torn him from a captivating dream, leaving only fragmented visions in his mind.


    Lost, he leaned back. His gaze fixed on the empty ceiling, but something inside him stirred. The familiar silence no longer felt neutral - it pressed down, clawing at his temples, as if waiting for something.


    Without hesitation, Alexander ordered the book.


    The package soon lay on the table, almost mocking his patience. He tore through the wrapping, feeling a strange stillness within him. The book rested heavily in his hands, its wooden cover etched with patterns that seemed to shift under his gaze. Alexander ran his fingers over the rough surface, and suddenly, the icy chill was replaced by an inexplicable warmth, as if the book responded to his touch.


    Each chapter he read filled him with a peculiar mixture of awe, curiosity, and a faint unease.


    - Could you survive in a world where life has no value? How would you build an empire where you have no allies and no knowledge of the land? - this question from the book seemed directed straight at him.


    The lines burrowed deep into him, as if they were spoken from within. Alexander wasn''t just reading; he was plunging headfirst into this world. His imagination brought every word to life: stone castles where whispers of intrigue echoed through the halls, and cunning lords with whom he would need to negotiate, balancing on the edge of trust.


    With every page, the book seemed to test him.


    - What would you do, Alexander? How would you convince them of your loyalty? How would you turn this battle in your favor?


    His thoughts raced, searching for answers. A mind dulled by the monotony of everyday life suddenly sprang to action, sharp and alert. It was a strange, yet long-forgotten feeling - inspiration.


    - This book is doing something to you, - he murmured, closing it for a moment to catch his breath. He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to ground himself in reality, but reality now seemed empty, gray in comparison to this brutal new world.


    The further he read, the more he felt: this wasn''t just a story. It was a call, a guide, a challenge. When he finally reached the end, silence filled the room. Alexander placed the book on the table and stared at it for a long time. Everything it had awakened felt out of reach, like a distant shore.


    Gazing at the gray city outside the window, he muttered under his breath:


    - If only I could try it myself...


    His fingers, nervously tapping the wooden cover, froze. His gaze, still fixed on the window, began to lose focus.


    That night, he dreamed a dream that refused to let him go.


    Before him stretched an icy plain, marred by crimson scars of blood soaked into the snow. The air hung still and cold, like frozen breath. Each step crunched beneath his feet, the sound reverberating deep within him, as if the earth itself groaned in agony.


    In the distance, castle walls rose against the pale horizon. Crimson banners fluttered above them, and an oppressive silence filled the air, broken only by faint whispers of the wind.


    Then came the figures. They moved slowly, their armor clinking with every step, like taut chains. Their faces were obscured by grimy cloths, stained with sweat and dirt. But their eyes - cold, weary - burned with a primal fire that pierced straight into his soul.


    - Alexander! - a voice suddenly boomed, loud and sharp like a bell. Its sound shattered the plain into shards, echoing in his mind.


    A blinding light flashed before his eyes, searing like a molten blade, and the world fragmented. Shadows swirled around him, bearing down like invisible wings of a monstrous beast. The air crushed his chest, pulling him downward, as though he was being dragged into an abyss.


    Alexander tried to inhale but couldn''t. Images flickered before him: lines from the book he had read - tactics, shield formations, merciless battles. It all blended into one, and a desperate voice inside screamed:


    - This is impossible!


    He wanted to shout, but only a rasp escaped his throat. A sticky warmth enveloped his body, as if invisible chains bound every muscle. Alexander struggled to move, but his feet sank deeper into the snow.


    And then, he opened his eyes.


    The battlefield stretched before him like an open wound. The ground beneath his feet felt springy, as if it sought to swallow him whole. Around him, bodies lay twisted in the final spasms of life. The icy air was thick with the stench of smoke and iron, and a hammering noise thudded in his temples, like relentless blows on an anvil.


    Alexander gripped the hilt of his sword. It was sticky with dried blood and heavy as a stone. The weapon felt unnervingly familiar, as if it had always been his.


    He looked around. Smoke veiled the sky, and the roar of battle - the clash of metal, the screams of the dying - melded into a deafening cacophony. In the distance, carts burned, and arrows rained down like vengeful wasps, piercing flesh with dull, sickening thuds.


    His body moved forward, deflecting blows and delivering lethal strikes, but he felt like a detached observer.


    - Damn it... this isn''t me... - the thought flickered in Alexander''s mind, but it drowned in the chaos of battle, like a stone sinking in a raging river.


    His gaze darted, seeking an escape from this trap. But his eyes stubbornly found only enemies - their armor, their swings, their faces twisted in hatred. His body moved like a machine, programmed for slaughter.


    - Hold the line! Don''t retreat! - a thunderous voice cut through the chaos, halting everything for a fleeting moment.


    Someone fell nearby with a heavy thud, like a felled tree. Alexander wanted to cry out, but his body stepped forward, raising a shield to block another blow. His sword flashed, tearing through flesh, but each strike felt alien.


    Out of the smoke, an enemy emerged. His face, bloodied and twisted in rage, appeared suddenly before Alexander''s eyes. He felt his body raise the sword. The strike was swift, almost mechanical. The blade sank into flesh, and the enemy crumpled.


    The salty taste of blood touched his lips. The scent of burning wood mingled with the acrid smoke. It all felt too real.


    - This is a dream... it has to be a dream, - Alexander whispered, but the sticky sensation of blood on his hands and the heat of the sword in his palm told him otherwise.


    Yet his body kept moving. It was strong, agile, its actions precise and deadly. Alexander saw through the eyes of a young prince, whose training and resolve turned combat into a deadly dance. His sword gleamed as it cut down foes with unnerving ease, but Alexander himself was just a shadow, trapped within this body. He wasn''t in control - merely a spectator as the body lived a life of its own.


    - An ambush... - the words escaped his lips, hoarse and unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else. His eyes darted feverishly across the battlefield. Before him, hell unfolded: bodies scattered like broken dolls, blood painting the snow in crimson streaks, shattered spears and shields strewn across the ground.


    Among the enemies, Alexander spotted a boy, barely older than the youngest member of his retinue, Stanimir. The boy''s eyes darted wildly, searching for a way out.


    - Why is he here? - the prince''s thought flashed through his mind. Alexander''s sword found him, and in the boy''s final gaze, he saw the same confusion and fear he felt within himself.


    His hand rose, gripping the sword. The blade, slick with blood, trembled - not from its weight, but from his own shaking. Panic bubbled up inside him, filling his chest like a surging river. How had he ended up here?


    Before the clash, a battle cry rang out over the field - a powerful, piercing roar filled with desperate fury.


    - For the prince! For our land! - voices thundered, rising to the heavens, as if the very earth echoed their words.


    - God and Rus'' are with us! - their call boomed like a roll of thunder, shaking the forest and making the enemies flinch.


    It was more than a battle cry. It was a vow, a final hope embodied in those words. Alexander felt his heart, weighed down by despair, begin to beat faster. His hands, clutching the sword, seemed to draw strength from the cry. It was a reminder of why they stood here, surrounded by enemies.


    The roar of the retinue rose like a surging wave, crashing down upon the enemy. The Poles charged into battle like a storm, their strikes precise and relentless, their assault akin to that of a raging beast. They descended upon the enemy line like an avalanche, their spears and swords finding the weakest points. On the flanks, like predators circling their prey, Hungarian horsemen maneuvered, seeking vulnerabilities in the chain.


    Shields locked so tightly they seemed like a single iron shell. Spears jutted forward like wolves'' fangs, ready to meet anyone who dared come closer.


    Through the branches of the forest, like a harbinger of death, came the ominous whistle. Bowstrings twanged like strings tightened with anger. Arrows rained down like a storm, their deadly tips gleaming as they tore through flesh. Each strike of these wicked spirits ripped flesh apart, leaving behind blood and pain.


    The cry pierced the chaos like a prayer reaching heaven.


    - Most Holy Mother of God, shield us! - one of the warriors shouted, raising his shield, only for two arrows to thud into it a moment later. His prayer ended in a strangled gasp as a crossbow bolt tore through his neck. His body collapsed, trembling in its final agony.


    - They''re pressing the left flank! - came a shout from the rear, but the voice was drowned in the cacophony. Steel clashed like relentless tolling bells, and each strike seemed to meld into a single resounding pulse. The warriors, caked in blood and grime, stood their ground with grim determination.


    Radomir stepped forward, his sword flashing in the dim light. A blow from the enemy struck his shield with a deafening crack. He scanned the line, his gaze heavy with desperation but steeled with resolve.


    - To the wall! We are the rock! - the Voivode bellowed, smashing aside a spear with the remains of his shield. His mail rattled like the chains of a captive, and his torn cloak was smeared with mud and blood.


    Alexander felt the roar of command ripple through him like a wave, a surge of power amid the chaos. But he could see how every strike against their shields pushed them closer to the brink. The weakness on the left flank was becoming more pronounced, and the cries of the wounded rang out like omens of doom.


    Yet no one faltered. They held their ground - against all odds, even when hope seemed to slip through their fingers.


    - To the center, Prince! - Radomir deflected another enemy blow, his breathing labored. - They''re pulling us to our weak points!


    His eyes darted along the line, assessing every gap, every move of the enemy.


    - Left flank, form the line! - he shouted, parrying a strike. - Step forward, with God''s help!


    - Lord, grant us strength! - he muttered, and in the next instant, his sword arced through the air, cleaving an enemy spear in two. But the enemy pressed harder, their attacks cunning, as if they were reading every move of the retinue.


    - Your Grace! They''re exploiting our weak spots - it''s a trap! - Radomir rasped, parrying an axe blow. His voice was raw but still vibrant with life. - Hold the line, men! - he cried, his teeth clenched in pain. - There''s no one to pity us but ourselves


    His shield splintered under another blow, but he raised a fragment of it and flung it into the enemy''s face.


    - Don''t waver! Just a little longer!


    - They''re in the forest! They''re flanking us! - The calm voice of Mentor Vysheslav rose above the clamor of battle. It carried an eerie steadiness, as though he were discussing something mundane. Yet within that calm lay steel.


    His sword moved fluidly, as if it were an extension of his hand, each strike precise - enemies fell one after another like sheaves of wheat under a scythe.


    Alexander felt his hands trembling as they gripped his sword. Just moments ago, the line had held, but now fractures were spreading. He watched as their ranks splintered, bodies dropping to the ground like cut grass.


    - Not now... - he whispered to himself, but his voice faltered.


    He wanted to scream, but instead, he stepped forward. The enemies closed in, their faces merging into a blurred mass. Alexander deflected a spear thrust aimed at his chest and raised his sword high. His silence was not fear but a desperate attempt to show those still standing that they were not alone.


    The world around him was a maelstrom of screams, the clang of steel, and dull thuds. Alexander struggled to keep up with the chaos. Everything happened too quickly; his movements became instinctive. His body acted on its own, driven by some foreign will.


    A shield suddenly caught an incoming blow, sparks flying from the impact. His hands held the sword, now an extension of his intent - it struck, parried, and countered with an almost mechanical precision.


    For a moment, everything seemed to pause, as though the world held its breath. The air grew thick, tangible, and the mist of his breath mingled with the stench of blood.


    Behind him came a sharp sound - the crack of a spear followed by the gurgle of a dying enemy. Alexander turned, catching sight of someone taking down a foe. But before he could make out their face, another blade gleamed before him.


    A Hungarian with a spear emerged from the fray, moving with unnerving speed. Alexander froze for a split second, but his body reacted faster than his mind. His sword deflected the thrust with predatory grace. He spun, pouring all his strength into a counterstrike that snapped the spear in two.


    The enemy staggered, momentarily off balance. Alexander wasted no time - he stepped forward and delivered a powerful blow, cleaving the Hungarian''s chest. The man collapsed, leaving a crimson stain that rapidly spread across the snow.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Through the chaos, Radomir''s voice rang out - raspy but filled with unyielding fury:


    - Well, you dogs? Want more blood? - He shoved an enemy aside with his shield, panting heavily. Blood seeped from a wound on his shoulder, staining his torn mail. His face was a mask of determination, and his eyes burned with a fire as fierce as the flames blazing in the distance.


    These men surrounding the prince were more than warriors - they were legends. Every strike of their swords was honed by years of training, every step as calculated as a wolf''s hunt.


    Their formation was a fortress, unyielding and indomitable, but every crack in it echoed in the hearts of the warriors. They were the elite, tempered by countless battles, their skill elevated to an art form.


    Each move of the retinue was flawlessly coordinated. They fought not as individuals but as one cohesive entity: shields locked into an unbroken wall, spears thrusting forward, blades finding the gaps in enemy armor.


    And Alexander was no exception. His youth didn''t hinder him; it made him swift and decisive. He had proven himself countless times in training duels with Radomir and Vysheslav, snatching victories even against the most seasoned fighters. But all of that seemed futile now, against the overwhelming force bearing down on them.


    - Your Grace, move forward. We''ll hold them back, - Radomir''s voice was firm, but exhaustion seeped through.


    Radomir stood at the center of the line, a battered pillar holding the formation together. His shield, riddled with dents and gouges where spearheads had bitten into the wood, trembled under the relentless assault. The enemies surged around him, but he did not falter.


    His breath was labored, blood trickled down his shoulder, but his face remained taut. Radomir already knew: this battle would be his last. Their numbers dwindled with every passing moment, and the enemy pressed harder.


    - Damn you all... - he muttered, deflecting a blow that narrowly missed his throat.


    He shoved his opponent aside, but his eyes flickered toward the prince. Alexander still stood, his sword gleaming through the smoke, but his movements betrayed inexperience and panic. Radomir gritted his teeth, suppressing a yell.


    - We''re still holding, - he whispered, though even he barely believed it.


    His shield absorbed another strike, the wood splintering further, and the impact sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder. The wet heaviness of his blood-soaked mail clung to him, its metallic tang overpowering the stench of smoke and sweat.


    - We must hold the center... - he murmured, but doubt lingered in his voice. He saw comrades falling one by one, their formation fraying like torn fabric.


    An arrow struck him in the side, piercing his mail with a sickening crunch. Radomir froze, the world around him seemingly pausing. The air grew dense, and he tasted blood on his lips.


    - Damn it... - he exhaled, clutching his sword to stay upright. His knees buckled, but he willed himself to stand.


    He raised his shield higher, trying to cover the comrade to his left. His arm trembled, but he fought on, countering a blow aimed at him.


    - Hold on, - Radomir rasped, shoving his opponent back with his shield.


    But his body betrayed him. A spear thrust pierced his chest, and he stumbled. Another movement, and he dropped to one knee. His shield slipped from his grasp, and his sword hung limply in his hand.


    - That¡¯s it, - he whispered, feeling the cold of the earth seep into his body.


    Radomir sank onto the snow, and in his final moment, his gaze met that of the young druzhinnik Stanimir, who still held his place in the line. Fear burned in the youth''s eyes, but he stood firm.


    - Come on, boy... come on, - Radomir exhaled faintly, before his body betrayed him, slumping sideways into the snow.


    He didn''t lift his eyes to the heavens. He simply closed them, letting the life drain from him as the sounds of battle faded into silence.


    Vysheslav, seeing Radomir fall, rushed toward the defensive line. He was a master of combat - each strike as precise as the movement of an experienced blacksmith, every block a wall impervious to mistakes. His blade moved as if it could predict the enemy''s next move.


    - Prince, stand firm! We stand for you and for Rus! - he shouted, raising his shield.


    Stanimir stood at the center of the line, gripping his shield so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the dust, and his breathing was hoarse, as though his strength was already spent.


    He saw the enemy rushing toward him with a spear. His heart pounded furiously, but his legs stepped forward as if he had no choice. His sword trembled in his hand - not out of fear, but from the unfamiliar weight. Suddenly, an image of his mother standing at the doorstep of their home flashed in his mind. Her warm voice, honeyed and field-like, seemed to call him back.


    - For her... - he exhaled.


    In the next moment, the enemy''s spear pierced through his chainmail, tearing it like a rotten rag. The tip drove into his side, and he froze as though a sudden gust of wind had swept away everything that kept him standing.


    - This cannot be... - he whispered, feeling the hot streams of blood running down his skin.


    The shield trembled in his hand, but he still held on, even though his fingers were growing weak. He stepped back - his legs turned to jelly, as though they were no longer his. He staggered, and then his knees met the ground, damp with blood and dirt.


    His hand reached for his sword, still clutched tightly, but his gaze searched for his shield. It lay nearby, covered in grime, staring at him like a forgotten toy. Stanimir tried to reach for it, but his hand merely slid helplessly along the cold, metallic edge.


    His eyes met the sky - clear and indifferent. It said nothing, promised nothing, simply observing from above like a silent witness. Suddenly, the smells of bread, the voices of village children, and laughter by the river filled his mind.


    - I just wanted to go home... - the thought flashed through his mind, but the words never escaped his lips.


    Stanimir''s body gently sank to the ground like a cut stalk of grain. His hand still gripped the sword, though without strength. In the reflection of his eyes, red-stained snow shimmered, where the sun smoldered like a dying ember. In that final moment, he suddenly understood - this land would be his home forever.


    No one noticed his fall - the battle raged on around him. Screams merged with the pounding of feet, the clash of blades reverberating through the air. Someone nearby cried out, then fell silent - swallowed once more by the chaos. A common death on the battlefield - unnoticed, nearly nameless.


    Dobrynya stood beside Vysheslav like an unyielding rock that no storm could bring down. His face, slick with sweat and blood, remained focused. Yet in the corners of his lips lingered a shadow of a smirk - not one of defiance, but rather a bitter one, as though he knew that this battle, like all others, would not pass without losses.


    - Look to Perun, - he muttered, barely deflecting a blow with his sword. - If you fear me, think about how you''ll face the gods later!


    The shield in his hand vibrated with each strike, the metal trembling as if in complaint, but Dobrynya held it firmly. Every movement was heavy and deliberate, like the hammering of a blacksmith. He fought without haste - neither with fury nor recklessness, but almost meditatively, as if every battle was not war but a craft.


    Dobrynya didn''t jest as he once did, nor did he shout bold words. His actions spoke for him. Yet with every strike, every shattered piece of armor, he seemed to whisper to himself:


    - Forgive me, brother...


    This quiet ritual was his way of preserving his humanity, even amidst the filth and blood.


    When a spear pierced his side, time seemed to slow. The metal tore through his chainmail like fabric and exited the other side. The pain was instant but did not drown out his thoughts. He only smirked.


    - Well, I figured as much...


    Taking a step back, he leaned on the shaft of the spear to keep from falling. The ground beneath him was sticky, slick with blood, making it hard to stay upright. But Dobrynya raised his shield, protecting a comrade who wavered nearby.


    - Hold, men, - he rasped, gripping the shield with trembling hands. - As long as we stand, Rus stands


    His strength ebbed quickly, his legs buckling. He tried to lift his sword, but his fingers no longer obeyed. One last motion, and the hilt slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud in the mud.


    Dobrynya fell to his knees, but his gaze still roamed the battlefield. He searched for the living, those still fighting. Spotting a young warrior with a bloodstained shield, he almost smiled.


    - Just don¡¯t falter, - Dobrynya whispered, watching the young man.


    In his final moment, Dobrynya lifted his gaze to the crimson sky. He took a deep breath, as if inhaling a final farewell to the cold air. His lips moved, but no words came. His body sank to the ground like a felled tree, and his shield fell beside him, battered and cracked - a testament to his resilience.


    Even in death, he remained as steadfast as he had always been - a man who stood his ground until the very end. Those who witnessed his fall seemed to hear an unspoken command:


    - Fight to the last!


    Their hearts clenched with grief, but that moment ignited a new flame within them. They pressed on, fighting for those who had fallen and for those who still lived.


    The fire of battle raged on. The dull thud of a blow against a shield and the agonized cry of a wounded man echoed across the distant edge of the field. Anna, a lady-in-waiting to the princess, flinched as though she had felt the pain herself. Her heart tightened with anxiety, but she did not allow herself to falter.


    The bow, familiar since childhood, now felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands, as though it refused to obey. Her fingers trembled - not from the cold but from the weight of her resolve.


    - Must I, a daughter of peace, become an instrument of death? - the thought flashed in her mind. But she immediately answered the reproach herself: - If not me, then who?


    Her gaze, tense and unrelenting, scanned the chaos of the battlefield. Her eyes, usually warm and gentle, now darted sharply from one figure to another. Amidst the groans of the wounded and the splintering of shields, she sought only one thing - the figure of the man who threatened Alexander.


    Finally, she spotted the enemy, raising his sword above a fallen soldier. Her thoughts clouded over, and her fingers instinctively pulled back the bowstring. She barely managed to whisper:


    - Lord, give me strength...


    The arrow flew. She watched as the tip struck the enemy, but instead of relief, she felt a crushing weight. Her heart pounded wildly, her breath caught as though she had taken a blow to the chest. Her fingers still gripped the bow, but they were slick with sweat, and the grip felt slippery.


    - Is this war... or am I a murderer? - the thought flickered.


    She quickly scanned the battlefield, ignoring the burning sensation in her chest. There, amidst the clamor of metal and the stench of blood, she found him. Alexander was still standing, his sword slicing through the air as if it moved on its own. Her lips trembled, as if she wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.


    The scene shifted abruptly. She saw the princely court once more - a tranquil summer evening, the scent of freshly cut grass. Alexander, laughing, was recounting something to the soldiers, while she stood in the shadows, holding a basket of herbs, too timid to approach. Her heart had clenched then, a mix of joy and pain - he was so near and yet so unattainable.


    But the vision vanished as quickly as it had come. Her hands gripped the bow again, and around her were only blood and screams. She drew the string a second time, gritting her teeth and forcing the past from her mind. Yet the shadow emerged from the fog faster than she could release the arrow.


    The spear struck her shoulder - the shaft grazed her skin, knocking the bow from her hands, and the tip drove into her body. A searing wave of pain washed over her, igniting every nerve. She fell to her knees, the enemy''s spear trembling in the wound.


    She collapsed, the mud mixing with blood, clinging stickily to her palms. Her gaze lifted to the enemy - he turned toward her, clearly intending to retrieve the spear. But before he could, a soldier lunged at him with a roar, forcing him to retreat. The enemy abandoned his weapon and disappeared into the fray, leaving her to wrestle with the pain and the cold.


    - Already dead... - she thought, fumbling for the dagger still at her waist.


    Her hands refused to obey, but she found the strength to push herself upright, leaning on the ground. Her eyes found Alexander again. He was there, fighting, alive - the only reason she needed to stand.


    - I still can... - she whispered, but her voice was so faint that even she barely heard it.


    The enemy''s spear still jutted from her shoulder, the pain unbearable. But her eyes, blurred by agony and fear, never left the prince. She wanted to tell him something she had never dared say before. But her voice was gone. She knew he would never know, and the thought shattered something inside her.


    Her hand lowered, resting near the dagger she had failed to raise. In her final moments, her gaze found Alexander once more. The entire battlefield, her entire life, shrank to a single figure she could no longer reach.


    Her fingers loosened, and her body slowly sank to the ground. In her fading eyes, there was only him - her prince, her only weakness. The pain receded, replaced by a profound silence in which the echo of her last thought whispered:


    - Forgive me...


    For a moment, the world seemed to stop. But the battle knew no mercy. The shattering cries and the clash of shields ripped the fragile stillness apart, plunging everything back into the brutal rhythm of war.


    On the edge of the battlefield, Vysheslav saw the formation begin to break. He caught a glimpse of a distant figure falling - another life lost, another sorrow - but there was no time to mourn.


    The crash of shields, the splintering of wood, and the groans of the dying merged into a relentless, merciless symphony. Vysheslav stepped forward, raising his sword as if challenging death itself.


    - The stone has cracked - but not crumbled! Stand firm! - his voice rang out like a hammer striking an anvil, heavy and resolute.


    His blade moved smoothly, as if performing a well-practiced dance. The first strike severed the enemy''s spear; the second sent him sprawling into the snow. Another thrust, and the attacker''s chainmail parted like worn fabric.


    An arrow struck his side, but he merely exhaled sharply, as if the wound was inevitable. Instead of a cry, he responded with a faint smirk.


    - Weak... Wasted a good arrow, - he muttered through clenched teeth, stepping toward his next opponent.


    Every step was deliberate but slower now - as though a tree had been chopped at its roots yet still stood. The shield in his hand splintered under the force of a spear. Vysheslav glanced back at his men, then let out a hoarse laugh, casting the shield aside.


    - Don''t need scrap... I''ll stand for you myself!


    He turned sideways, using the fallen bodies of his comrades as cover for the surviving soldiers, and raised his sword. His movements grew shorter, each one as if it were his last.


    - Hey, prince, don''t falter! Rus stands as long as we stand! - his words tore from his throat like a roar, trying to drown out the chaos of the battle.


    When the enemy''s spear pierced his chest, he held his breath, releasing only a faint, nearly silent chuckle. His gaze swept the battlefield, searching for someone in the chaos. His eyes landed on a young soldier lying motionless - he recognized a face from his early campaigns.


    - Well... that''s enough, - he whispered, as if agreeing with the inevitable.


    His feet braced against the body of a fallen comrade, as if the very earth refused to let him retreat any further. He took one last step back, then sank into the snow. Slowly, deliberately - like a fortress holding out until the last stone.


    He lay with his back to the enemy, facing his men. His hand still gripped his sword, and his lips held a faint smirk. In his eyes was the sky - calm, indifferent to the chaos below.


    In the distance, the cries and clash of weapons echoed. The battle raged on - but without him.


    Alexander stood on that same field, where blood-soaked earth clung to his boots. The battle still surged around him, but for him, time had stopped. One by one, the faces of the fallen flashed through his mind. Radomir... Vysheslav... Anna... Dobrynya... Their names echoed in his soul like unhealed wounds.


    - You stood to the very end... And I¡¯m still alive, - the thought flickered in his mind.


    For a moment, it seemed as though even the blood beneath his feet hummed with memories of each sword stroke, each final breath.


    The fearless smile of young Stanimir. Yaromir, steadfast as a wall that always shielded his brothers. Ilya, whose sword hand was as swift as the wind. Dobrynya, whose voice had boomed above all others as he defended them with his shield to the bitter end. Each of them had given everything for him.


    - Why me? Why not them? - Alexander whispered. But there was no answer, only the silence of the dead.


    They had become part of this field - bloody, horrific, strewn with swords and shields. Their deaths echoed inside him, every clash of shields and every cry resonating in his heart like muffled tolls of a bell.


    The sword in his hand cut down enemies, but every strike felt hollow. It seemed as though another step would tear his muscles apart, like every drop of blood running down his face mixed with sweat. Yet his body moved forward, refusing to let him fall.


    Before him stood an enemy - a Hungarian wielding a longsword. Alexander saw his face: bloodied but full of determination. The man stepped forward, his sword slamming into Alexander''s shield with a deafening crash like a thunderclap.


    His hands reacted faster than his mind, as though guided by an invisible puppeteer. But it wasn''t him. It was his body, driven by instinct or some external force, while his consciousness screamed in helplessness.


    - They died for me... - the thought cut through his mind like a blade.


    Alexander took several steps back to catch his breath, but his feet sank into the sticky mud. Two more enemies charged at him. Their strikes were swift, but again, his body reacted faster than his thoughts. The shield deflected a sword, and Alexander''s blade pierced through the armor of one assailant. The second was knocked to the ground but quickly rose again.


    Behind him, only a handful of surviving comrades remained, standing amid the heaps of bodies. They held their ground with their last reserves of strength, their faces contorted with despair, yet they fought on.


    - We... won''t survive this, - Alexander thought.


    He tried to take a deep breath, but the air was thick, almost suffocating. His eyes lingered on the broken spears, the battlefield that seemed to be devoured by the fire of war, the shattered shields soaked in blood. This world was merciless.


    And yet, his body refused to stop. Even when his muscles ached with exhaustion, even when his mind screamed that it was over, it continued to fight. The cries, the clatter of weapons, and the chaos blurred together into a single, muffled rhythm. The voices of Radomir, Dobrynya, and Vysheslav echoed in his mind:


    - Do not falter. Do not fall. For Kyivan Rus''!


    Before him, an enemy charged with a desperate final cry. Alexander parried the blow, his sword piercing the man¡¯s body. The enemy crumpled at his feet. But there was no next attacker.


    Around him, footsteps echoed - not the pounding advance of foes but the uneven, weary retreat of those who had been defeated. Slowly, Alexander raised his eyes. The enemy was retreating, silently, their faces hidden beneath their helmets. They moved toward the forest, as if afraid of the blood-soaked field itself. Their backs were hunched, their steps faltering, as though an invisible weight pressed upon them.


    The battlefield froze in an eerie stillness. The druzhinniks breathed heavily - deep, ragged gasps, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace. Smoke and twilight curled around the broken lines like shrouds.


    Alexander stood amidst the wreckage, his body coiled like a spring on the verge of snapping. Yet he stood - an exhausted flame clinging to the air.


    Every strike, every wound still echoed with pain, but in the silence, he suddenly realized - the battle was over. His sword slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a dull thud. He staggered, drained of all strength.


    His eyes met those of two remaining druzhinniks. One stood, gripping his shield as though it were the only anchor keeping him from collapsing. The other, clutching the jagged remnant of a spear, strained to stand upright, ready to defend the prince. Their faces were seared with exhaustion, but in their eyes glowed a quiet determination - faint as the last ember.


    - We... gave it everything, - one rasped, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He took two slow steps before his knees buckled. His shield fell beside him with a muted crash.


    The second warrior reached a hand toward Alexander but stopped. His breath hitched, and his body sank to the blood-soaked ground, leaving Alexander the only one still standing.


    Alexander looked at them but didn''t see - only the faces of those who had already fallen flickered before his eyes. Radomir. Vysheslav. Dobrynya. Their shadows surrounded him like phantoms, and each step echoed with their voices.


    - We stood for you


    He closed his eyes, but even then, the vision remained. Shields splintered, swords shattered, and hearts stopped for his sake.


    Then a low, resounding horn tore through the air like a thunderclap, and the battlefield froze. The sound was deep, prolonged, like the voice of the earth itself. Its vibrations struck his heart, a reminder that the battle was over - but not for him.


    Alexander raised his head. Above the forest, torn and bloodstained banners fluttered, defying the wind like the last symbols of resistance. But the horn''s call was not one of victory. It sounded like a warning - nothing was truly over.


    The air grew heavy, like the stillness before a storm. Alexander felt the blood from his wounds no longer flowing but pulsing, as though trying to escape his body. He wanted to scream but only managed a whisper:


    - Is this the end?


    The horn sounded again, dragging the world into a deafening oblivion. The sound was slow, like a distant knell, pulling him into its depths. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, staring at the clouded sky. Silence reclaimed the battlefield, but its cold no longer frightened him.


    Before his eyes closed completely, he heard a strange whisper - soft yet powerful, like thunder tearing through stillness:


    - You stood. Now it''s your turn to move forward


    The world faded.


    Meanwhile


    On the table, next to an unfinished cup of coffee, lay a book. Its massive wooden cover, adorned with intricate carvings, seemed strangely out of place. The title, once burned into its surface, had faded away, leaving behind only patterns that seemed to ripple under a lingering gaze.


    The room stood still in silence. No footsteps, no creaking floorboards. Alexander is missing. Only the cup of cold coffee and the book remained - a mute witness to something inexplicable.


    On the book''s blank pages, lines began to stir, resembling cracks in snow. They spread, forming words burned into the surface as if by an unseen hand:


    The World of Iron and Blood


    Volume 1: Alexander


    Chapter 1: The Call of Steel and Blood


    A deep, resonant sound filled the room, like the distant rumble of thunder. The coffee cup wobbled, yet the room remained eerily quiet - no wind, no movement.


    The lines came to life, slowly etching themselves onto the page:


    "I woke up in Kyivan Rus''. This is not my time... How did I end up here?"


    The shadows on the walls stretched, as though pulled by an unseen force. The space around the book grew dense, almost tangible with tension.


    The book quivered ever so slightly, as if it were breathing. Everything else - the coffee, the chair, even the light in the room - seemed dim, unreal.


    It waited. But no longer for Alexander.


    ***


    First Revision - 688 words (December 11)


    Second Revision - 1,265 words (January 14)


    Third Revision - 5,824 words (January 26, likely final). Word count reflects the original text; translations in English or other languages may differ.


    The difference between the second and third revisions is immediately noticeable. If a third revision occurs, I will include updated statistics.


    Example of the Difference Between Revisions:


    In the first and second versions, events unfolded quickly - Alexander feels bored, finds the book, reads it, falls asleep, then wakes up in the body of a young prince, fights a brief battle, and it all ends.


    In the third revision, I significantly improved the text by adding more details, emotions, and depth, allowing readers to fully immerse themselves in the story.


    It might seem that I''m stretching the events, but imagine yourself within the book. Could events in such a setting unfold easily and quickly? I think not. Every such day would be laden with tension, intrigue, and unease. In such an atmosphere, time would drag painfully slowly, allowing one to feel every detail.

 Chapter 2. Awakening

    The darkness was alive, like a dense cloud, cold and all-encompassing. It dug into his body with sticky, harsh tendrils, dragging him into a void where there was neither time nor escape. Eternity compressed into a single moment - infinite and frozen.


    The air around him was thick, as though filled with viscous tar. Every breath was a struggle, as if his lungs were clenched in metal vices, leaving behind a painful, burning sensation. His throat tightened, refusing to let through this dense, poisonous air.


    Alexander tried to move. His body felt forgotten, his muscles unresponsive. His arms and legs seemed alien, as if he were sinking into quicksand pulling him deeper and deeper. Panic rose like a cold wave, engulfing his consciousness, drowning it.


    Cold sweat dripped down his back. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, as though it would burst through his ribs at any moment. His breathing came in ragged gasps. He was trapped. Helpless. Cornered by his own fear.


    And then - a flash of light.


    Fummm


    Blinding radiance shattered the darkness like lightning striking at his very soul. The light tore through the void - sharp, merciless, and searing to the eyes. Alexander flinched, squeezed his eyes shut, recoiled, but the light had already filled everything.


    Then came the sound - deep, heavy, like the toll of a great battle bell. It echoed through the void, breaking it into fragments.


    The world cracked.


    The sound of shattering glass deafened him. The splintering penetrated deeper than his ears - it vibrated through every cell of his body. The darkness scattered. The void vanished as if it had never existed. In its place, reality remained.


    When Alexander opened his eyes, he saw battle. Radomir, standing firm as an unyielding wall, shielded him from the enemy¡¯s onslaught. Anna, her bowstring taut, loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark.


    The stench of burning wood and iron hit his nostrils. Smoke and blood mingled in the air, saturating it with a heavy thickness. The clang of swords rang loudly in his ears, drowning out everything else.


    The scene was so vivid, so horrifying, it felt as though he had just stepped back from the edge of hell itself.


    Instinctively, he raised his hand, but instead of a sword, it grasped at nothing. His trembling palm fell uselessly onto something hard. His gaze froze on his rough, scarred, calloused hands. These hands¡­ They looked foreign.


    Alexander felt his chest tighten. The air around him grew sticky, viscous, like tar.


    - It¡¯s a dream¡­ - he whispered, barely finding the strength to speak. His voice came out hoarse, like after a long scream. - It¡¯s still just a dream¡­


    He tried to rise, but a sharp pain pierced his ribs like a hot knife. His body refused to obey. Every muscle, as if filled with lead, rebelled against his will. He collapsed heavily back down, feeling the cold, rough texture of wood beneath his skin.


    And then the pain washed over him again - sharp, burning, relentless. It was too real. He froze, his heart pounding faster. Pain couldn¡¯t be part of a dream. It pulsed with every breath, with every attempt to move, bringing an unbearable clarity.


    - Dreams can¡¯t hurt¡­ - he rasped. The thought echoed in his mind, tearing through the fog of disbelief. But if this wasn¡¯t a dream, then what was it?


    Alexander looked at his hands again. His fingers instinctively clenched, as if searching for a weapon. His mind struggled to push away the images flashing before his eyes: faces, screams, desperate gazes. But the visions only grew sharper, scorching his memory with their unbearable vividness.


    - These¡­ aren¡¯t my hands¡­ - he murmured, barely moving his lips. His eyes darted around the room, catching on the cracks in the walls, the faint flicker of torches. The stone walls and damp air had nothing in common with his familiar reality. But the pain reminded him this wasn¡¯t a dream.


    He closed his eyes, but even in the darkness, the images burned brightly. Radomir, bleeding, standing his ground to the death for his prince. Anna, pulling her bowstring and shouting at him to keep moving forward. Their voices rang in his ears like echoes from the battlefield. They were dying for him.


    - No¡­ This is impossible¡­ - he rasped, feeling his body once again overcome by weakness. He turned his head, feeling his muscles protest even the slightest movement. - It¡¯s a dream. It¡¯s still a dream¡­


    But the pain wouldn¡¯t leave. It burned in his chest, in his ribs, in every nerve, piercing his body like undeniable proof to the contrary. The thought that this wasn¡¯t a dream grew clearer, pressing on his consciousness, which refused to accept reality.


    - Am I dead? Or is this hell? - his voice trembled, coming out as a whisper. His hands rose to his face, his fingers feeling his nose, his cheekbones, his lips - everything felt foreign, wrong.


    He inhaled sharply, feeling the pain and fear thicken in his chest. Reality, dreams, memories - what was this? Everything blurred together, confusing his mind, but the pain, that cursed pain, wouldn¡¯t let him drift away.


    Alexander gasped sharply, trying to steady the tremble that seized him like waves from a cold lake. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus, to control his breathing as he had done in his previous life when managing stress.


    Breathing. Awareness. Action. It had always worked. But not now. Now it felt like the world was falling apart, like fragile glass shattering into pieces that could never be put back together.


    - Your Highness, you¡¯ve awakened. Praise the gods!


    A voice, firm and deep like the blast of a war horn, pierced through the viscous veil of chaos. Alexander struggled to open his eyes, a sharp pain stabbing at his temples. He blinked several times, trying to focus.


    In front of him, near the wall, stood a man - broad-shouldered and strong, with a thick, graying beard. His face, rough as stone, bore an expression of calm determination, and his heavy gaze clung to Alexander like to a final hope.


    - Where am I? Who are you? - Alexander asked, and his voice sounded foreign to him. Hoarse, broken, as though it had escaped from someone else¡¯s throat. Instinctively, he raised a hand and touched his neck - he felt no pain, but exhaustion weighed heavily on his entire body.


    - You are safe, my prince. That is what matters most, - the man said firmly, though his voice carried weariness, as if these words were backed by weeks of sleepless nights. - I am Stanislav, boyar to your father and leader of his druzhina. I swore to protect Prince Izyaslav¡­ but I failed. Now I swear to protect you


    Prince? Izyaslav?


    The words echoed in Alexander¡¯s mind like a distant gong. He stared intently at Stanislav¡¯s face, searching for any hint that this was a joke or a mistake. But the man radiated such grim confidence that Alexander¡¯s heart tightened.


    - My¡­ father? - The words escaped his lips with difficulty. The pounding in his head grew stronger, like a thousand hammers striking at once.


    Stanislav nodded, his expression darkening.


    - Forgive me, my prince. We could not save your brothers.


    Brothers? - Alexander felt something crack inside. The word cut through his consciousness, triggering flashes of images. Faces, voices, the clash of swords - all of it surged like waves. He clutched his temples, trying to stop the onslaught of pain, but it only intensified.


    - I¡­ don¡¯t have brothers¡­ - he whispered, but the words sounded unconvincing, as though his own memory was betraying him. Images began to flash before his eyes - vivid, as if relived, but belonging to another life.


    He saw Izyaslav - the eldest brother, whose calm and confidence had always both impressed and irritated Alexander. The memory surfaced like a vivid painting: Izyaslav looking at him with a composed gaze, speaking in a low, assured voice:


    - Alexander, you are a master of the sword, but a state is not ruled by the blade. Kyivan Rus'' demands intellect, not strength


    These words carried a fatherly tone, but beneath them lay a cold strictness that Alexander had never wanted to heed.


    Next came the image of Sviatoslav. His laughter, loud as thunder, and the smirk with which he always teased:


    - Still sharpening your swords, brother? Try negotiating with the boyars - that¡¯s where the real battle is!


    Sviatoslav was sincere, but his jests about politics always grated on Alexander¡¯s nerves. He despised such discussions - they felt hollow to him.


    Vsevolod appeared next, stern yet fair. He always spoke directly, avoiding unnecessary words:


    - Alexander, everyone has their place. Yours is on the battlefield. But remember, even a warrior must understand what he fights for


    That voice echoed like a truth Alexander had once tried to escape, diving instead into training and hardening his body.


    And finally, Vacheslav - kind and caring. His softness set him apart from the others.


    - Alexander, life isn¡¯t just about war. Look at the world. Isn¡¯t it beautiful? - he often said, smiling. Vacheslav had tried to bring light into Alexander¡¯s life, but the younger brother, consumed by training and combat, dismissed his advice.


    These images shifted so quickly that Alexander¡¯s head spun. The memories overwhelmed him in waves - he saw his brothers parting ways after their father¡¯s death, each departing to rule their own domain. They had been united only in memory, but reality had long since torn their bond apart.


    - They¡¯re all¡­ dead? - Alexander barely whispered, feeling the words stick in his throat. His voice trembled, and his breathing grew uneven. He gripped the edge of the table as if it could anchor him against the crushing weight of the truth.


    - The Poles, Hungarians, Pechenegs, and Cumans struck all at once. Prince Izyaslav¡­ - Stanislav took a deep breath. - He was in the southern territories, inspecting the borders of the Kyivan Principality. The Cumans ambushed him in the forest, attacking without warning. His druzhina was surrounded. Izyaslav fought to the end, but there were too many of them. He fell as a warrior


    Alexander closed his eyes, imagining the scene - Izyaslav, gripping his sword, standing firm among his loyal druzhina, battling wave after wave of enemies. The image felt too vivid, too real.


    - Sviatoslav¡­ - Stanislav continued, his voice growing quieter. - In Chernihiv, his army was attacked. The Cumans pretended to be merchants, infiltrated the city, and at night opened the gates to their forces. Sviatoslav personally led the defense, but he was mortally wounded. His men managed to drive out the enemy, but the prince did not live to see the dawn


    Alexander clenched his teeth. He saw Sviatoslav in his memory - fierce, confident, wielding a sword. And now that image shattered into fragments.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    - Vsevolod was struck down near Pereiaslav, - Stanislav said, his tone growing graver. - He was heading to the city to bolster its defenses. But the enemy already knew his route. An ambush. His druzhina resisted, but they had no chance. Vsevolod fought to the last to save his men


    Alexander listened in silence, feeling a hollow void grow within his chest.


    - And Vyacheslav? - he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.


    - On the road to Smolensk. His detachment was ambushed. They tried to break through, but they were all slaughtered


    Stanislav stepped forward, his gaze filled with pain, though he tried to mask it.


    - We thought you had perished as well. When we arrived, you were the only one left alive


    The words fell on Alexander like boulders, crushing him into the bed. He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. All of this¡­ it couldn¡¯t be real. His rational mind clung to explanations but found none.


    - This¡­ is a dream¡­ This is a dream! - he cried out, his voice echoing through the room. - I was reading a book! This is a dream!


    He tried to rise, but pain shot through his body. His chest, shoulders, ribs - everything ached as if he had truly been in battle. His arms shook, unable to bear the weight of his own body. He collapsed back down, breathing heavily, sweat streaming down his temples and soaking his hair.


    Stanislav stepped closer, his heavy footsteps echoing in the room. He folded his hands behind his back, watching Alexander. His face betrayed no emotion, only iron resolve.


    - My prince, there are no other Rurikids left. Kyiv awaits you. You are their last hope


    Alexander let out a bitter laugh, his chest heaving as if he were both laughing and crying.


    - Hope? Me? You¡¯re mistaken. I¡¯m no prince. I¡¯m¡­ just an ordinary man


    Stanislav waited a few seconds, letting the prince¡¯s words hang in the air. Then he leaned forward slightly.


    - You have no choice, my prince. Who else, if not you? Kyivan Rus'' awaits its ruler, - he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of steel. - Rest now. This attack seems to have left deep scars - not only on your body but on your mind. We will do everything to ensure your safety


    Before Alexander could protest, Stanislav bowed deeply and left the room without waiting for a response. At the threshold, he stopped and, in a measured yet firm voice, gave orders to his best warriors, Mstislav and Mirnomir:


    - Guard the prince as if he were our greatest treasure. No one enters without my permission. Kill on sight if necessary


    - Understood! - the warriors replied in unison, their faces unflinching.


    Mstislav and Mirnomir took their positions, their gazes cold and their hands confidently gripping their sword hilts. They were the embodiment of resolve, ready to strike down anyone who dared approach. Stanislav, without slowing his step for a moment, strode purposefully toward the Council Hall.


    Stanislav entered the Council Hall with a steady stride, as though carrying the weight of Kyivan Rus'' destiny on his shoulders. His broad frame, accentuated by his wide shoulders, commanded both respect and a subtle sense of unease.


    His footsteps broke the heavy silence. In the hall were two men - Metropolitan Illarion and Oleg, the head of the Boyar Administration. Illarion, known for his gentle yet firm faith, watched Stanislav¡¯s every move with hands clasped in a gesture of prayer. Oleg, by contrast, sat with a furrowed brow, as though his thoughts wandered far into the labyrinth of intrigue.


    The other advisors - the chief general and the diplomat - were absent, each tending to tasks aimed at mitigating the crisis that threatened to unravel Kyivan Rus¡¯. And the crisis was unprecedented.


    The deaths of Yaroslav the Wise and his sons had shaken the realm. The princes¡¯ demise had given rise to rumors and mistrust. Who had orchestrated the ambush? The Cumans and Pechenegs, as witnesses claimed? Or were those behind it seeking power within Kyivan Rus'' itself? Some whispered accusations against the Hungarians or Poles, but no evidence surfaced. The rumors grew like weeds after a rainstorm.


    Illarion remained silent, but his gaze betrayed an anxious expectation. Oleg, always one to anticipate events, studied Stanislav¡¯s face intently, trying to guess what he might say.


    - Praise the gods, Stanislav, - Illarion finally spoke, his voice soft but quivering with restrained tension. - What news of Prince Alexander?


    Oleg lifted his head slightly, his narrowed eyes sharpening. The question was direct, but Oleg knew the answer could change everything. His lips tightened, as though bracing for something that might shatter the fragile order.


    - The prince is alive, - Stanislav announced firmly, his voice rolling through the hall like a thunderclap. - Moreover, he has regained consciousness and, surprisingly, is recovering quickly


    Illarion immediately clasped his hands in a prayerful gesture. His face lit up with joy he made no attempt to conceal.


    - A blessing from above, - he whispered, then more loudly: - Our prayers have been heard. Kyivan Rus'' will not be left without a ruler


    Oleg maintained his composure, but his eyes gleamed with tension. He did not share the metropolitan¡¯s enthusiasm. The fact that Alexander had survived was unexpected. And in unexpected events, Oleg always saw danger.


    - Hope still lives, - he said dryly, thoughtfully stroking his beard. - But we must not delude ourselves. The people need to know this. Kyivan Rus'' must not be seen as weak. The prince lives, and power remains strong. But that alone is not enough


    - The people must know, - Illarion nodded, his voice gaining firmness. - But haste is dangerous. The rumors of the princes¡¯ deaths are still fresh. Any misstep could ignite rebellion


    Listening to them, Stanislav felt anger bubbling inside him. He knew they were both right, but it didn¡¯t lessen his irritation. These two men, each in their own way, pulled the country in different directions. And he stood between them, forced to maintain balance.


    - We cannot allow chaos, - he finally said, struggling to keep his voice steady. - Alexander¡¯s survival is no accident. It¡¯s a sign. Kyivan Rus'' needs him. And not just him - it needs all of us. If we think only of our own gain, we will destroy this country


    Illarion nodded, his face remaining calm, though his eyes betrayed weariness.


    - We must remember that a prince is not only a ruler but also a symbol. If the people believe the gods blessed his survival, it will strengthen their faith and Kyivan Rus''. We can restore order


    - But the risk is too great, - Oleg leaned forward slightly, his voice predatory, like someone accustomed to seeing others¡¯ weaknesses. - What if the prince doesn¡¯t meet expectations? What if he¡¯s too weak to rule? Then what? Rebellions? War?


    - Do you doubt divine will, Oleg? - Illarion raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but cold.


    Oleg scoffed softly but said nothing.


    Sensing the tense silence, Stanislav firmly added:


    - Tomorrow, we will gather everyone. The heralds will announce the prince¡¯s return, and the priests will support his word. We don¡¯t have time for debates. Stability is the priority


    He glanced at both men, his gaze filled with resolve.


    - Alexander is the last of Yaroslav¡¯s sons. This is not a choice. This is destiny


    Illarion folded his hands in a prayerful gesture again, his voice soft:


    - Destiny or trial - it is not for us to judge. The important thing is to follow the truth


    - Truth or profit? - Oleg retorted, rising from his seat. - Tomorrow, we¡¯ll decide how to proceed. But remember, Illarion, power is not only faith but also strength. The people need to see it. Without that, everything will collapse


    Illarion fixed a piercing gaze on Oleg. His face remained calm, but a spark of firmness flashed in his eyes.


    - Strength without faith is nothing but violence, Oleg, - he said, his voice soft yet imbued with steel. - The people do not merely see strength; they sense its righteousness. Without that, a ruler becomes a tyrant, and the people become a mob ready to rebel


    Oleg smirked, though a hint of wariness flickered in his expression.


    - Fine words, Illarion. But what is more important - ideals or maintaining order? If the prince proves weak, no prayers will save Kyivan Rus¡¯. We need not just faith but pragmatism. Tomorrow, we will see the truth


    Stanislav, standing between them, raised his hand, silencing them both. His gaze was heavy, his voice firm and unyielding.


    - Enough. We don¡¯t have time for arguments. Each of you is right in your own way, but the priority now is preserving Kyivan Rus¡¯. Alexander is the sole heir, and we must support him, give him a chance to prove himself. The people need to see that we are united in this decision


    He cast a reproachful glance at both of them before sharply turning away.


    - Tomorrow, - he repeated curtly, leaving the hall. His footsteps echoed through the tense silence.


    Illarion and Oleg remained standing, each lost in thought, both fully aware that their argument was only the beginning of the trials to come.


    Meanwhile Alexander lay motionless, feeling how fatigue and pain held him captive. His body ached, but no longer with the sharp, searing intensity that turned every breath into agony. The air was damp, saturated with moisture and a faint scent of incense. The only sound breaking the silence was the steady crackling of the fire in the hearth, its rhythmic cadence grounding Alexander to reality.


    He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening. The cold rigidity of the surface beneath him, the rough texture of the blanket, the flickering firelight on the stone walls - all of it felt too real. Too tangible. The pain throbbed in his chest, his ribs, and every movement served as a constant reminder: this was no illusion.


    - I¡¯m¡­ in Kyivan Rus¡¯, - he whispered faintly, his voice dry and raspy, unfamiliar even to himself.


    The words echoed in his mind as though demanding confirmation. Alexander turned onto his side, wincing as a sharp pain pierced his ribs. His gaze settled on a cracked section of the wall.


    His thoughts raced chaotically, as though two worlds were vying to tear his consciousness apart. The life he had left behind - a world of familiarity, predictability - and this strange new realm, brutal and bloody, demanding his full attention.


    - I have to go back, - he murmured, though he hardly believed his own words. - I¡­ don¡¯t belong here. My life is¡­ there¡­


    But his voice faltered, hanging in the stillness of the room. A question, sharp as a dagger, stabbed into his mind:


    - Is anyone waiting for me there?


    He froze. Even the pain seemed to retreat in the face of this revelation. Who had truly been left behind in his former world? A wife who had left, taking with her nothing but memories of unfulfilled promises? Parents who were gone? Colleagues? Relatives? A job he despised but endured for the illusion of stability?


    - No, - he whispered, barely audible. His voice carried the weight of a confession he feared to acknowledge. - There¡¯s¡­ no one there


    The words burned his soul. He shut his eyes, but even in the darkness, fragments of his past emerged - blurry, distant, as though they belonged to someone else. His breathing grew uneven, his chest tightening under a wave of bitter regret. The pain within was far greater than any physical ache.


    His gaze fell on an object lying beside him on the bed. A simple book. It hadn¡¯t drawn his attention at first, but now it seemed to call to him, as though it held the answers to everything.


    His trembling fingers reached out for it. The dark, textured cover felt familiar. He froze, his heartbeat quickening. This couldn¡¯t be.


    - How? - he exhaled, running his fingers over the surface, as if afraid the touch would dispel it. His eyes widened as he read the title:


    "How to Survive and Change the Medieval World."


    The very book he had held before being transported here. His breathing quickened, and his fingers tightened around the cover. He opened it, flipping through the pages. The words, both familiar and alien, leapt off the page as if each line were meant for him.


    "A practical guide for those who seek not just survival but power in the harsh world of the past."


    He froze, realizing he held something extraordinary. How had it ended up here? Why? These questions surged through his mind, but the answers dissolved into the silence. The book¡¯s lines captivated him, drawing him deeper into this new reality.


    Advice on building fortresses, strengthening economies, negotiating with chieftains, rallying armies, and avoiding betrayal. Each word seemed to come alive, painting vivid images in his mind, as though the book itself was alive.


    And then, one sentence struck him like a blade:


    "Power is not granted to the weak. If you want to survive, use what you have: knowledge, cunning, resolve, and strength."


    Alexander closed the book and set it beside him. His heart pounded so loudly it felt almost tangible. His eyes burned with the fire of someone who had found their answer.


    - Isn¡¯t this what I¡¯ve always wanted? - he murmured, staring at the ceiling in exhaustion.


    He remembered the dreams of his youth - knights and kings, heroic deeds on the battlefield. But now, the romance of those dreams had vanished. All that remained was reality. This land was merciless. His "brothers" - even if they were not truly his memories - had fallen without mercy. There was no place for weakness here.


    And suddenly, he understood. This was an opportunity. A chance to become what he could never be in his previous life. Not just to survive, but to change everything.


    He clenched his fists, feeling tension ripple through his body, awakening his will. This was no longer a childhood dream.


    This was a world of iron and blood, where survival was the law.


    - I will survive, - he said quietly, but his voice was firm. His eyes shone with determination. - And I will become the Grand Prince of Kyivan Rus¡¯

 Chapter 3. The Council on the Brink of Change

    These years were a true Golden Age for Kyivan Rus''.


    The state stood at the height of its power, flourishing thanks to the wisdom and foresight of Grand Prince Yaroslav the Wise. His name became synonymous with stability, strength, and order, and his reign - a symbol of unity.


    However, with his death, this greatness was put at risk. All of Kyivan Rus'' began descending into chaos.


    Before his passing, Yaroslav had bequeathed that the lands be divided among his sons, each to rule over his own principality. At first glance, this decision seemed wise: the division of power was meant to ensure peace and order. But fate had other plans.


    After the funeral of Grand Prince Yaroslav, his sons departed to their respective domains, each seeking to strengthen his lands and assert his rule. But their paths turned into traps. A conspiracy, hidden in the shadows of political intrigue, struck with precision and ruthlessness.


    Ambushes were arranged by nomads acting on the directions of foreign agents and mercenaries, bought with the clinking of coins. The assassins knew the routes, selecting places to strike where defenses were weakest. They attacked suddenly, exploiting confusion and numerical superiority.


    Izyaslav, Sviatoslav, Vsevolod, and Vyacheslav - all fell at different times and in different places. Their fates seemed preordained by a cunning plan aimed at destroying Yaroslav''s legacy and turning Kyivan Rus'' into a land of chaos.


    This strike, delivered simultaneously and with precision, left Kyivan Rus'' without princely leadership. The conspirators had not anticipated one thing: the youngest son, Alexander, survived. He became the only one who could stand against ruin and attempt to preserve Rus'' as a united entity.


    The young prince, whom some considered too modest for power, and others - too unthreatening. His name was rarely mentioned in boyar circles, for he always stayed in the shadows, preferring the forged blade and rigorous training to palace intrigues.


    But in those shadows lay a strength unseen even by the most perceptive advisors. He dedicated days and nights to training, becoming a master of the sword while remaining a stranger to worldly vanity, hidden behind his brothers'' prominence.


    If the conspirators had known how strong Alexander truly was, they would not have sent a single detachment of assassins but two. At twenty years old, he possessed superhuman strength, reflexes, and masterful weapon skills.


    Alexander had always focused not only on swordsmanship but also on hardening his body. Since childhood, he had walked barefoot through snow and bathed in the icy waters of the Dnipro. His body had grown accustomed to hardships and pain. These habits, cultivated over years, became his salvation.


    Even his extraordinary skill could not fully protect him. On the road to his city of Iziaslavl, in Halych, Alexander was ambushed by a large force. The attack was brutal, and the enemy''s numerical superiority nearly decided the battle''s outcome.


    Only he survived. When reinforcements arrived, Alexander, barely alive, was pulled from a pile of corpses. His body, wounded and exhausted, still clung to life. He was taken to Kyiv, where every step of the dangerous journey felt like a battle against death.


    There, healers did everything in their power to save the prince. They used extracts from herbs known for stopping blood, compresses of honey and resin to heal wounds, and poultices of celandine and nettle placed on his chest. His body was wrapped in warm cloths soaked with bear fat. One of the oldest herbalists, kneeling at Alexander''s bedside, whispered ancient incantations, calling upon the forces of earth and sky to aid the prince.


    The deep wounds and loss of blood left him in critical condition. Their faces darkened with worry, and their words were filled with despair:


    - He clings to life like a lioness protecting her cubs, but we cannot promise a miracle, - one of the elder healers said.


    It seemed that Alexander''s body, tempered in countless battles, had finally reached its limit. Each breath came with difficulty, as though fate itself was preparing to strike the final blow. Hope flickered like a dying flame, leaving only grim anticipation of the end.


    But a miracle occurred. Alexander survived, defying all expectations. His miraculous recovery stunned the advisors and boyars. They saw it as a possible sign from above - a testament that the heavens had chosen him for a great mission. Alexander, the last son of Yaroslav, became the sole hope for restoring unity and greatness to Kievan Rus.


    However, it was far from simple. The advisors and boyars knew little of Alexander and his abilities. To them, he was an inexperienced youth suddenly placed at the forefront of the princely throne.


    Each of Yaroslav''s sons - from the eldest Iziaslav to the youngest Alexander - had their supporters. But the chain of tragic deaths forced the boyars into a difficult dilemma: to support Alexander, the last legitimate heir, fulfilling their oath of loyalty to the late prince, or to attempt to manipulate the young ruler, turning him into a puppet for their ambitions.


    On the surface, real power remained in the hands of the boyar council, but key influence was still held by those loyal to Yaroslav. These faithful boyars understood that dividing the principality into fragments would be catastrophic. For them, the loss of unity in Kievan Rus was not just a threat but a tragedy to be prevented at all costs.


    For some, Alexander was a symbol of continuity and hope for the restoration of former glory. For others, he was merely a tool to be used for their purposes. But there were also those who saw an opportunity in the chain of princely deaths. They began to wonder: - What if we divide Kievan Rus for good, becoming the true masters of its lands?


    Yet Alexander''s position turned out to be far stronger than the boyars and neighboring rulers had anticipated. Upon hearing the news of Alexander''s survival, those loyal to the memory of Yaroslav the Wise and his legacy, led by the seasoned leader Stanislav, rallied to the young prince''s side.


    These boyars saw in Alexander not just an heir but the last hope for preserving the unity of Kievan Rus. They realized that chaos and fragmentation would destroy everything their great prince had built.


    These individuals, hardened by years of service and loyalty, understood that the disintegration of the state would spell the end of its glory. Rallying around Alexander, they not only emphasized their allegiance but also sought to demonstrate to all others that Kievan Rus remained strong.


    The next morning brought not only the dawn but also an important event. Understanding that delay could prove fatal, Stanislav gathered all significant figures of Kyiv in the spacious hall of the princely palace. There, beneath high arches steeped in echoes of the past, the fate of Kievan Rus was to be decided. Waiting for others was not an option - time was working against them.


    The grand hall, illuminated by the flickering light of dozens of torches, seemed even more majestic due to its high ceiling and massive wooden tables adorned with carvings. The heavy doors closed behind each arrival with a deep thud, emphasizing the gravity of the moment. Outside, the city''s noise reached only as a faint echo, leaving those inside alone with silence and tension.


    The first to enter the hall was Ignat, the Chief Commander and representative of the boyars'' militant faction. His steps echoed across the stone slabs, and his stern face, scarred like a map of past battles, remained inscrutable. His heavy gaze swept across the empty hall, as if expecting to find a threat even there. Ignat took his place, resting his hands on his belt, standing in a wary pose.


    Next came Stanislav, head of the late Yaroslav the Wise''s retinue. Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded the aura of a man ready to protect the prince at any moment. His gaze lingered on Ignat briefly, and they exchanged short, tense looks, as if testing each other. The air in the hall instantly filled with unspoken tension.


    When the doors opened again, the representatives of the clergy entered. Metropolitan Illarion led the way, his tall and imposing figure draped in a heavy mitre that seemed to cast a radiant glow. Following him was Bishop Luka Zhidiata, known for his wisdom and measured reasoning, walking with a reserved expression.


    Last came Abbot Antony of Pechersk, whose modest frame and quiet steps might have gone unnoticed if not for his name, already a legend. His gaze held a power capable of moving mountains.


    Behind the clergy appeared Oleg, the head of Kyiv Rus'' administration. His broad shoulders and calm demeanor revealed a man accustomed to maintaining control. He was followed by Dobrynia Vsevolodovich, the overseer of the prince''s estates. His focused gaze and stern appearance reflected someone intolerant of idle chatter and deeply aware of time''s value.


    Following Oleg, noble boyars from various alliances began to arrive, representing a multitude of interests. While the concept of "factions" did not yet formally exist, boyar alliances were well-known. They formed around common goals, familial ties, or territorial proximity, uniting influential individuals in their pursuit of power, wealth, or the defense of their lands.


    Later, Igor Rostislavich, the mayor of Novgorod, entered. His confident stride, slightly furrowed brows, and brisk movements betrayed his worry: the delay in the coronation of the young prince could cost his trading city dearly.


    Miroslav, the chief diplomat of Kievan Rus, was absent - he was in Byzantium, strengthening ties with the Empire. The head of intelligence, ever secretive, remained as enigmatic as always.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The last to enter were the representatives of the merchants. Lazar Torgovich, the head of Kyiv''s merchants'' guild, walked with deliberate confidence. Despite his short stature, he radiated energy and cunning. His dark eyes scanned the faces of those present, searching for potential allies.


    Milon Yaroslavich, representing the Novgorod merchants, followed with a slightly mocking smile, signaling that he knew his worth and wouldn''t miss a chance to assert it.


    When everyone had gathered, Metropolitan Illarion raised his hand, and an immediate silence fell over the hall, heavy and profound. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on the walls, creating images of ancient wars and mysterious spirits that seemed to watch over the proceedings. All eyes turned to the spiritual leader of Kievan Rus, whose words unfailingly cut through disputes like lightning through the night sky.


    - Welcome, - Illarion''s deep, commanding voice filled the hall, resonating like the roll of thunder within the vaulted chamber. - With the Lord''s blessing, our young prince has survived the vile attack. But now, we face the most crucial question: where and how to hold the ceremony so that Alexander can ascend the throne and restore peace to the people of Kievan Rus


    His words, steeped in solemnity, elicited a faint murmur of approval. Some boyars exchanged glances, while others quietly crossed themselves, as if the mere thought of the coronation brought them solace.


    The first to rise was Vyshata, a noble boyar, military commander, and head of Kyiv''s garrison. His stern voice rang with the certainty of a commander''s order:


    - Agreed. The people are restless. On my way here, I saw them whispering everywhere - at the markets, in the churches, at the wells. If the prince does not ascend the throne soon, the situation could spiral out of control. If we delay, we lose the people''s trust - and with it, order


    His words carried not only concern for order but also a veiled warning. The crowd gathered in Kyiv could become a weapon - or an enemy - if left without direction. His statement drew murmurs of approval among the boyars, but the sharp voice of Igor Rostislavich, the mayor of Novgorod, cut through the noise, silencing everyone:


    - What are we waiting for? Where will the ceremony be held? Delaying the coronation will cost us all dearly. Our allies are already questioning whether the prince is alive or if it''s just a rumor. And our enemies are merely waiting for the opportunity to exploit our weakness


    - Saint Sophia Cathedral, - Abbot Antony said slowly, folding his hands in a gesture of blessing. His voice, soft but filled with power, resembled a prayer that reached every heart. - This cathedral is more than walls - it is the heart of our faith, our beacon in turbulent waters. Let the coronation take place there, so that the entire nation may see the heavens'' blessing upon us


    A brief, tense silence followed in the hall. Illarion slowly nodded, supporting the abbot, but before he could speak, a voice sharp as steel interrupted.


    - And what about security? - Oleg''s voice sliced through the air like a blade. - The Polovtsians and Pechenegs are not idle, nor are our other neighbors. Do you think they will miss such an opportunity? We risk not only the ceremony but the entire city. What if spies infiltrate the crowd on the day of the coronation? What if there are those among them ready to strike at the most critical moment? What if the prince himself becomes their target?


    His words, like a warning bell, echoed through the hall, sparking a wave of muted whispers. All eyes turned to Ignat, whose granite-like figure remained motionless. He squinted, scanning the room, and with hands folded on his belt, he declared firmly and uncompromisingly:


    - Security will be ensured. We will close all entrances to Kyiv, double the patrols, and on the day of the coronation, the retinue will surround the cathedral in a tight ring. Even if the Polovtsian spies attack, they will not get through. I guarantee it


    His voice, harsh and resolute like the strike of a sword, stirred murmurs of discontent. Before anyone could object, Dobrynia stood, his figure imposing and steady. His voice, even and firm, carried the strength to move mountains:


    - That is not enough. If an attack does occur, without carefully planned measures, the consequences could be catastrophic. We must anticipate evacuation routes for the nobility and prepare fortifications at key positions in the city. Relying solely on the cathedral''s security will not suffice. We cannot afford to underestimate the enemy


    Ignat frowned, his gaze darkened like storm clouds on the brink of a tempest. Before he could retort, Vyshata rose, his voice cold and tense, carrying an implicit threat:


    - If we display fear, it will only embolden our enemies. Show weakness, and they will strike. I tell you, Kyiv cannot be taken. The city is secure, and I will see to it


    His words, firm and confident, echoed through the hall, inciting another wave of murmured agreements. Ignat nodded in satisfaction, his face adopting a calmer expression, though his eyes remained wary. Silence once again settled over the hall, heavy and thick like a storm cloud looming overhead.


    The tense silence was broken by Stanislav, head of the prince''s retinue. His voice, steady and resolute like the beat of a war drum, carried the authority of a seasoned commander:


    - Security will not be an issue. The entire elite retinue of the prince will be fully armed and prepared for any attack. Even a thousand spies will stand no chance. Three thousand elite warriors will form an impenetrable barrier against any foe


    His words left no room for doubt. Questions about safety and protection quickly dissipated as Stanislav assured the gathering that Kyiv''s full military might would be mobilized to ensure peace and order on the day of the coronation. His confident tone and firm, determined gaze extinguished any lingering doubts, like a dying fire snuffed out by the night wind.


    The silence that followed was interrupted by the calm, almost playful voice of Lazar Torgovich. He stepped forward lightly, as though oblivious to the weight of the boyars'' collective gaze now fixed on him. His hands rested calmly behind his back, and his dark eyes gleamed with cunning:


    - Gentlemen, I''m glad that the issues of security are finally resolved, - he began, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect. - But we are overlooking a vital aspect. The coronation is not only a tool for internal stability. It is our chance to showcase the strength, unity, and wealth of Kievan Rus to the entire world


    His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet every word was as sharp and deliberate as a finely honed blade. Lazar shifted his gaze to Ignat, who scowled but remained silent, waiting for him to continue.


    - If our foreign guests witness excessive caution, - Lazar continued, his tone taking on a faintly mocking edge, - they may doubt our strength. Surely, we don''t want them returning home speaking of us as timid or weakened?


    Ignat, arms crossed over his chest, sharply interjected, his voice booming like thunder:


    - What strength do you propose to show, Lazar? Do you suggest we leave the city open and allow our enemies to stroll freely through our streets?


    Lazar''s faint smile lingered as he met Ignat''s gaze without flinching:


    - I''m speaking of the strength of wealth. A grand coronation will demonstrate not only Kyiv''s security but also its prosperity. Allies will see confidence, enemies will see power, and the common folk will witness the greatness of their land. Moreover... - he paused briefly, as though ensuring that everyone grasped the weight of his words - the merchant guilds are willing to support the festivities, provided the results align with our shared interests


    A murmur rippled through the hall. Some boyars nodded in approval, while others exchanged grim looks. Lazar appeared entirely unfazed, maintaining his serene and self-assured demeanor.


    Bishop Luka, who had remained silent until now, raised his hand. His voice, stern and unyielding like the toll of a bell, resonated through the hall:


    - Excessive luxury may bring ruin, - Luka declared, his tone heavy with conviction, like a hammer striking an anvil. - At a time when people pray for protection from enemies, feasting is ill-advised. Forget our duty to the people, and we risk losing their faith


    Lazar, unshaken by the rebuke, merely offered a subtle smile. His dark eyes gleamed with quiet defiance.


    - The Lord''s blessing is indeed invaluable, - he replied smoothly, his confidence unwavering. - But a river cannot be crossed on prayer alone


    - And what then, Lazar? When the enemy strikes, shall we hurl gold at them? Prayer may not cross rivers, but it strengthens spirits rather than squanders treasures, - Luka countered, his voice rising slightly.


    - Luka, a hungry spirit with a full purse stands a better chance of survival than the reverse. Let''s not forget who fills the treasury, - Lazar retorted, his tone remaining mild but carrying an undeniable edge.


    Lazar''s words, thinly veiled as criticism, rippled through the hall, stirring whispers among the boyars. Tension mounted as some nervously drummed their fingers on the table, while others furrowed their brows, deep in thought. The atmosphere grew taut, like a bowstring ready to snap.


    Luka rose sharply, prepared to continue the argument, but Antony of Pechersk, remaining seated, gently touched Luka''s arm and shook his head slightly. His gaze, filled with calm yet resolute disapproval, seemed to say, "Why argue with those blinded by greed?" Luka exhaled deeply, reluctantly sinking back into his seat as silence once again settled over the hall.


    Recognizing the need to refocus the discussion, Illarion''s voice rang out once more. Rising to his feet, his gaze swept slowly over the assembly, a mixture of sternness and inspiration in his eyes. His voice, deep and commanding, cut through the tension like a sacred blade:


    - Today is the 18th of Berezozol (March 18 by modern reckoning). I propose that we hold the coronation in a week, on the Feast of the Annunciation, the 25th of Berezozol. This day, symbolizing the beginning of new life and the fulfillment of the Divine plan, will mark the start of a new chapter in our history


    A new wave of whispers swept through the hall. Some nodded in agreement, but a skeptical voice broke the murmur:


    - Too soon, - came the cautious remark. - The people might not have enough time to prepare


    Dobrynia, arms crossed over his chest, responded evenly, his voice firm and confident:


    - Or perhaps it''s just the right time. The people are waiting for a sign, not for delays


    His words elicited murmurs of agreement. Luka Zhidiata raised his hand, crossing himself as he spoke:


    - The Annunciation is a sacred day. The people will see this as a blessing from above. It''s a fitting day for the coronation


    Oleg gave a slight nod, adding his measured remarks:


    - I see no objection. At this time of year, the people are free from agricultural work, and the roads to Kyiv will be open. The people will come


    Stanislav, who had been observing the discussion with keen attention, slowly rose to his feet. His tall stature and commanding presence immediately drew the attention of all assembled. His voice, firm and resolute like a battlefield command, carried conviction:


    - Then it is decided. - He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the room. - In a week, on the Feast of the Annunciation, the coronation will take place in Saint Sophia Cathedral. Let this day mark the beginning of our prince''s reign.


    His words hung in the air like a benediction. The hall fell into a tense silence. Some whispered quietly among themselves; others gazed thoughtfully at the table. The atmosphere was thick, charged with the realization that the success of the coronation depended not only on their decisions but also on the will of the heavens.

 Chapter 4. Voices of Hope and Shadows of Threat

    The rumor of Prince Oleksandr''s miraculous survival, the last heir of Yaroslav the Wise, spread across Kyiv like wildfire through a dry steppe. Heralds, proclaiming the joyful news, drowned out the ceaseless hum of the bustling marketplaces with their thunderous voices, forcing even the busiest to pause.


    - People of Kievan Rus''! Your prince is alive! - the heralds cried, their voices ringing across the squares like bell tolls, resonating deeply in hearts.


    In the noisy markets, merchants forgot their trades, discussing the prince''s fate with both anxiety and hope. Someone crossed themselves and exclaimed joyfully:


    - The Lord has heard our prayers! This is a sign from above!


    Yet others whispered, shaking their heads, their voices low and foreboding:


    - But what if the enemies come again? Can he protect us?


    Outside the churches, women clutching their children murmured prayers, their trembling words carried away by the wind, blending with its soft, mournful wail. One woman, bowing her head, whispered as though pleading:


    - Lord, do not forsake us... do not forsake our prince...


    Children, pressed close to their mothers, gazed at Saint Sophia Cathedral with hope in their eyes, as if expecting to see a sign there - a divine glow confirming the miraculous news. In the distance, near the church walls, elderly men stood in the shadows, their faces grim and their words hoarse and restrained:


    - Hope is good. But survival matters more. Without a prince, hard times await us


    The gaze of one old man, weary yet sharp, stretched into the distance as if trying to glimpse the future. His voice was quiet but firm:


    - The great Prince Yaroslav was our pillar. Under him, everything was peaceful. People knew no hardships. But now... can his son rise to his level?


    The other elders remained silent, but worry was etched into their faces. Hope mingled with shadows of fear. Everyone understood that without a prince, without a strong hand to keep Kievan Rus'' united, an era of tribulation awaited. Yet, deep in their hearts, a faint spark persisted - fragile but alive.


    Rumors, like river waves, spread further - along roads, rivers, through forests and villages, reaching the most distant corners of Kievan Rus''. Around every fire, at every crossroads, in every home, the words resounded:


    - The prince is alive!


    These words, like a magic incantation, rekindled hope. The people, shaken by the deaths of Yaroslav and his sons, saw Oleksandr''s survival as a miracle granted by the heavens. But doubts lingered for many. Elderly men, seated by stoves, whispered:


    - Can he hold on to power? And what if the Cumans come again?


    These conversations, like serpents, slithered into homes, leaving behind a thin yet venomous trail of doubt. And yet, despite the whispers, hope warmed many hearts.


    The morning after the princely council brought not only the chill of winter but also a resounding gathering at the square by Saint Sophia Cathedral. Metropolitan Illarion, adorned in his ceremonial robes, ascended the high balcony from which his voice would reach even the farthest corners of the square. From the towering balcony of Saint Sophia, his voice carried over the crowd like rolling thunder.


    - People of Kievan Rus''! - Metropolitan Illarion''s voice boomed like a peal of thunder, capturing the attention of even the most skeptical. - Today, we stand not just before news, but before a miracle. The Lord, in His infinite mercy, has given us a sign. In the hour when our hearts were full of fear, He has returned to us our prince - the last son of the great Yaroslav! Oleksandr is not just an heir. He is our future, our unity, and our shield against the enemy!


    Illarion''s gaze swept over the crowd, his voice rising even louder:


    - Do you see the sky above us? It bears witness that Kievan Rus'' will not fall! God is with us! Oleksandr is with us! And our land will once again be strong and united, as the great Prince Yaroslav desired!


    The crowd, as though one entity, froze. Commoners crossed themselves, and the elderly raised their hands to the sky, murmuring prayers of gratitude. Women in the front rows wept, stretching their hands toward the cathedral. A young man in the center of the crowd lifted his son onto his shoulders and shouted:


    - Praise be to God for saving the prince!


    This cry echoed off the cathedral walls, taken up by dozens of voices, transforming the square into a singular roar.


    - Praise! - resounded from all sides.


    Yet amidst the throng, an old man in a dark cloak whispered to his neighbor:


    - Praise... or farewell? If the enemies have learned of his return, they are already on their way


    The neighbor shuddered but remained silent. The old man''s words were swallowed by the crowd''s roar, leaving behind a lingering unease.


    Even the boyars, standing slightly apart, listened intently. Their eyes reflected understanding. Illarion''s words were not merely about faith; they were a call for unity that could not be ignored.


    - We must rally around Prince Oleksandr! - Illarion continued, his voice growing stronger, like a taut string vibrating to its limit, piercing the crowd. - Only a united people, under a single banner, can stand against the enemy. Our strength lies in unity, our destiny in togetherness! Only thus can we preserve what his father built. Only thus can we restore the glory of our land! God is with us, Kievan Rus'' is with us, and the prince is with us!


    His speech concluded with a solemn hymn, taken up by the clergy gathered beneath the balcony. The crowd joined in, and the voices filled the square. In that moment, it seemed all of Kievan Rus'' sang in unison with Kyiv.


    The voices merged into a single wave that seemed to lift the very ground beneath their feet. Even those who had doubted at first began to sing, feeling how the hymn united everyone - from humble peasants to noble boyars. It was more than a song; it was an oath made to the heavens themselves.


    Kyiv immediately began preparations for the grand event. The city buzzed with noise and activity. Merchants hurriedly brought offerings, their carts creaking under the weight of goods. Boyars arrived in decorated carriages, their retinues of warriors proudly marching behind them. Peasants traveled from distant villages, carrying nothing but hope and a desire to see their prince.


    The streets were filled with the scents of freshly baked bread, the smoke of forges, and the burning of resinous torches. Masons, their hands wrapped in coarse cloth, tapped at the cobblestones, inspecting every crack. Carpenters, shouting and laughing, erected platforms for the nobility, their axes rhythmically striking like a tolling bell. Nearby, farmers carried baskets brimming with gifts - apples, honey, flax. In a corner of the square, where beggars gathered, children argued loudly:


    - I saw him! The prince''s sword is taller than me!This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    - And I heard he''s going to give gold to everyone who comes!


    These words brought laughter and wistful smiles to the adults, but no one dared interrupt the children. On the day of miracles, even childish fantasies sounded like promises.


    Children darted among the workers, loudly discussing how "the prince himself would give them gifts."


    Ignat stood on the city wall, his figure a dark silhouette against the gray winter sky. The wind tugged at his cloak as if trying to carry him away, but he stood motionless, carved from stone. His sharp gaze scanned the bustling crowd below. Every stranger seemed a threat to him, every smile a veiled danger. A glimmer of vigilance flickered in his eyes.


    - We must remain vigilant, - he said, his voice low but taut like a drawn string. - In this crowd, there may be not only spies but also traitors ready to strike


    Beside him, slightly apart, stood Stanislav, the head of the princely druzhina. His stern face was thoughtful, his gaze following the movement of the masons erecting platforms by the cathedral. Their axes struck rhythmically, as if counting down to something inevitable. He frowned, folding his arms across his chest.


    - These seven days will demand quick and precise action, - he remarked quietly, without looking away. - Every person entering Kyiv must be checked. We must reduce the number of spies to zero, even if it means working tirelessly day and night


    Ignat turned his head slightly toward Stanislav, his voice harsh, tinged with irony:


    - Easy to say, Stanislav. Do you have any idea how many people will enter Kyiv in these days? This isn''t finding needles in a haystack. It''s an avalanche, and behind every smile, there could be a dagger


    Stanislav briefly glanced at Ignat. His face remained impassive, but a glimmer of resolve shone in his eyes:


    - That''s why we need to act decisively. We can''t afford a mistake. This isn''t just a coronation - it''s a matter of survival for all of Kievan Rus''


    Ignat nodded, turning his gaze back to the crowd. His expression remained stern, as if etched in stone. He said nothing more, but his eyes revealed a thought: the coming days would test not only the prince but everyone prepared to defend him with their lives.


    While Kyiv hummed like a giant hive preparing for the coronation, tension gripped the steppes in the heart of Polovtsian lands. Inside a large tent, dimly lit by oil lamps, Khan Kirchan stood before a scout. Shadows from the flames flickered across the walls, forming shapes of predatory beasts ready to pounce. Each gust of wind made the flames dance, as if the steppe itself tried to eavesdrop on the words of the khan.


    The scout trembled like a leaf, drenched in sweat under Kirchan''s piercing gaze. He struggled to speak, his dry lips moving soundlessly.


    - Repeat that, - Kirchan''s voice, cold as a winter wind, lashed the scout. - Say it again. I want to hear how you explain your failure. - His eyes, sharp as steel blades, bore into the scout, making him tremble even more


    The scout swallowed hard, barely keeping his knees from giving way.


    - My Khan... - he whispered, his dry lips barely able to form the words, as if each was a knife to his throat. - Our people, along with the Pechenegs and others... They failed. One of the princes, Oleksandr, survived. - His voice broke, and his hands trembled so violently that he instinctively clasped them to his chest. - Spies in Kyiv say... they plan to crown him in a week


    Kirchan froze, his face hardening into stone while his eyes ignited with fury. Suddenly, he slammed his fist onto the table with such force that one of the oil lamps wavered, spilling droplets of oil onto a map. The wood cracked under the blow, and the scout yelped like a frightened animal, cringing to the floor.


    - You fools, useless, incompetent idiots! - Kirchan roared, his voice like the crack of a whip echoing through the tent. - Everything was planned perfectly! One boy - just one! - and you couldn''t even handle that!


    He leaned forward, his eyes flashing cold hatred.


    - Do you know what happens to those who fail me?


    The scout dared not lift his head, his lips moved, but no sound escaped. The khan''s anger hung in the air like a thundercloud before a storm. The scout''s knees buckled, and his words seemed to stick in his throat. He knew that any word he spoke could be his last.


    Kirchan straightened, running a hand over his face as if to regain control. His fingers trembled for a brief moment before he waved dismissively, as though swatting at an irritating fly.


    - Get out of my sight before I decide you''re as worthless as dust on the wind


    The scout scrambled to his feet and bolted for the exit. The heavy tent flap fell closed behind him with a faint rustle. In the silence, Kirchan remained motionless, like a statue, until he spoke again, his voice hoarse but calm:


    - Summon Tarkhan


    Minutes later, a tall man entered the tent. His figure, carved like stone, radiated strength and confidence. His heavy armor glinted faintly in the lamp''s light, while his face remained emotionless. This was Tarkhan, one of Kirchan''s most skilled and loyal warriors, whose name inspired both respect and fear.


    - You called for me, my Khan? - His voice was deep and steady, carrying an undercurrent of power.


    Kirchan gestured for him to sit but remained standing, his gaze fixed on the map littered with markers of attacks and routes.


    - Tell me, Tarkhan, what makes the steppe wolf strong? - Kirchan''s voice was contemplative, as though he posed the question to himself.


    - Its fangs, my Khan, - Tarkhan replied after a pause.


    Kirchan smirked, though something dark flickered in his eyes.


    - No. Its hunger. Hunger makes us strong, drives us to seek more, to take what isn''t ours, to survive where others perish. But hunger can become a curse if you let it control you


    He turned to Tarkhan, his face set like stone.


    - Kievan Rus'' is a fat stag on our pasture. It has weakened and is nearly divided, ready to fall. But if we allow it to regain strength, that stag may become a wolf that comes for our herds. This isn''t just a war. It''s survival


    Tarkhan nodded silently, his face impassive but his eyes gleaming. He was accustomed to Kirchan''s ruthless orders, but even he understood that this mission was different. He inclined his head slightly, signaling his readiness to do whatever was necessary.


    - You will take charge of this matter. Gather the best men, those who won''t flinch in the face of death. Take the tukmakchi and kantari. Have the Pechenegs send a unit as well. The young prince Oleksandr must join his father and brothers in the afterlife. Failure is not an option


    - It will be done, my Khan, - Tarkhan replied calmly, bowing slightly.


    Tarkhan left the tent, his steps heavy, like hammer blows on snow. He went straight to his men - elite warriors who understood the price of blood. Their eyes gleamed in the night like those of steppe wolves ready to hunt.


    When the tent was empty, Kirchan remained alone. Silence enveloped the space, broken only by the occasional crackle of oil lamps and the sound of the wind outside. He picked up a cup of kumis and took a long, thoughtful sip. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows across the walls of the tent, forming the shapes of predatory beasts and the echoes of past victories.


    - They say this boy is chosen by the gods... - Kirchan sneered, raising the cup. His voice was low, laced with contemptuous mockery. - But haven''t gods fallen before? I''ve seen them die in the flames of our arrows, their temples crumble under the hooves of our horses. No so-called chosen one will stand against the steppe


    He slowly set the cup down and bent over the map, illuminated by the dim light of the lamps. His finger traced the cities of Kievan Rus'', as though already claiming their riches.


    - When he falls, Kievan Rus'' will collapse like an old yurt, - he declared, his words a grim verdict. - Its lands will be ours, its gold mine, and its people slaves


    A glint of avarice flashed in the khan''s eyes. He envisioned the future - caravans laden with gold flowing into his tents, princes kneeling and begging for mercy, and the steppe stretching endlessly to the horizon, conquered under his rule. He knew that becoming the mightiest among the Polovtsian khans was his destiny, and Kievan Rus'' was the key to achieving it.


    Outside, the neighing of horses and the clang of sharpening blades echoed through the camp. The encampment, like a massive predator, breathed tension, preparing to pounce. Every sound seemed to belong to a single rhythm - the rhythm of war.


    Kirchan raised his cup again, his lips curling into a crooked, almost predatory smile. His voice was soft, but it carried the full weight of his ambitions:


    - To the hunger that makes us stronger


    Taking one last sip, he flung the cup to the floor. It rolled across the wooden planks with a dull thud. Beyond the tent, the wind howled, lifting sand and tugging at the fabric, as though answering its master. The lamps flickered, their light unsteady, like the breath of the steppe itself.


    The wind grew stronger, whistling through the tent with whispers, as if the steppe spoke to Kirchan, affirming his plans. The khan, unmoving, lifted his head, steel determination burning in his eyes.


    He knew the storm was coming. But he also knew that this storm was his chance to rewrite the history of the steppe.

 Chapter 5. Prince of Two Eras

    While the council was in session, Alexander was visited by the best healer and herbalist. Their task was to ensure that the prince had no complications and that his recovery was progressing normally.


    Thanks to timely assistance and incredible physical resilience, the young prince was quickly recovering. Wounds that had recently appeared fatal were already beginning to heal, leaving scars resembling ancient runes.


    Not only had Alexander regained consciousness, but he was also able to walk on his own - albeit with effort and without assistance. This astonished even the most experienced healers. People with such injuries usually couldn''t get out of bed for weeks, and many remained bedridden for months.


    - It''s simply unthinkable, - said the chief healer, Miroslav, slowly examining the prince. His hands carefully touched the scars, already covered with scabs, as if he feared disrupting their integrity. His voice carried a mix of amazement and professional curiosity. - Such deep wounds healing in just a few days? This defies everything I know


    He shook his head, as if trying to find an explanation, but in vain.


    - In all my long life, I''ve never seen anything like this, - he added, stepping aside to make room for the herbalist.


    The senior herbalist, Svyatomir, standing nearby, squinted, carefully scrutinizing Alexander. His gaze lingered on both old and new scars, as if searching for answers in their every curve.


    - Of course, I won¡¯t downplay your strength, my prince, - he began, adjusting the leather belt holding his herbs and scissors. - But without my ointments and tinctures, which I prepared tirelessly through the nights, your body wouldn¡¯t have recovered so quickly


    Svyatomir took a small clay vessel from his bag and held it up to Miroslav¡¯s eyes.


    - See this blend? Pine resin, elecampane root, nettle leaves, and a touch of bear fat. I wouldn¡¯t call it magic, but for ordinary people, it works wonders. And in the hands of such a strong organism as the prince¡¯s, it delivers astounding results, - his voice carried a confident tone. - No one else could prepare such a remedy. Every herb in this blend was gathered at a specific time. The pine resin I harvested personally at sunrise, when the sun just begins to touch the forest. And elecampane, if plucked incorrectly, loses its potency


    Miroslav squinted, glancing at the herbalist with slight disapproval.


    - Yes, your ointments are effective, Svyatomir, - he noted, turning back to Alexander. - But one cannot deny the possibility of higher forces at play. I''ve had patients with similar wounds. They survived, but none recovered so quickly. This goes beyond the realm of the human


    His gaze lingered on Alexander, and his voice softened, as if the healer feared disturbing something elusive.


    - My prince, has there ever been anything similar in your family? Such recovery... It is otherworldly. Perhaps your ancestors were marked by something great? Legends, perhaps?


    Alexander, observing their conversation, frowned and decided to play along. He nodded, though he didn¡¯t fully understand what was happening. The healers¡¯ words sounded convincing, but he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that it wasn¡¯t just about ointments or fate.


    - Perhaps, - he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. - Maybe it is indeed something... beyond. Or... just a fortunate coincidence


    Miroslav and Svyatomir exchanged glances. The herbalist frowned, as if offended that his contributions were attributed to divine forces, but he did not object. Miroslav, on the other hand, looked thoughtful.


    - There are times, - he said quietly, - when the very earth or heavens mark the chosen ones. Perhaps you are one of them. Your father, the great prince Yaroslav, spoke of dreams that sometimes foretold coming calamities and victories. Who knows, perhaps you inherited part of his gift?


    These words hung in the air like an inescapable prophecy. Alexander, though understanding that Miroslav¡¯s words might simply be an attempt to attribute meaning to his recovery, felt a strange, oppressive sensation, as if these phrases weren¡¯t random.


    - We will pray for your continued recovery, my prince, - Miroslav said respectfully, bowing his head.


    - Thank you, - Alexander replied briefly, gazing out the window. Yet his voice sounded firm.


    When the healers left the chamber, Alexander remained alone, running his hand over his scars. These men saw a miracle, but he saw only a mystery that continued to haunt him. Everything that was happening went beyond the ordinary, and neither the healers nor he himself could provide a clear explanation.


    Left alone, Alexander did not feel the confusion typical of an inexperienced youth. Instead, he was engulfed by a deep awareness of the unfolding reality, tinged with bitterness and harsh irony.


    As a man in his middle years, who had endured the hardships of the modern world, he was accustomed to analyzing situations and finding footholds. Yet this world - its smells, sounds, even its light - felt so alien that it evoked a sharp sense of detachment.


    The rough walls of gray stone, illuminated by the flickering glow of torches, seemed to close in around him. The air was thick with the scent of resin and dried herbs. The simplicity of this room was alluring in its honesty but robbed him of the familiar comfort he once knew.


    Alexander ran his hand along the windowsill, feeling the cold, rough stone. The stark reality of this room was a world away from his past, where glass and steel replaced stone, and the scent of ozone from air purifiers eliminated all impurities.


    He cautiously swung his legs off the bed, wincing as pain coursed through his body. In the past, such injuries would have meant weeks of rehabilitation, medical procedures, and controlled recovery. But here, he had no doctors, no equipment.


    Only his willpower, physical strength, and the herbalist''s ointments. Every movement was a step through pain, but he gritted his teeth. He knew that in this world, weakness was a luxury he could not afford.


    When his hand slipped from the edge of the bed and he nearly fell, Alexander felt a flash of anger - not at the pain, not at his weakness, but at the situation itself. He recalled leading projects in the past that demanded immediate reactions and precise decisions and realized that his current slowness was more than just uncomfortable - it sparked an inner rebellion. Yet he steadied himself again, regained his balance, and continued moving toward the window.


    Reaching the windowsill, he leaned heavily on it and inhaled the frosty air. His lungs burned with the cold, but the sensation was invigorating, almost reassuring. Outside stretched Kyiv, austere and majestic.


    The faint hum of the city, emanating from somewhere far off, reminded him of the pulsating life of metropolises, but this noise held more order, less chaos.


    His gaze lingered on the horizon. The moonlight piercing the night sky danced on the rooftops and church domes. In the distance, a hollow cry of a bird broke the silence, as if it carried a message from another world.


    Alexander held his breath, listening. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had frozen, leaving him alone with himself. Was that cry a warning or a sign? He didn¡¯t know, but it added a note of unease to his thoughts.


    - They¡¯ve lived like this for centuries, - he whispered, gazing at Kyiv¡¯s streets. His voice was calm, but an inner struggle was evident. - Centuries of building, surviving, perishing. But can they create something greater? Can I?


    Instead of succumbing to fruitless musings, he began to recall. His mind, accustomed to systematic thinking, instinctively sought parallels and solutions. Alexander remembered studying crisis periods in history and how humanity survived through adaptation and ingenuity. He knew that his experience could be the difference that altered the course of events.


    Suddenly, a strange sensation overcame him. It was akin to a revelation, as if an invisible hand had rested on his shoulder. The memories of the body¡¯s previous owner, blurred and painful, washed over him.


    He saw himself - the young prince wading through icy water, shooting arrows, training sword strikes under the watchful eye of a stern mentor. This body knew pain, and the mind - cold calculation. These memories seemed to intertwine with his own, creating a peculiar sense of merging two eras.


    - Politics, - he muttered bitterly, gripping the windowsill. - The most unpredictable battle. And the most dangerous


    Alexander remembered avoiding political intrigues in the past. Even in the modern world, the games of power remained a dirty business, requiring flexibility and ruthlessness. Now he understood that he would have to master this art, even if it went against his nature. This world demanded not just the strength of the sword but also wit, cunning, and diplomacy.


    He looked out at the horizon again, inhaling the night air. A light breeze swept through the room, causing the candle flame to flicker. Alexander felt a chill on his skin, but the sensation was familiar, almost comforting. In the past, he had learned to trust his intuition, and now it told him one thing: his presence in this time was no coincidence.


    His gaze fell upon the table where a book lay - the only item from his past that tied him to the future. This object, once perceived as a source of knowledge, had now become something greater - a lifeline anchoring his mind between two epochs.


    Yet it carried with it a sense of unease. The book, once a safe instrument of learning, now seemed an enigma, a part of a fate he couldn¡¯t fully unravel.


    Yesterday, he had fallen asleep without reading it. His eyes, strained by the flickering lines blurred in the dim candlelight, had closed, surrendering to exhaustion. But now, as he touched its rough cover, he felt that it held more than he could imagine. The book seemed to draw him in, promising answers that lingered on the edge of his understanding.


    Alexander slowly opened it, flipping through its pages. The contents were familiar, yet every line now resonated differently. What once were abstract theories - information on medieval governance, wars, and culture - now came alive, taking on a tangible form. He read as an engineer studying the map of a new world, sensing that the map concealed something far more profound.


    - If I¡¯m here because of this book¡­ - he muttered, furrowing his brow. - Then it must hold the key. Or at least a clue


    He delved into chapters on economics and warfare. Strategies that had once seemed theoretical suddenly became real. Descriptions of siege engines, fortification systems, and army management were no longer just words on paper. They transformed into vivid images, mental blueprints that Alexander began constructing in his mind.


    Each line reminded him of the vulnerabilities he faced in this world. The Poles, Hungarians, Cumans, and Pechenegs - external threats. The cunning boyars, hungry for power - internal dangers. Alexander saw that he needed to rely on three pillars: the army, the economy, and the trust of the people. Without them, his authority was doomed.


    - Only a strong army and a stable economy can save Kievan Rus'', - he said, closing the book. - But in this world, trust is more important than the sword. If people don¡¯t believe in me, nothing else matters


    He lowered his gaze to his hands, running his fingers over the uneven scars. These hands had to wield a sword to protect. These same hands had to sign decrees to govern. He understood that without action, without immediate decisions, his authority would crumble like a poorly fortified castle.


    Plans began forming in his mind. He needed to organize the economy, fortify the cities, and secure defenses. But first and foremost, he had to convince the boyars and the people that he was not only alive but capable of leading them forward.


    - I can¡¯t just lie here doing nothing, - he said aloud, clenching his fists. His voice was firm, like an order to himself. - Tomorrow, I must begin


    These words sounded like an oath, and in that moment, he felt a strange surge of strength. It wasn¡¯t physical relief but an internal realization that his past experience and the memories of Prince Oleksandr had intertwined. These two sides didn¡¯t contradict each other. They complemented and strengthened one another.


    - A man from the future and a prince of the past, - he thought, smirking. - What a strange combination. But it¡¯s precisely what will give me a chance


    He recalled his past projects. Complex schedules, long-term strategies, economic calculations. It all felt like building a castle out of countless blocks. Here, it was the same, only instead of computers, there were decrees and scrolls; instead of engineers, peasants and craftsmen. Alexander felt that his past experience would form the foundation for new solutions.


    He reopened the book, his gaze lingering on a section about war strategies. Alexander studied the diagrams, descriptions of battles and sieges. He envisioned how these principles could be applied in real conditions.


    The memories of Prince Oleksandr, layered upon his modern knowledge, whispered to him: war is mathematics and psychology. Every swing of a sword was not just a motion but the result of countless calculations.


    But he understood that mistakes would cost far more than in his previous life. Here, there was no room for experimentation. His authority, life, and future hinged on every decision he made.


    - Hesitation kills, - he murmured, recalling the words etched into the prince¡¯s memories. - A prince who hesitates is a dead prince


    These words echoed in his mind, solidifying his resolve. Alexander knew that tomorrow, he would start small. He would work with what he had, gradually developing and strengthening his position. But hesitation was not an option.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    He glanced at the window. Beyond it, the moon still shone, bathing the city in a soft light. The night was quiet, but Alexander knew that behind this silence lay a storm - a storm that would either destroy Kievan Rus'' or make it stronger.


    By the third day, Alexander felt significantly better. His body still ached, and each step brought a pulling pain from his wounds, but now he could walk normally. Sitting in his chambers all day had become unbearable. He understood that every moment of inaction was time wasted.


    He recalled that the Saint Sophia Cathedral housed a vast library - a true treasure trove of knowledge, collected during the lifetime of his father, Yaroslav the Wise. While the memories of the body¡¯s previous owner gave him an understanding of the world, they were insufficient.


    Most of the knowledge revolved around military matters - strategy, tactics, and the art of combat. However, governance, economics, and diplomacy remained hazy. He knew that to implement his plans, he needed to learn. Introducing innovations ahead of their time would be futile - people simply wouldn¡¯t understand them.


    Leaving his chambers, Alexander immediately noticed how the palace bustled with activity. Servants rushed through the corridors carrying fabrics, goblets, and scrolls. Heralds loudly relayed orders that echoed through the stone walls.


    By the door stood two guards, Mstislav and Mirnomir, keeping a watchful eye on everything around them. Upon seeing the prince, they gave a brief bow, though surprise flickered across their faces.


    - Good morning, my prince! - Mstislav exclaimed, quickly straightening his shoulders, trying to hide his bewilderment. - You look... much livelier than we expected


    Mirnomir nodded, glancing at Alexander with a hint of concern.


    - Are you certain you should be going out? - he asked cautiously, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword as if ready to accompany him at a moment¡¯s notice. - You were only recently...


    - I¡¯m certain, - Alexander interrupted firmly, meeting their gazes. His voice carried confidence, leaving no room for doubt. - I cannot afford to waste time


    Thanks to the memories of Prince Oleksandr, Alexander¡¯s actions had become assured and precise. These memories were like a key that opened doors to a new world - a world where he not only lived but played a pivotal role.


    He understood his position, knew his status, and grasped the subtleties of etiquette that could easily become traps if he misstepped. The smallest details mattered: the proper tilt of the head, the weight of words, the restrained confidence in gestures. All of this now felt so natural, as if he had always been a part of this world.


    This knowledge allowed him to integrate seamlessly. Alexander carried himself as if everything unfolding around him was familiar. He knew how to speak to the boyars, how to look at the guards, how to inspire while maintaining a safe distance. These nuances might have gone unnoticed by others, but their absence would have been disastrous.


    He felt that the memories of the former prince were not just a tool but also a weapon. They allowed him to see not only what was happening but also what could happen if he chose the wrong path.


    Mstislav and Mirnomir exchanged glances but did not argue. They both knew their duty was to obey the prince, even if he had not fully recovered. Yet their movements conveyed caution, as if they expected Alexander to falter or weaken at any moment.


    - Follow me, - Alexander commanded, stepping forward. The pain in his body reminded him of its presence, but he gritted his teeth and moved with the determination that always inspired belief in his strength.


    The guards followed closely, watching his every movement. Their faces, though composed, betrayed their concern. Mirnomir, in particular, seemed to hesitate several times, as if wanting to say something but refraining out of respect.


    The path to the cathedral was uneventful, though Alexander felt the weight of the gazes upon him. People bowed and greeted their prince before returning to their tasks. Alexander noticed a mix of admiration and slight unease on their faces. His rapid recovery seemed unbelievable to them, and this gave him a surge of confidence.


    Upon entering the cathedral, Alexander felt the noise of the outside world give way to silence. The air was cool, filled with the scent of incense. The high arches, stone walls, and soft light of oil lamps evoked a sense of eternity.


    At the entrance to the library stood two more guards. Upon seeing Alexander, they bowed briefly.


    - Wishing you health, my prince, - one of them said with a faint smile.


    - Thank you. I¡¯ll be inside, - Alexander replied, gesturing for his guards to remain at the door. They nodded and took their positions.


    Crossing the threshold, he paused. Tall shelves filled with scrolls and books rose to the ceiling. The soft light of the lamps reflected off the wooden racks, infusing the space with an air of reverence. This place felt like a true treasure.


    Alexander took a few steps forward, scanning the rows of ancient tomes. His heart raced - not from excitement, but from the realization of the sheer volume of information hidden within. Suddenly, a quiet yet confident voice called out to him.


    - My prince, may I be of assistance?


    He turned to see the head librarian - a short monk with gentle features and a watchful gaze. His attire was modest, but ink stains on the cuffs betrayed a life spent copying manuscripts.


    - Yes, - Alexander replied. - I need works on land management, governance, perhaps something on trade regulations or legal codes


    The monk tilted his head thoughtfully, as if mentally sorting through the library''s vast collection.


    - We have treatises that may interest you, - he finally said. - Codices of laws, translations from Greek texts. There are also works on agriculture, useful for those managing land. As for trade... - he hesitated briefly. - There¡¯s not much, perhaps descriptions of how merchants transport their goods, but those are more often found in chronicles


    Alexander nodded, satisfied to have immediately found someone who could help.


    - Show me everything you think might be useful


    The monk confidently led him along the rows of shelves. They stopped before a section filled with scrolls and books. The head librarian pulled out several texts and carefully handed them to the prince.


    - This is Russkaya Pravda - a codex of laws. Here are descriptions of land distribution and judicial proceedings. And this - translated works on agriculture from Greek sources. They will be helpful if you wish to understand how to best use arable land


    Alexander thanked him and made his way to an empty table. Settling in, he began to read, immersing himself in the texts. The pages seemed to come alive under the dim glow of the lamp. His gaze devoured the lines, searching for valuable knowledge.


    Although much of the texts dealt with theology or legal matters, scattered within were insights into how the world functioned. Legal codes explained the structure of authority; rules provided guidance on governance; agricultural treatises revealed the foundation of life in Kievan Rus''.


    - Archaeology hasn¡¯t preserved even half of these texts, - he whispered, carefully turning a page. His fingers brushed the parchment with the caution of someone touching a living thing.


    Alexander realized these books were his weapons. Even limited information could become the key to building something greater. He delved deeper, memorizing details that could serve as the foundation for his plans.


    Time flew unnoticed. Monks quietly came and went, replacing the oil lamps, but Alexander remained at the table. His mind worked ceaselessly, with every paragraph unveiling new possibilities. Yet with each passing hour, he became acutely aware of the overwhelming volume of information. Each book could hold a key to a solution, but there wasn¡¯t enough time to study it all.


    The day passed in what felt like an instant. Afternoon turned to evening. Mstislav and Mirnomir had twice reminded Alexander of his missed meals. Each time, he merely nodded, assuring them that a light supper would suffice. Hunger didn¡¯t bother him. Knowledge, which could change his life and the fate of Kievan Rus'', was far more important.


    When he finished one of the scrolls, evening had already given way to night. Alexander leaned back in his chair with effort, feeling the tension in his back muscles. The pain reminded him that his body was still healing.


    - That¡¯s enough for today, - he muttered, exhaling heavily.


    Turning his attention to the head librarian, he spoke firmly:


    - I¡¯ll take some of these books and scrolls with me. Is that possible?


    The librarian, inclining his head slightly, replied respectfully:


    - Of course, my prince. But please, once you¡¯ve finished, return them. These are precious legacies


    - Certainly, - Alexander nodded briefly, then turned to his guards. - Mstislav, Mirnomir, come here!


    The two hurried over, their faces tense as though expecting bad news.


    - Yes, my prince? - Mstislav asked, glancing at the stacks of books and scrolls.


    - Help me carry these to my chambers. They are of utmost importance, - Alexander instructed, gesturing toward the table.


    Mirnomir frowned, tilting his head slightly.


    - Are you sure, my prince? Perhaps it¡¯s better to leave them here? You need rest, not work late into the night


    - Rest can wait, - Alexander cut him off firmly. - Time is working against us. Our enemies won¡¯t wait


    - But your wounds... - Mirnomir began, only for Mstislav to place a hand on his shoulder.


    - We¡¯re not here to question the prince¡¯s orders, - he said quietly, looking at Alexander with respect. - My prince, everything will be delivered safely


    Alexander nodded, gratitude flickering in his gaze for their concern. He pointed to a fragile book:


    - Handle this carefully. It might fall apart with the slightest misstep. And these, - he gestured to a pile of birchbark documents, - don¡¯t lose them. They contain vital information on land management.


    Mirnomir, shaking his head, cautiously picked up the ancient tome, while Mstislav gathered the other scrolls. Alexander himself carried a box of writing tools and led the way out. The guards exchanged a quick glance, their expressions a mix of concern and respect, but they followed silently.


    Once everything had been brought to his chambers, Alexander sat down to eat, glancing at the prepared dishes with mild displeasure. The simple food, though nourishing, reminded him of the limited variety in the local diet.


    - Variety and quantity, - he muttered. - That¡¯s something else to think about


    As Alexander delved into one of the scrolls, his chambers began to fill with books and records laid out across the floor and table. The space was cluttered with texts he alternated between skimming for key points and studying slowly, making detailed notes on parchment.


    Meanwhile, Stanislav, the head of the princely guard, decided to personally check on the young prince''s condition. Reports that Alexander was recovering at an extraordinary pace, defying all expectations, had already begun to grow into rumors.


    As evening enveloped the palace, Stanislav made his way to the prince''s chambers. At the heavy doors stood Svyatomir and Vladimir, the night guards who had replaced the day shift. Seeing their commander, they straightened and saluted.


    - Commander Stanislav, welcome, - Vladimir said respectfully.


    - How is he? - Stanislav asked curtly, his gaze lingering on the massive doors.


    - Still hasn¡¯t rested, - Svyatomir replied, his tone tinged with mild astonishment. - He¡¯s engrossed in books


    - The healer and herbalist shook their heads again, - Vladimir added with a smirk. - They just left, saying the prince is recovering as if touched by the divine. His wounds are healing as though only a couple of days have passed


    Svyatomir nodded, continuing:


    - Miroslav, the healer, insists he¡¯s never seen anything like it in his life. And the herbalist Svyatomir claims his tinctures and ointments work miracles. Though, it seems he¡¯s a bit too proud of his remedies. Still, their conclusion is the same - the prince¡¯s condition isn¡¯t just stable; it improves by the hour


    Vladimir, emboldened, added with a slight grin:


    - The young prince is so absorbed in books that it¡¯s as if he¡¯s trying to learn in one night everything Grand Prince Yaroslav spent years collecting. It feels like he¡¯s not the same Alexander we knew


    Stanislav frowned, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.


    - The Alexander we knew? - he repeated thoughtfully. - Did you ever really know him? The prince was always in the shadows. He lived for the sword, not for assemblies or councils


    Svyatomir raised his brows slightly but remained silent. Vladimir nodded cautiously.


    - That¡¯s true, sir. All we ever heard were rumors and speculations


    Stanislav looked at the doors, behind which dim lamplight flickered, and took a deep breath. Fragments of conversations about the prince came to mind: guards speaking of his inhuman endurance, boyars whispering that Alexander had no interest in politics. He had always stayed in the background, a shadow among his brothers.


    - Perhaps that¡¯s why he surprises us now, - Stanislav muttered softly, more to himself than to the others. - He was hidden. Few knew what he was capable of. And perhaps this time will finally reveal him to us


    Svyatomir, noticing his commander¡¯s pensive demeanor, dared to break the silence. His voice was cautious but loud enough to pierce the thick stillness.


    - Sir, people say he¡¯s changed. Too quickly. Some see it as a sign from above; others simply can¡¯t explain what¡¯s happening to him


    Stanislav slowly raised his gaze to the guard, narrowing his eyes as though trying to discern something deeper behind the words. His face remained impassive, but a note of tension crept into his voice.


    - Too quickly? - he repeated, emphasizing each word. - Too quickly for whom? For us, who live for decades in the same rhythm, accustomed to waiting, doubting? Or for him, who nearly lost everything and now struggles to find his place in a world that has taken his brothers, his father, and his peace?


    He shifted his gaze to the second guard before returning it to Svyatomir. Stanislav¡¯s face hardened further, his tone growing firmer:


    - We didn¡¯t know him before. We never saw who he truly was. Now we don¡¯t know how to regard him. But speculations and idle talk will do no good. He is the prince. A heavy lot has fallen to him, and it is our duty to serve and support him. Everyone who truly knew him gave their lives defending him. Now it¡¯s our turn to understand him better and stand by his side


    His words, like the strike of a hammer, echoed in the silence. Both guards straightened, feeling the weight of what was said.


    - Of course, sir, - they responded in unison, their voices firm yet tinged with respect.


    Stanislav gave a brief nod, turned, and walked away slowly, his steps fading into the dim corridors. The sound of his boots echoed off the stone walls, and with each step, his mind swirled with thoughts. Was this new Alexander a manifestation of his true self, hidden for years, or merely a fleeting resolve driven by shock, guilt, and responsibility?


    Stanislav didn¡¯t know. No one did. The former Alexander had been a stranger to them, a barely noticeable shadow among his brothers. But now, he was the only one who could claim the throne. Whether this was a blessing or a curse was a question no one could answer.


    Stopping by a window, Stanislav looked out at the night sky. The moon, surrounded by scattered clouds, illuminated the courtyard where the guards¡¯ torches flickered. He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts.


    - If this isn¡¯t his destiny, - he murmured under his breath, - our land will fall


    A faint yet persistent hope flickered in his soul. A hope that this young prince held the strength to unite a land torn apart by chaos. A strength once possessed by his father, the great Prince Yaroslav. But doubts, like serpents, whispered that too much depended on Alexander himself - on his heart and his mind.


    Only time will tell, Stanislav thought, whether this Alexander would become a great ruler or remain just a shadow of the past, forgotten as quickly as he was elevated. For now, they had no other choice.


    His footsteps echoed once more in the silence, dissolving into the endless corridors. And as he walked, he repeated the words he could not escape:


    - Kievan Rus¡¯ needs a strong prince. But does he have the strength to become that prince?

 Chapter 6. Concept on the parchment

    The next morning, Alexander woke up early. The pain in his body still reminded him of recent wounds, but his mind would not allow him to rest. Breakfast was brief and solitary - he remained in his chambers to avoid overstraining his body.


    Flipping through the pages of a book, Alexander reflected on how the customs of this time differed from those he knew. Here, even a ruler¡¯s meal turned into a discussion of affairs, but he understood that now was not the time for ceremonies. His body needed rest, and his attendants were busy preparing for the coronation.


    After a morning check-up by the healer and herbalist, who once again marveled at the incredible speed of his recovery, Alexander, feeling nearly restored, decided to return to the library of Saint Sophia.


    Outside, the fresh, cool morning greeted him. A light breeze filled the air with the scent of damp earth and incense from the cathedral. The pain in his body no longer hindered his resolve. Alexander felt how this air revitalized him, as if the city itself was preparing for change.


    His mood was calm yet focused. Alexander already understood many aspects of the current situation, but he needed more precise information about the geography of the lands, borders, and trade routes.


    Behind him followed Mstislav and Mirnomir, who had replaced their comrades after the night watch. They carried carefully packed scrolls and books that Alexander had finished studying the previous day. The prince already knew that knowledge was his greatest strength in this era. It provided him not only with an understanding of the world but also with power.


    When they entered the library of Saint Sophia Cathedral, Alexander once again felt the reverent awe he had experienced the day before. The high arches, the scent of ancient parchments mingled with the aroma of incense, and the soft light of oil lamps created an atmosphere worthy of the greatest temple of knowledge.


    The senior librarian, already familiar to Alexander from his previous visit, approached them immediately. His gaze still reflected the same attentiveness and devotion to his craft. Noticing the books in the hands of the guards, he bowed his head in a slight nod.


    - Good morning, my prince, - he said quietly but confidently. - You¡¯ve returned more than I expected. This proves your diligence and respect for our works


    - Good morning, - Alexander replied briefly. - I¡¯ve returned what I¡¯ve studied. But today I¡¯m looking for something else. I need maps. Any that you have


    At these words, the librarian noticeably hesitated. His eyes lowered slightly, and his lips trembled, as if he was searching for the best way to deliver bad news.


    - Forgive me, my prince... - he began cautiously. - All the maps we had were taken by your brothers. Some were carried to their lands, others... vanished in the chaos of recent years. We... don¡¯t know where they are now


    Alexander narrowed his eyes but quickly regained his composure. His face remained calm, but cold determination flared in his gaze.


    - If there are no maps, we¡¯ll have to create something, - he said firmly. - Bring me a large piece of parchment, ink, quills, and any records about our lands and neighbors


    The librarian immediately bowed and hurried to fulfill the order. Alexander moved to a table by the window, which offered a view of the city. Sitting down, he folded his hands in front of him and paused for a moment of thought. He faced a challenging task that would require full concentration.


    When the librarian returned with a tray holding parchment, ink, and old scrolls, Alexander felt a familiar thrill. He quickly skimmed through the provided records - fragmentary data on the borders of principalities, trade routes, and natural features. Everything seemed disjointed, but it was better than nothing.


    He began with the most important feature - the Dnipro River. He drew its course on the parchment, adding the main tributaries. Then he marked key cities: Kyiv, Chernihiv, Pereiaslav. The northern city of Novgorod was represented only schematically. The southern lands of the Cumans remained a vague boundary, while the border with Byzantium was based on old records.


    - The main thing is for the map to look convincing, - he muttered.


    The rivers were drawn with thin lines, the forests with light shading. Every element appeared rough but functional. Alexander deliberately avoided excessive precision, ensuring the map looked like the product of collective knowledge.


    The work progressed slowly. Occasionally, he paused to reread the scrolls or recall what he knew of the terrain. By noon, a map had emerged on the parchment - not perfect, but sufficient for the first steps. It was merely a foundation that required further refinement.


    Alexander set down the quill and surveyed the result. The map was simple enough to avoid suspicion but accurate enough to be useful. Now he felt he had a tool for implementing his plans.


    The senior librarian, who had been observing Alexander''s work from a respectful distance, finally mustered the courage to approach. His gaze, full of cautious interest, scanned the lines on the parchment. His expression reflected a mix of wonder and doubt.


    - My prince, - he began with a respectful nod, avoiding direct eye contact, - the map looks commendable. But some details... - He pointed to the bend of one of the rivers. - Might be inaccurate. Waters are ever-changing, as are the lands around them. You may need the help of elders or scouts to verify this


    Alexander nodded, rolling the map into a scroll.


    - True. This is only a draft. We will refine the details later. For now, let it remain between us, - his voice was firm, his gaze direct, as if testing whether the librarian grasped the gravity of his words.


    The senior librarian bowed low, nearly touching his chin to his chest.


    - So be it, my prince. Everything I¡¯ve seen will stay within these walls. I swear before the Lord that no detail will leave the library, - his voice was steady, though it carried a slight tremor, perhaps born of both respect and fear.


    Satisfied, Alexander nodded as he rose. The map, rolled tightly in his hands, was now more than just a collection of lines and markings. It was his first step toward leadership, a symbol of his readiness to make decisions and pursue their realization.


    Before leaving, Alexander cast a final glance at the senior librarian and spoke in a quiet yet steely tone:


    - Guard your knowledge and continue your work. And this map... You never saw it. Do you understand?


    The monk bowed even lower, not daring to meet the prince''s gaze.


    - Understood, my prince. Everything will remain here


    Lowering his head in absolute submission, the librarian stood in reverent silence. His respect, mingled with a faint fear, seemed to fill the air itself.


    Alexander left the library with determination in every step. A gust of wind tugged at his dark cloak, and the map, carefully rolled under his arm, felt like more than a tool - it was a key that could unlock the doors to a new future. The daylight, barely breaking through the leaden clouds, reflected on the darkened parchment, symbolizing its significance.


    Reaching his chambers, Alexander unrolled the map on a massive oak table, carefully smoothing its edges. Stone presses held down the corners securely, while a golden ray of sunlight breaking through the window bathed the parchment in a soft glow. The prince ran his hand over the aged lines depicting the Dnipro River, hills, and settlements, focusing intently as he began his work.


    The first thing he addressed was the defensive lines. His mind recalled the knowledge that in this era, the Cumans and Pechenegs posed the greatest threats, while Kievan Rus''s neighbors, constrained by its power, were unlikely to disturb the peace.


    Alexander remembered how his father, Yaroslav the Wise, had laid the foundation for Kievan Rus''s defense: the Zmiiv Walls, border fortresses, and the powerful center in Kyiv. However, the defense remained fragmented. The fortresses were not interconnected, roads were vulnerable, and garrison supplies depended on local resources.


    Drawing on the knowledge from his book and the military logic of the young prince, Alexander quickly identified weaknesses and ways to address them. He leaned over the map as if it were a complex chessboard, where each piece - a city, fortress, or river - had its own significance.


    - We''ll start with the defense, - he said, running through potential scenarios in his mind. - If we don''t protect Kievan Rus, no swords will save us


    His gaze fell on the southern borders, particularly the Ros River. Alexander recalled how, in his previous life, he had read about strategic defensive lines and how nomads attacked the most vulnerable points. This area had always been a weak spot for Kievan Rus.


    - A fortress is needed here, - he said confidently. - But not a large one. The size isn¡¯t as important as its location. A garrison of forty spearmen and twenty archers, plus watchtowers. Let it be more than just a wall - a stronghold to monitor enemy movements


    He traced a line upward to a ford across the Dnipro, a critical point that could become either a deadly vulnerability or an insurmountable barrier.


    - The ford¡­ It¡¯s a weak point, - Alexander mused. - If we lose it, the Cumans will be at our gates. A second fortress is needed here, more for holding the enemy at bay. Archers, a signal tower, an observation post. Let this place serve as the first line of defense, but not the final one


    He considered the people who would defend these borders and how to organize their supplies. Alexander understood that in the 11th century, any defensive line required constant support - both manpower and materials.


    - Wooden walls, simple but reliable. Towers every three to four versts along the Zmiiv Walls, - he muttered, marking them on the map. - Palisades, a moat filled with water if the terrain allows. It won¡¯t protect us from a major offensive, but it will buy us time. And time is everything


    The knowledge Alexander inherited from the memories of his predecessor - a prince raised on battlefields and among wise advisors - was invaluable. This knowledge was enhanced by his own experience, logic, and strategic thinking, merging like two rivers into one.


    He knew that even simple but well-organized defenses could play a decisive role in slowing the enemy and protecting key points. To him, it was as obvious as two plus two equals four. His gaze swept across the key roads connecting Kyiv with the other cities of Kievan Rus.


    - If the roads aren¡¯t protected, no fortress will hold. Supply caravans will become easy prey, - he said. - Here, here, and here, signal towers are needed. They won¡¯t stop the enemy, but they¡¯ll warn of their approach. Each should have a team of five men. The task is simple - to alert us


    He marked points along the roads and then returned to the key cities - Kyiv, Chernihiv, and Pereiaslav.


    - Chernihiv will serve as a reserve for spearmen, - Alexander decided, making a note on the map. - Pereiaslav will be for archers. The Kyiv militia will remain in the center, ready to quickly assist any of the cities. If all three nodes are protected, we will create a triangle that will form the foundation of the defense


    Next, he took a second quill and began drawing symbols to designate supply depots.


    - The depots must be secure, - Alexander said quietly. - Not at the border, but not too far away either. If the enemy captures them, we¡¯ll lose not only supplies but also the ability to wage war. Kyiv, Chernihiv, Pereiaslav - these cities will be our logistical hubs. From there, supplies can quickly reach the front


    He straightened up, momentarily setting the quill aside, and looked over the map.


    - We have a few years before the Cumans regroup, - he said. - Their internal strife gives us time, but not much. If we delay, they will unite, and all of this will be useless


    Alexander pondered how to present his plans to the council. He understood that not all boyars would appreciate his ideas. For many of them, construction was an expenditure of resources that could otherwise be spent on feasts or personal needs. However, the recent past provided him with a strong argument.


    The attack on the princely heirs, his brothers, had shaken all of Kievan Rus. It was a tragedy that called into question not only the safety of the princely family but also the strength of the state itself. If even the sons of Yaroslav the Wise, the defenders and heirs of the land of Kyiv, were vulnerable, what could be said of ordinary boyars or peasants? News of this tragedy, like a dark cloud, loomed over Kievan Rus, awakening fear of the nomads.


    Alexander knew that this fear could be key to persuasion. He did not intend to use it for manipulation, but the truth was clear: if the borders remained weak, nothing would protect the land, lives, or even those who lived in their wealthy towers.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    - I must explain that these are not just fortifications, - he said to himself. - This is the protection of their lands, their people, their homes. If the borders fall, the enemy will come to their doorsteps, and no amount of gold will save them from fire and sword


    His thoughts turned to the people who would defend Kievan Rus.


    - The militia is good, - he said, - but it¡¯s not enough. We¡¯ll have to mobilize the peasants. Not for war, but for construction. If they see that their labor is protecting their homes, they will understand that it is not just for the prince


    He made a final note in the corner of the map: "Timelines: fortifications - 2 years, depots - 3 years, towers - as needed."


    Alexander clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed his draft. It was not a perfect plan, but he knew that perfection was the enemy of the good. He exhaled, feeling the weight of responsibility.


    - This is only the beginning, - he said to himself. - The council will refine the details. After that¡­ we¡¯ll see


    His voice sounded confident, but deep down, he knew that any plan was only the first step on a long journey.


    He straightened and looked at the map again, but now his thoughts traveled beyond the fortifications and towers. He understood that defensive measures alone would not be enough. The true strength of a country lay not only in its walls and swords.


    Alexander shifted his gaze to the central part of the map, where the main routes connecting the cities intersected. Roads, like blood vessels, sustained the life and movement of Kievan Rus, but their protection remained a weak link.


    His father, Yaroslav the Wise, had laid the foundations of this system by developing trade routes and fortifying key nodes. But Alexander saw that the times demanded more - perfection and systematization that could turn scattered elements into a unified whole.


    - Strength starts from within, - he muttered, running his finger along the lines of the roads. - Without a solid foundation, all the fortifications, armies, and even diplomacy will be meaningless


    He leaned closer, studying where the trade routes passed. These lines connected the cities like veins in a body, but Alexander already knew that in some places these connections were too weak.


    - Merchants fear bandits, - he said, frowning. His hand instinctively reached for the quill, and he made several quick marks at crossroads and places where roads passed through forests. - Security is the first priority. Patrols. Guards. Let the merchants know that their goods will reach their destination


    He marked several key points where posts could be established to guard the caravans. His thoughts quickly shifted to Novgorod.


    - Novgorod, - he said thoughtfully. - It¡¯s the key to trade with the Varangians. Silver, furs, grain - all of it passes through there. But the road to it is too unreliable. The connection with Kyiv must be strong


    His quill slid to the Dnipro, marking the rapids and major settlements along the river. Alexander recalled stories of bandits who attacked the ships.


    - The Dnipro is the main artery of Kievan Rus, - he said firmly. - If we clear the river of bandits, it will become a safe route. At each rapid, a guard post. But not just guards. We¡¯ll levy a toll for safety. Merchants will pay if they see it¡¯s worth it


    He made several notes on the map, marking locations for new posts and docks.


    Alexander¡¯s gaze settled on Kyiv, focusing on the city. It was large, bustling, and wealthy, but he knew that was not enough. To make Kyiv the true heart of Kievan Rus, the city had to become not only a political but also an economic center.


    - Kyiv is the key, - he said quietly. - But a key not yet fully used


    He traced his finger over the city¡¯s center, reflecting on its current problems. Alexander knew that Kyiv at this time suffered from overcrowding. People flocked here from all corners of Kievan Rus'', and the city''s infrastructure was beginning to buckle under the strain. Narrow streets, a lack of public spaces, insufficient marketplaces - all of these issues hindered development.


    - Narrow streets, filth, no sewage system, - he muttered, recalling what he had read about medieval cities in his previous life. - This all needs to change. Not immediately, but gradually. I need to find time to walk through the city and examine the problems firsthand


    He marked several spots outside the city walls.


    - Marketplaces, - Alexander continued. - They shouldn¡¯t be held in cramped alleys. Let there be large, open squares. Merchants from all over the city and beyond must gather here. If Kyiv becomes a hub for trade, it will strengthen the treasury and enhance the city''s prestige


    But Alexander¡¯s thoughts didn¡¯t stop at trade. His gaze shifted to the suburbs.


    - Urbanization, - he said, as if testing the word. - The city is growing, but how is it growing? Haphazardly. If people are allowed to settle outside the walls in an organized way, we can create a new ring around Kyiv. Wider streets, sturdier houses, designated areas for craftsmen


    He pondered how to implement this. Alexander understood that such changes would be met with skepticism. People were not accustomed to reforms. But he also knew that any innovation needed to start with an example.


    - Start with one district, - he said aloud. - A model. Organized streets, spaces for markets, security posts. If it works, others will follow. Let them see that life in such a district is more convenient and safer


    He returned to the city center, marking spots on the map where reservoirs or small canals could be placed.


    - Water. Even a primitive sewage system. Water isn¡¯t just for drinking, but for washing and cleaning the streets. The filth in Kyiv is one of its main problems. Reduce it, and diseases will follow. This will show people that order brings benefits


    Alexander exhaled deeply, setting aside his quill. His gaze lingered on the map, but his thoughts raced ahead, tackling the complex decisions still to come. A dull headache weighed on his temples, reminding him of the price he paid for constant tension.


    Everything needed to fit into a coherent picture, but for now, these were just raw drafts. Each direction required detailed planning, and every decision raised dozens of questions needing answers.


    - These reforms will take years, - he said softly, as if speaking to himself. - But without them, Kyiv will never become what it must. For the city to thrive, it must grow


    He knew that implementing his plans would require not only resources but also the support of boyars and merchants. He would need to convince them that these investments were not a whim but a guarantee of collective prosperity.


    Alexander envisioned himself addressing the council tomorrow, already formulating the arguments he would present, the points he would weave into a coherent chain. But for now, these were just thoughts - the outlines of what needed to become reality.


    His gaze returned to the map. Every stroke, every mark on it symbolized more than just lines and symbols. His thoughts turned to the fields and the peasants.


    - Harvests, - he murmured thoughtfully. - Much depends on the land. But peasants are used to working the old way. If we want more, we need to show them there are other ways


    He understood that reforms had to start with himself, setting a personal example. Memories of the book he had recently studied surfaced - it had given him an understanding of the three-field system, one of the most efficient methods of land cultivation.


    - I¡¯ll start with what I know, - he said to himself, tracing his finger over fertile areas. - The three-field system. If I show how it works, if yields increase on my lands, all doubts will vanish. Let the peasants see it with their own eyes


    His plan was simple: allocate several plots on his princely lands, establish a pilot farm, and appoint observers who would not only monitor the results but also train the peasants. The entire process needed to be clear and easy to replicate.


    - We¡¯ll begin with crop rotation: grains, legumes, root crops, and fallow land. Let them see how it helps the soil recover, how yields improve, - he said, continuing to make notes on the map.


    He knew that words were one thing, but people would only believe facts. The boyars, accustomed to thinking in terms of short-term gains, would resist. But if his lands produced higher yields, he would have the evidence needed to argue for the reforms.


    His gaze hardened. He could already envision the result: his lands becoming a model for others, peasants starting to follow his lead, and boyars realizing that reforms could benefit everyone. It was a fight for the future, but he was ready to begin it.


    Alexander understood that, for now, these were just plans on paper, and their implementation would demand tremendous effort. An enormous amount of time, resources, and personal endurance would be required for this journey. But he felt he had the strength. He believed that time was on his side - he was young, determined, and ready to take on challenges others avoided.


    - There¡¯s time, - he said softly, setting the quill down and surveying the map.


    Alexander continued to sit at the massive table, his gaze fixed on the map. The quill in his hand traced new lines, while a piece of bread and an almost-empty mug of kvass lay nearby. Suddenly, the silence of the room was interrupted by a knock at the door.


    - My prince, Commander Stanislav is here, - came Mstyslav¡¯s voice.


    - Let him in, - Alexander replied curtly, without lifting his eyes from the map.


    The door opened, and Stanislav entered the chamber. His confident posture, emphasized by broad shoulders and a serious gaze, filled the room. He bowed - respectfully, but without unnecessary ceremony. His manner spoke of years of service and battle experience.


    - How are you feeling, my prince? - he asked, intently watching Alexander. - I heard you left the library quickly. Did something happen?


    - Everything is fine, - Alexander responded calmly. - I needed a map. Once I found what I was looking for, I returned to start drafting plans. Look. What do you see?


    Stanislav stepped closer, bent over the table, and began carefully examining the map. His eyes quickly scanned the rivers, fortifications, and trade routes. The annotations were surprisingly precise, but Stanislav couldn¡¯t help but notice that the map was simplified - likely drawn from outdated information. However, the structure of the plans themselves impressed him with their thoughtfulness.


    - Fortifications in the south, signal towers, supply nodes... - he murmured, tracing a line along the Ros River. - Everything is well thought out. Is this your work?


    - Yes, - Alexander confirmed, setting the quill aside. - We need to focus on defending the southern borders. The Cumans and Pechenegs won¡¯t wait for us to gather our strength. Their internal conflicts give us an advantage, but it¡¯s a temporary one. We must fortify the ford across the Dnipro and establish outposts along the Ros River


    Stanislav thoughtfully ran a hand over his stubble as he studied the annotations.


    - Outposts... If we reinforce them with observation towers and man them with garrisons of warriors, they could become a true shield for all of Kievan Rus. But what about supplies? That could weaken our center


    - The garrisons will be small, - Alexander replied calmly. - Forty spearmen, twenty archers. Supplies will come from Chernihiv and Pereiaslav. Kyiv will be the central hub, from where we can quickly dispatch reinforcements if needed


    Stanislav nodded, his gaze lingering on the road connecting the cities.


    - And the roads, - he continued. - If they aren¡¯t secured, we risk losing more than land. Supply caravans will become easy prey


    - That¡¯s why there will be signal towers along the roads, - Alexander pointed out. - Teams of five at each post. Their task is to warn of any approaching threats. Merchants need to see that their protection is in our interest


    Stanislav grunted approvingly.


    - Merchants will appreciate that. And what about Kyiv?


    Alexander pointed to the central part of the map.


    - Kyiv is our key. But right now, the city is overcrowded. Markets will be moved outside the walls to spacious squares. We will expand the city¡¯s boundaries, creating new settlements with designated craft districts. If Kyiv becomes the center of trade, it will also become a symbol of our strength


    - Ambitious, my prince, - Stanislav said, his tone carrying respect rather than criticism. - But it will take years and considerable resources


    - We have time if we start now, - Alexander replied firmly. - First, fortifications, then roads and trade. This will not only preserve Kievan Rus but also make it stronger


    Stanislav straightened up, his serious gaze resting on the young prince. He realized he was not merely facing an ambitious ruler but a man capable of seeing beyond immediate problems.


    - My prince, you already think like a ruler, - he said, clearly enunciating each word. - Your plans are impressive. Now comes the hardest part - bringing them to life. You have my support


    His words carried the weight of a vow, one that required no further assurances. In his voice was the strength of a warrior who knew that in this world, both planning and action were essential.


    - Thank you. I value that, - Alexander replied with a nod. His gaze returned to the map, and he silently traced the lines, mentally charting a course where every decision could prove decisive.


    Stanislav bent over the map again, his careful gaze sweeping over the rivers, roads, and fortifications. The map wasn¡¯t overly detailed, but every element reflected thoroughly considered intentions. This was the work of someone who understood strategy and could see the bigger picture.


    He recalled asking the senior librarian about maps. The man had assured him they had been taken by other princes long ago, and many were lost. But now, before him lay a map that, though simple in appearance, clearly surpassed the meager scraps previously available.


    - Where did he get it? - flashed through Stanislav¡¯s mind. - Either the librarian withheld something, or he deliberately lied. But why?


    He glanced briefly at Alexander. The prince looked focused, his fingers tightly gripping the quill, his gaze fixed on a line on the map as if the fate of all Kievan Rus depended on it. Stanislav felt a flicker of doubt but quickly dismissed it.


    - Sometimes, deception can serve the greater good, - he thought, straightening up. What mattered was that the map was in the hands of someone who could truly use it.


    - Gather the council tomorrow morning, - Alexander said firmly, interrupting Stanislav¡¯s thoughts. His voice was calm but carried an undertone of determination. - We¡¯ll discuss strengthening the defenses and other urgent matters. But don¡¯t tell them I¡¯m calling it. Let it be a surprise


    Stanislav paused for a moment, processing the prince¡¯s words, then nodded.


    - Yes, my prince. The council will be assembled tomorrow morning, - he replied confidently. - I¡¯ll take my leave now. Good night


    - And to you, - Alexander replied briefly, his eyes returning to the map.


    Stanislav bowed and left the chambers. His steps echoed firmly, but his thoughts remained with the prince. He recalled how Alexander had been not long ago - a man few considered a serious contender for power. Now, before him stood a strategist whose decisions could shape the destiny of Kievan Rus.


    - The young prince increasingly resembles his father, - he thought as he exited the palace. - He has the intellect, resolve, and strength. Now, the hardest part remains - turning these plans into reality. We need to rally loyal boyars


    Alexander remained alone. His fingers traced the lines on the map, connecting cities and lands, as if weaving them into a single network where every point relied on another. The weight of responsibility pressing upon him was heavy, but he had already accepted it as part of his destiny. This was not merely a struggle for borders - it was a fight for the future.


    - Tomorrow, at the council, everything will fall into place, - he said quietly yet firmly, as though making a promise to himself.

 Chapter 7. First step

    The morning began differently for everyone. Kyiv buzzed with the hustle and bustle of preparations for the upcoming coronation. It seemed as though every stone in the city knew that an important event was approaching.


    However, for the narrow circle of princely advisors, the morning began with an unexpected summons. Stanislav, the head of the prince¡¯s guard, had ordered the assembly of the Princely Council. This meant there would be no merchants, minor boyars, or casual observers - only those who truly influenced state policy.


    Some arrived irritated. Many considered such meetings a waste of time given the ongoing coronation preparations. Some speculated the gathering was about supplies or security, but most expected trivial matters that could have been resolved without such formality.


    The massive doors swung open, and the council chamber filled with silence. All eyes turned to Prince Alexander, seated at the head of the table. Recent rumors about his weakness following the attack dissipated in that moment.


    This was no longer a young man clinging to life. Before them stood a man. Steel burned in his eyes, his posture exuded strength, and his restrained smile promised that today would bring something remarkable.


    A heavy silence filled the chamber, as if the air had thickened. The advisors exchanged glances, hesitant to speak. Finally, Metropolitan Illarion, whose expression reflected a mix of reverence and caution, broke the silence:


    - My prince¡­ are you ready to participate in affairs of state?


    Alexander met his gaze with unwavering resolve, his voice steady but firm:


    - I am. Please, take your seats. We have matters to discuss


    The advisors hesitated before approaching the table and taking their places, exchanging cautious glances. The tension in the room grew palpable. Before Alexander, on the table, lay an object hidden beneath a heavy cloth. None of those present knew what to expect, and the mystery only heightened the atmosphere.


    Stanislav, closing the doors behind everyone, remained standing behind the prince. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his silent presence lent an air of impending importance.


    Alexander rose from his seat, his sharp gaze meeting each advisor¡¯s in turn. His movements were unhurried, yet imbued with confidence, bordering on challenge. When the silence in the chamber became almost tangible, he began to speak:


    - Today¡¯s council is not about ceremonies or formal speeches. We have more pressing matters. We are here to discuss the future - mine, yours, and that of all Kievan Rus


    The advisors sat silently, occasionally exchanging glances. Their expressions revealed a mix of tension and curiosity.


    - I know, - Alexander continued, leaning slightly forward, - that many of you doubt me. You think I¡¯m too young, too inexperienced. You believe I¡¯m unworthy of ruling as my brothers did. But today, I intend to dispel your doubts


    His hand touched the cloth covering the mysterious object. With a single decisive motion, he removed it, revealing a map spread across the table. The advisors, barely containing their surprise, leaned forward. The parchment was covered in lines and marks, forming a remarkably detailed and strategically significant representation of the lands of Kievan Rus and its neighbors.


    Oleh, the head of administration, was the first to break the silence. His voice was dry, yet tinged with interest:


    - My prince, what is this map? Where did it come from?


    Alexander ran his hand over the parchment, a faint smile playing on his lips:


    - I found it in my father¡¯s library. And this is not just a map - it¡¯s our weapon


    The advisors¡¯ gazes froze on the parchment. No one spoke, but the air seemed to grow denser. Alexander¡¯s voice, firm yet calm, broke the silence:


    - Each of you knows that times have changed. Old approaches no longer work. We must see Kievan Rus differently and act more decisively. This map is our weapon for a new era. And I am here to show you that I know the path forward


    Stanislav, who had remained silent until now, nodded approvingly. His respectful gaze rested on Alexander. The advisors, seeing such support from the head of the guard, began to lean toward giving the young prince a chance.


    Alexander, observing the advisors, understood that he needed their support. The members of the Princely Council were undoubtedly among the most influential and powerful figures in all of Kievan Rus.


    If they recognized him, everything would proceed smoothly. However, only half the council was present: Illarion, Ignat, Stanislav, Oleh, and Dobrynia. The head of diplomacy, Myroslav, and the head of intelligence were absent. Alexander decided he would inquire about them later with Stanislav.


    - Esteemed advisors, I would first like to hear your assessment of the current state of Kievan Rus. What issues do you see at present? And do not hold back. I want the truth, not sycophantic speeches


    The advisors exchanged glances. The prince¡¯s tone surprised many, especially Ignat and Oleh, who had expected timid and formulaic statements. Their expressions grew more animated, and tension filled the room. Seeing no one willing to speak first, Alexander decided to choose himself.


    - Metropolitan Illarion, let us begin with you, - Alexander said, his voice steady but firm.


    Illarion straightened up, clasping his fingers together.


    - Prince, I will begin with spiritual matters. This year, the schism of the Christian Church has changed the world. Byzantium and Rome are no longer united, and their confrontation may affect us. Kyiv has always followed Constantinople, but perhaps it is time to consider spiritual independence


    Ignat and Stanislav frowned at Illarion''s words, while Oleg and Dobrynya exchanged worried glances.


    - Illarion, are you suggesting we break with Byzantium? You see glory in independence, but I see rising taxes behind these lofty words. The common folk are already struggling to pay the tithe, and you want to weaken trade? Who will pay for these grand ideas of yours? - Oleg snapped harshly.


    Illarion remained calm, but his voice was firm:


    - I understand the risks. But how long will we remain dependent on foreign decisions? Byzantium is weakening, while Kyivan Rus'' is growing stronger. The time has come for us to become a bastion of faith for all Slavs, not just a shadow of Constantinople


    Alexander remembered from history that Illarion was the first Slavic metropolitan, appointed against the long-standing tradition of metropolitans being sent from Constantinople. This was not just an act of self-governance but a symbol of Kyivan Rus'' struggle for independence in spiritual and political matters.


    - It¡¯s dangerous. As long as Constantinople stands, we need them. They could turn the Pechenegs or Polovtsians against us to force us back under their rule, - Ignat said darkly, shaking his head.


    - I¡¯m not talking about breaking ties, - Illarion replied after a pause. - I¡¯m talking about Kyivan Rus'' becoming a bastion of faith on its own, no longer dependent on decisions made across the sea


    Stanislav, who had been silent until then, spoke quietly but confidently:


    - Any attempt at independence will be seen as a threat. They won¡¯t tolerate it and will find ways to weaken us


    - And don¡¯t forget the common folk. They won¡¯t even understand why we¡¯re doing this. As long as they have food, they don¡¯t care who grants the blessing, - Oleg added, staring intently at Illarion.


    Illarion held his ground, answering calmly:


    - The common folk will follow the prince if he shows them the way. Byzantium has weakened. We must become the support for the Slavs, not just the shadow of Constantinople


    - You speak of faith, Illarion, but we need more than words - we need protection! The swords of the Polovtsians don¡¯t pray; they kill and burn! How will your ideas save the people in the steppe? - Ignat countered sharply, clenching his fist.


    - Faith is beautiful, Illarion. But how do we measure it? Faith won¡¯t grow crops or protect trade routes. The common folk want peace, not grand speeches, - Oleg added, echoing Ignat.


    The advisors began speaking over one another, but Alexander raised his hand. His gesture immediately restored silence in the hall. All eyes turned to the prince, awaiting his response.


    Alexander understood that a stronghold of faith was a good idea, but Kyivan Rus'' was still weak, and Byzantium was still useful for his plans to eliminate the Pechenegs. It was too early to strain relations with them.


    - Illarion, your idea is clear. But independence requires strength, and strength requires patience. We will move forward gradually. Let us postpone this matter


    - A wise decision, - Ignat said with a nod.


    Illarion, holding his gaze steady, bowed:


    - When the time comes, I hope Kyivan Rus'' will take this step


    Alexander nodded, changing the topic:


    - It will come, no doubt. Now, to the next question. You mentioned education. What do you envision?


    Illarion folded his hands before him, straightened up, and spoke calmly but with conviction:


    - Yes. I propose establishing schools at monasteries so that not only future priests but all those who serve you may gain knowledge. This step will elevate education, bring people closer to truth, and strengthen faith. But for this, we need your support, prince, and resources: funds, people, and materials


    Oleg, head of administration, frowned:


    - Prince, we can¡¯t afford to scatter money around. The common folk are already at their limit, and now you want to burden them further? Churches and monasteries are enough; now schools too? Who will pay for these dreams, Illarion?


    - Education is not a luxury but a necessity. If we do not teach the people, Kyivan Rus'' will weaken. An illiterate person is like a blind sword - weak against enemies and their own vices. Oleg, greed does not strengthen a people; it enslaves them, - Illarion said calmly but firmly.


    Oleg flared up, about to respond, but Alexander raised his hand, and his voice rang out with authority:


    - Oleg, remember that knowledge is a long-term investment. An educated people will be the foundation of the state. I will support the Church in this endeavor, but on one condition. The schools must not only be places of prayer. They must teach skills, sciences, and the art of living


    - So be it, prince. But I hope the spiritual foundation of education will remain paramount. Without faith, knowledge is lifeless, - Illarion said with a slight bow, his gaze still focused.


    Stanislav, standing near the prince, frowned at Illarion:


    - Forgive me, prince, but do you truly believe that priests will teach anything beyond psalms? They don¡¯t know how to plow fields or forge swords. If we entrust this to them, they¡¯ll only fill people¡¯s heads with fear of God


    - Stanislav is right. Schools in monasteries are just new churches with a different name. Better to invest in swords and spears. Knowledge is worthless if a person doesn¡¯t live long enough to use it, - Ignat added, frowning even more.


    Oleg crossed his arms and smirked at Illarion:


    - That¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m saying. While enemies are at the gates, the people need bread, not books and scrolls


    Alexander¡¯s head was beginning to ache from their arguments. How difficult it was to make decisions quickly and easily. He looked carefully at the disputants, sweeping his gaze over them, and spoke calmly:


    - Enough. Education is not a dream but a path to strength. If we teach the people not only to pray but also to think, build, and fight, we will create a Kyivan Rus'' that no one will dare to touch. But I agree that schools under the Church may not fulfill all their responsibilities


    - Therefore, I will appoint my own people to oversee the educational process, its program, and its results. The schools will be under the authority and leadership of the prince


    The advisors exchanged tense glances. Illarion narrowed his eyes but spoke conciliatorily:Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    - So be it, prince. If it strengthens our land, I will accept your decision


    - Prince, it seems you¡¯ve found the golden mean. If the schools truly prove useful, they can provide us with strong and educated people, - Stanislav, who had been frowning, nodded in agreement.


    Ignat merely shrugged, not fully agreeing but acknowledging that the argument was over. Oleg sighed, hoping these schools would pay off with skilled craftsmen and scholars.


    Alexander nodded, turning his gaze to the metropolitan:


    - It¡¯s settled, then. Now, to the next matter. Illarion, you spoke of protecting the churches and faith. What did you mean by that?


    The metropolitan folded his hands before him, his voice calm but tinged with noticeable concern:


    - Prince, after your father¡¯s death, the Polovtsians and Pechenegs have grown bolder. They¡¯ve begun swift and small raids on our churches and villages. Each time they strike, we lose not only property but also the faith of the people. Churches burn, priests perish, books are lost. I propose fortifying the churches so that they may become strongholds of both spiritual and physical protection


    Ignat squinted, his voice laced with mockery:


    - Turn churches into fortresses? Is that a joke, Illarion? Churches are not walls, and walls won¡¯t save anyone if the nomads breach the defenses


    - Churches should be more than places of prayer; they should be refuges. We will fortify them so they can protect people until reinforcements arrive. But for this, I need resources and time, - Illarion met the commander¡¯s gaze and replied firmly.


    Oleg, arms crossed over his chest, spoke cautiously, though his tone carried a note of skepticism:


    - Illarion, the idea is clear, but let¡¯s look at the root of the matter. Churches are not fortresses, and the villagers aren¡¯t prepared for defense. We won¡¯t waste resources on fortifying buildings that won¡¯t withstand a serious attack


    - If we don¡¯t fortify the borders, your markets will be the first to burn, Oleg. Money is nothing but ash if there¡¯s no one left to defend it, - Ignat shot him a sharp look.


    Oleg nodded but retorted coolly:


    - Ignat, you¡¯re right. But if we pour everything into defense as you suggest, we risk depleting the treasury and leaving people hungry. I¡¯m not denying the need for protection, but the solution must be balanced


    - Forgive me, but aren¡¯t we forgetting the spiritual side of this? The people must be strong in spirit, or no walls will save them. We need to invest some funds into churches and schools to strengthen faith and knowledge, - Illarion raised his hand, attempting to halt the argument.


    Ignat retorted sharply, slamming his fist on the table:


    - Your churches won¡¯t save anyone if the Polovtsians reach Kyiv! We need swords, not your prayers


    The voices grew louder, and the advisors began arguing more fervently. Alexander raised his hand, calling for silence, but this time his gesture went unnoticed. Stanislav, standing behind the prince, frowned and his voice echoed across the hall:


    - Quiet!


    The advisors fell silent immediately. Their eyes turned to Alexander, who, maintaining his composure, rose from his seat.


    - Thank you, Stanislav, - he said without raising his voice, but with clear firmness, he continued: - Now listen to me. We will build proper fortifications to block the nomads¡¯ paths into our lands. This will protect the people, trade, and churches


    Alexander stood and pointed to two key locations on the map.


    - Here, by the Ros River, we will build a wooden fortress. It will serve as a stronghold to defend against steppe raids. And here, by the ford across the Dnipro, we will construct a stone fortress. These two fortresses will block the main routes of the nomads and strengthen our borders


    - This is more effective than turning churches into fortresses, - Stanislav nodded in agreement.


    Ignat studied the map closely, his eyes narrowing, but his tone carried approval:


    - A smart move, Prince. These fortresses can be quickly supplied and defended. But two fortresses won¡¯t be enough to stop the nomads entirely. I think six or eight would be sufficient


    - How many? And who will pay for them? You? - Oleg shook his head, his voice laced with thinly veiled sarcasm.


    - Money is just a tool, Oleg, not an end in itself. If we don¡¯t build defenses, we¡¯ll lose far more than we could ever earn, - Ignat countered, his voice calm but resolute.


    - I¡¯ll agree to two, but six... no, - Oleg remained steadfast.


    Dobrynya, who had been silent until then, spoke up:


    - Fortresses are good, but the Polovtsians and Pechenegs are too fast. By the time we muster the troops, they¡¯ll have plundered the villages and vanished


    Alexander, anticipating such a comment, responded calmly:


    - Correct. That¡¯s why we need to create mobile units - light cavalry trained in maneuverability and steppe tactics. They will patrol the borders and intercept enemies before they reach our lands. Additionally, peasant watch groups will monitor the surroundings and warn of any threats


    Ignat squinted approvingly but couldn¡¯t resist a remark:


    - That¡¯s a sound idea, Prince. Small detachments could be useful. But what if the enemy breaks through the patrols? Watch groups alone may not be enough


    - Alongside patrols, we will establish a network of signal towers, - Alexander continued. - They will be positioned on elevated areas or along roads to quickly relay warnings of approaching enemies. Simple fires or smoke will serve as signals for the garrison and nearby settlements


    He confidently traced key points on the map with his finger. Illarion frowned, his voice filled with concern:


    - Prince, even with scouts and towers, it¡¯s impossible to stop everything. What will happen to the peasants if the enemy still finds a gap? They¡¯ll be left defenseless


    Alexander raised his gaze to the metropolitan:


    - Then we will prepare them for self-defense. Every settlement must have a militia, basic fortifications, and a means to shelter women, children, and the elderly. If we cannot be everywhere at once, they must be ready to defend themselves until help arrives


    Hearing this, Ignat smirked slightly and remarked:


    - Weapons for peasants? And what if they turn them against us instead of the enemy?


    Alexander replied coldly:


    - If you believe that, Ignat, perhaps we should disarm the garrison as well? Without peasants, we will have no food, no warriors, and no Kyivan Rus'' itself. Or do you propose leaving them defenseless and hoping for a miracle?


    Stanislav intervened, looking directly at Ignat:


    - The prince is right. If we want the people to survive, we must give them a chance. But we should start only with the border villages - those closest to the steppe


    Alexander nodded:


    - We will provide them not only with weapons but also with knowledge. Near the villages, we will build earthen ramparts, ditches, and simple palisades. In addition, village elders will be tasked with organizing training. Men must know how to defend their homes. And if an attack is inevitable, we will prepare shelters and evacuation routes


    Dobrynya studied the map thoughtfully:


    - That could work if the peasants act in unison. But what if the enemy breaks through the defenses?


    - We will also create caches of supplies and weapons, - Alexander added. - If the village cannot be held, the people can retreat to pre-prepared forest hideouts, while the garrison will pursue the enemy and exact revenge for the destruction. The priority is to save lives and resources


    Stanislav nodded, looking approvingly at the map:


    - This is a good plan. Everyone will know their role in the defense. Even if the enemy breaks through, they¡¯ll face obstacles at every step


    Alexander concluded:


    - Exactly. We will create a comprehensive defense system - from watch groups and signal towers on the border to fortified villages and mobile units


    Alexander understood that underestimating the nomads would be a mistake. But history had taught him that the Pechenegs had been defeated by his father Yaroslav and no longer posed a significant threat. He also recognized that the Polovtsians would become serious adversaries in the future.


    Historical accounts suggested that the Polovtsians at this time were preoccupied with internal clan conflicts and active expansion in the steppes, but they had not yet become a major threat to Kyivan Rus''.


    - Good. Then this matter is settled, - Alexander nodded and turned to his advisors:


    - Oleg and Dobrynya, I ask you to take charge of organizing the construction of fortresses, signal towers, and fortifications for the border villages. Voivode Ignat, I entrust you with arranging garrisons for the new fortifications and staffing the signal towers


    - Stanislav, handle the formation of mobile units and the training of scouts. Illarion, you must inform the people that we care for them and assure them that all promises will be fulfilled, - Alexander¡¯s voice carried ironclad confidence.


    Everyone nodded briefly, understanding their clear tasks. As always, Oleg quickly calculated some of the expenses, pulled out his figures, and laid them out before those gathered.


    - Prince, the cost of two fortresses - one wooden and one stone - will amount to 1,200 hryvnias. Building twenty signal towers will require 250 hryvnias. Fortifying twenty border villages will cost between 25 and 40 hryvnias. Forming three mobile junior militia detachments (300 men) will amount to 1,500 hryvnias. Hiring twenty scouts to start with will cost 30 hryvnias. The garrison for the wooden fortress - 70 men - will require 350 hryvnias annually, and for the stone fortress, 150 men will cost 750 hryvnias annually. This excludes the ongoing expenses for the fortresses and other needs


    Alexander looked at the figures and could hardly believe his eyes. Everything was so expensive. From history, he remembered that a Kyivan hryvnia was a silver ingot weighing about 200 - 210 grams of pure silver. In modern terms, one hryvnia would be worth around $150 - 300 USD.


    This truly was a considerable expense. A single hryvnia was of immense value - enough to buy several cows or a year¡¯s supply of grain for a family.


    Comparing the costs of these defensive projects, Alexander began to understand why Oleg often complained about the treasury. Such expenses could seriously strain the state¡¯s economy. Yet he also knew that military expenses had always been costlier than civilian projects but were more justified in terms of long-term benefits.


    His thoughts flickered to historical examples: fortresses, armies, and troop preparations - all demanded colossal investments. However, the results often determined the future of states. Ravaged villages, burned churches, and thousands of deaths always cost more.


    Stanislav, noticing the prince¡¯s face clouded with doubt, stepped in to assist:


    - Prince, we can distribute the costs. Illarion, these fortifications will protect not only the people but also your churches, as you requested. However, the nomad threat is a shared problem. I believe 15% is a fair share for the Church


    Illarion squinted, understanding the hint, but quickly regained his usual composure:


    - If this helps protect the people and our churches, the Church will contribute its share


    - The boyars should also contribute. Their lands are protected by the prince¡¯s militia, and fortifications will only increase their revenues, - Dobrynya chimed in, looking at Ignat and Oleg, the two leaders of the boyar alliances.


    Ignat nodded, his expression firm:


    - No issue. The boyars will contribute 25%. That¡¯s fair. But in return, the prince might reconsider export taxes on grain


    - Agreed, - Alexander replied, seeing no other choice. Oleg also agreed and offered his assistance:


    - I¡¯ll handle the merchants. They¡¯ll pay 10%. I¡¯ll tell them that fortresses and fortifications will protect their markets, and mobile units will secure their caravans and trade routes


    - Excellent. That leaves 50%, which I will cover myself, - Alexander sighed with relief. He didn¡¯t know the exact state of the princely treasury but cutting the cost by half was a good solution.


    Illarion raised his hand and spoke:


    - Prince, if I may¡­ The Church would like to help not only with money but also with people. We have volunteers and parishioners willing to contribute their labor for the benefit of Kyivan Rus''


    - Wonderful. That will ease the burden. Help wherever you can. Dobrynya, coordinate with Illarion to determine which villages can be fortified with churches as part of the overall defense strategy, - Alexander smiled, passing the responsibility to Dobrynya.


    Dobrynya pondered for a moment and then nodded:


    - I¡¯ll consider it. Churches are not just spiritual centers; they¡¯re natural shelters. They¡¯ll help if something goes wrong


    - Good. You have two weeks to present construction plans, and then we¡¯ll begin fortifying the borders and defenses against the nomads, - Alexander said, standing and looking over his advisors. His voice was confident but carried a note of encouragement:


    - That concludes today¡¯s meeting. Each of you has important work ahead, as do I. If any issues arise, I¡¯m ready to address them


    Illarion nodded, folding his hands before him:


    - Your words inspire, Prince. I¡¯m certain the people will see this not only as protection but also as hope


    - Hope is good, but let it be accompanied by strong walls and sharp swords. We have a plan, and we will execute it, - Ignat remarked with a faint smirk.


    Oleg, arms crossed over his chest, commented calmly:


    - The key is for everyone to do their part on time. Delays are unacceptable in such matters. Since your brothers were killed, Prince, the nomads have grown increasingly active


    - Two weeks, - Stanislav echoed, surveying everyone with a stern gaze. - It¡¯s a short timeframe but realistic. We¡¯ll show these nomads that Kyivan Rus'' is not their home and that they cannot come and go as they please without consequences


    Alexander gave a brief nod and concluded:


    - Thank you all for your contributions. Have a good day


    The advisors gave short nods and departed, each immersed in thoughts of their upcoming tasks.


    The hall emptied, leaving Alexander alone with the map spread across the massive oak table. The soft light of the oil lamps cast shadows on the parchment, accentuating the rivers, borders, and fortifications. His hand glided over the map, adding marks and calculating distances.


    In this silence, there were no voices, but his mind was filled with questions: Would they manage to build the fortresses in time? Would everything go as planned? Could he unite the boyars, the Church, and the people toward a common goal?


    Alexander leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes wearily. He remembered drafting the plans last night, hoping to discuss them all in one session. Back then, it seemed achievable.


    But reality had proven more complex: debates dragged on, and problems he thought simple sparked fierce arguments. He realized he had been overly optimistic.


    Yet instead of frustration, he felt determination. Today was not a failure. He had seen his advisors for who they were, heard their weaknesses and fears. And it only strengthened his belief that their arguments stemmed not from stubbornness but from an understanding of the moment¡¯s gravity.


    Alexander bent over the map, his gaze resting on the Ros River - the site of the first fortress. His fingers tightened slightly, as if already gripping a sword.


    - Time is against us, - he whispered, as though addressing the empty hall. - But I¡¯ll make it work for us


    He pushed the map aside and stood, feeling the day¡¯s tension ease from his body. Tomorrow would bring a new day. His people awaited protection, his militia awaited battle, and the enemies beyond the steppe awaited another raid.


    As he left the hall, Alexander paused at the threshold, glancing once more at the table, the hall, and the map. His gaze held no doubt or fear - only resolve.


    - Forward only, - he said to himself, stepping into the corridors of the princely palace, where even the walls seemed to sense the dawn of a new era.

 Chapter 8. The Treasury

    The meeting stretched into the afternoon, but the advisors no longer looked as irritated as they had at the beginning. Each left the hall with different thoughts, but they all agreed on one thing: Alexander was not just a young prince.


    Beneath his youth lay willpower, decisiveness, and a clear mind. As long as their paths aligned, each advisor was ready to follow him and see where this unexpectedly firm leadership would lead.


    Illarion walked slowly down the corridor, his head slightly bowed. His face reflected a mixture of satisfaction and contemplation.


    - The young prince has proven himself worthy, - he murmured. - Cautious and deliberate... He lacks passion, but perhaps that¡¯s for the best. Time will tell who among us is right


    He felt respect for Alexander but also realized that the Church''s influence could weaken if the prince began prioritizing his own decisions over the council¡¯s. Illarion was prepared for a subtle game to prevent that.


    Ignat walked with confidence, suppressing a faint smile.


    - This boy knows strategy, - he thought. - I didn¡¯t expect that from him. Knows how to keep his composure. Well, we¡¯ll see how he acts in battle


    His hand instinctively clenched into a fist. His thoughts turned to the upcoming tasks: organizing garrisons, patrols, and mobile units. He evaluated Alexander as a commander but not yet as a ruler.


    Oleg, the last to leave, looked grim.


    - More expenses... - he muttered, crossing his arms. - Fine, I¡¯ll take the plan to the treasury and then continue preparations for the coronation


    His mind was already occupied with recalculating the budget. He knew the merchants would be displeased about contributing 10% of the plan¡¯s cost, but they would agree if it secured their profits.


    Dobrynya paused at the hall¡¯s exit and turned to look at Alexander. His eyes reflected a mix of pride and confidence.


    He had served under Izyaslav, the eldest son of Yaroslav the Wise, but Izyaslav had left the world quickly, as had the other princes. Dobrynya no longer knew what would become of Kyivan Rus'', but Alexander, the most reserved of Yaroslav¡¯s sons, had survived and, as he saw, was wise and surprisingly confident.


    - Prince Alexander may prove to be a worthy son of his father, - he thought. - The determination in his eyes commands respect


    Dobrynya saw in Alexander a ruler ready to take responsibility, which solidified his loyalty.


    Stanislav, walking behind Dobrynya, appeared deep in thought. Alexander¡¯s first council had gone smoothly, with no major issues.


    - If the prince continues like this, he has every chance to become a great ruler, - he thought.


    Stanislav decided to wait for Alexander near the entrance to discuss the meeting and the young prince¡¯s future plans, offering advice or real assistance where needed.


    - Well, we¡¯ve discussed the fortification plan. Now it¡¯s time to implement it. Next, we¡¯ll focus on the economy and the army. But first, I need to know how much money I have at my disposal. That means a trip to the treasury


    Alexander left the council hall, feeling slightly tired but full of determination to move forward. At the door, Stanislav awaited him, surrounded by guards.


    Nearby stood Mstislav and Mirnomir, who bowed when they saw the prince. Stanislav greeted Alexander with a calm yet attentive gaze.


    - How did you find your first council, Prince? - Stanislav asked, crossing his arms.


    - Stubborn, like horses in the mud. Each thinks their opinion is the most important. Everything would be simpler if they could listen to each other, - Alexander said, shaking his head as he recalled the heated arguments and skeptical looks.


    Stanislav smirked slightly, with restrained warmth:


    - Politics, Prince, has always been a game of the stubborn. But you handled it better than many expected. And now, what¡¯s next? Will you visit the library or have lunch first?


    - No, - Alexander shook his head. - I want to go to the treasury. I need to know how much we have in funds, income, expenses, and how much free capital I can use


    Listening to Alexander, Stanislav nodded approvingly:


    - That¡¯s right. You still have much to learn. If you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯ll accompany you


    - Of course, but soon I¡¯ll know everything, - Alexander replied gladly. - Lead the way


    Stanislav gestured for him to follow, and together with the guards, they headed to the treasury. As they walked, Alexander posed a question that had been troubling him since the council began:


    - At the meeting, I didn¡¯t see Myroslav or the head of intelligence. Why were they absent?


    Stanislav paused for a moment, then answered:


    - Myroslav, as you know, is the head of diplomacy. He¡¯s currently returning from Constantinople. I believe he¡¯ll arrive just before your coronation. As for the head of intelligence... his situation is entirely different. No one, except your father, knew much about him


    - No one? Not even you? - Alexander was surprised, realizing they were talking about someone who had been his father¡¯s shadow.


    - No one, Prince, - Stanislav confirmed. - Grand Prince Yaroslav never revealed his identity or abilities to anyone. But I can tell you this: with his help, the Grand Prince knew everything happening around him and more. If he truly exists, he will find you when he deems it necessary


    - Find me? When he deems me worthy? Interesting... - Alexander pondered but then smirked and added: - I¡¯d like such a professional to serve me, but if he¡¯s unreachable, it¡¯s better to find someone new


    Stanislav smiled, shaking his head:


    - Such a man, Prince, is not just an intelligence head. He¡¯s the best. If he truly exists, he¡¯s hard to replace. But I think you don¡¯t need to look for him. Simply do your duty, and he¡¯ll contact you if he decides it¡¯s necessary


    Alexander frowned, reflecting on Stanislav¡¯s words. - If he really exists and is that extraordinary... his value is immense.


    But even so, if he couldn¡¯t enlist him, what was the point of his unmatched skills? If he didn¡¯t appear within the next year, Alexander would appoint a new head of intelligence.


    - We¡¯ve arrived, - Stanislav said, interrupting Alexander¡¯s thoughts.


    The treasury was located in the western part of the princely palace, housed in a fortified wooden building guarded at the entrance.


    - Greetings, Prince, Counselor Stanislav - the guards at the treasury entrance immediately welcomed them.


    In front of them stood massive treasury doors adorned with intricate carvings. Alexander felt his thoughts on finances, expenses, and income beginning to coalesce into a plan.


    If he had precise information, he could begin reforms to strengthen Kyivan Rus''. The question was how to use the available resources effectively.


    After greeting the guards, they entered the treasury.


    Inside, the air smelled of parchment, resin, and metal from freshly minted hryvnia ingots neatly stacked in the vault.


    At the center of the hall, under massive arches adorned with OldRussian script, sat the chief treasurer. His gaze, sharp as a spearhead, darted across the scrolls. Around him, like sentinels, were scribes bent over their parchment. The hall was filled with sounds - the scratch of quills, the rustle of paper, and the faint crackle of candles illuminating the carved beams.


    As Alexander and Stanislav entered the hall, all the scribes rose at once, and the treasurer stood first, bowing low.


    - Prince, Counselor Stanislav - he said calmly but with respect. - An honor to see you in the treasury. How may I serve you?


    Alexander nodded in greeting and immediately got to the point. His voice was confident.


    - Good day. I would like to see an accurate report on the state of the treasury. How much do we currently have, what are our incomes and expenses, and how much net profit remains?


    - Of course, Prince. Please, step to the table - the chief treasurer motioned to a large oak table covered with scrolls and figures.


    Unrolling the largest scroll, he began reporting clearly and professionally, as if every word weighed as much as a silver hryvnia.


    - At present, the treasury holds assets estimated at 125,000 hryvnias. However, it is important to note that this is the total amount represented in various forms


    The treasurer took another scroll and spread it out before Alexander.


    - Approximately 40,000 hryvnias of this sum are in silver ingots and gold. Of that, 15,000 are silver ingots, and 25,000 are gold jewelry, coins, and other valuables that can be used immediately


    He pointed to the next section of records.


    - Fifty thousand hryvnias are represented as reserves of natural resources - grain, honey, wax, furs, and other goods stored in state granaries. These resources can be used for exchange or sale, but their realization will take time


    His finger slid further.


    - Another 35,000 hryvnias consist of military supplies - weapons, metal, leather goods, and smithing reserves. These are strategic assets


    Alexander leaned closer to examine the records and asked.


    - So we only have 40,000 hryvnias immediately available?


    - Yes, Prince. These are funds that can be spent without delay. The rest of the assets require time to convert into money or are reserved for specific needs - the treasurer replied


    Alexander raised his eyebrows slightly, surprised by how substantial the resources left by his father were. However, before he could say anything, Stanislav frowned and asked.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    - But not all of this is freely available, correct? What amounts have already been allocated?


    The treasurer nodded calmly and opened another scroll.


    - Yes, the counselor is correct. It is now mid-Berezozol (March), and the following amounts have already been allocated:


    For the druzhina: 2,291 hryvnias. For diplomacy (receptions, embassies, gifts): 625 hryvnias. For road and bridge maintenance: 1,042 hryvnias. For a reserve fund for unforeseen needs: 417 hryvnias. For the support of the clergy: 420 hryvnias. For the coronation: 1,000 hryvnias


    - The total comes to 5,795 hryvnias


    - So, the free funds amount to¡­ - Alexander hesitated, but the treasurer immediately clarified:


    - 119,205 hryvnias, Prince. The remaining expenses will be allocated gradually throughout the year


    Alexander pondered. Despite the impressive figures, he understood that the treasury was not a sack of coins to be thoughtlessly emptied. He looked up at the treasurer:


    - And what is our annual income?


    Kaznachey looked through another scroll, marked with a red ribbon.


    - Last year, the annual income amounted to approximately 35 - 40 thousand hryvnias. Now we are only at the beginning of the year, but according to Advisor Oleg''s calculations, revenues are expected to be around 30 - 35 thousand hryvnias


    - Our main sources of income are taxes from peasants, totaling 15 - 20 thousand hryvnias; trade duties, 10 - 15 thousand; and tribute from other lands, 5 - 7.5 thousand


    Alexander nodded, starting to grasp the scale of the economy. Now the most critical question remained:


    - Very well. And what about expenses?


    The Chief Treasurer sighed, understanding that this question interested the young prince most of all:


    - Annual expenses are quite high, Prince. Primarily, there''s the druzhina. The senior druzhina (elite, 1,000 warriors) costs 7,000 hryvnias; the junior druzhina (1,000 warriors) costs 4,000 hryvnias, totaling 11,000


    - Then, there are expenses for diplomacy (embassies, gifts, receptions) at 3,000 hryvnias; road and bridge maintenance at 5,000 hryvnias; a reserve for unforeseen needs (famine or raids) at 2,000 hryvnias; and support for churches and monasteries at 2,000 hryvnias, totaling 12,000


    - This year, your coronation has already cost 1,000 hryvnias, specifically: 500 hryvnias for celebratory feasts, 300 hryvnias for gifts to boyars and foreign envoys, and 200 hryvnias for religious ceremonies


    - That''s not all, Prince, - he added, setting aside one scroll and picking up another.


    - Counselor Oleg submitted your new plan for fortifications against the nomads and the organization of schools. Establishing five schools will cost approximately 200 - 325 hryvnias, with an annual maintenance of 80 hryvnias, and for this year, 60 hryvnias


    - Regarding your fortification plan, according to Advisor Oleg''s estimates, it breaks down as follows: forming three mobile units (300 warriors) will cost 1,500 hryvnias, with annual maintenance for the three totaling 600 hryvnias; building two fortresses (one wooden, one stone) will cost 1,200 hryvnias, with annual garrison maintenance for the wooden fortress (70 men) at 350 hryvnias and for the stone fortress (150 men) at 750 hryvnias. The salaries for 20 scouts will cost 30 hryvnias, building 20 signal towers will cost 250 hryvnias, and fortifying 20 frontier villages will cost 25 - 40 hryvnias


    - The total cost of your plan is 4125 hryvnias. Since this is a shared problem, your portion amounts to 2062.5 hryvnias. However, given that the plan will begin implementation in April, the required amount for this year is 3337.5 hryvnias


    Alexander listened carefully, already feeling a bit weary. The sums were considerable, and the list of expenses was extensive. And this was only the beginning. How much more would he need to plan and execute? He rubbed his eyes and, with a forced smile, asked:


    - And what''s the bottom line?


    The Chief Treasurer was ready:


    - Annual expenses, including the coronation and new projects, will total 25447.5 hryvnias. If our income this year is 30 - 35 thousand, your net profit will be 4552.5 - 9552.5 hryvnias


    Alexander paused, his gaze fixed on the scroll. Mentally, he compared the net revenue to the realities of his time - equivalent to nearly $3 million in the future. While the figure seemed substantial, he understood how quickly it could be drained by development expenses.


    It seemed like a lot, but it still wasn¡¯t enough. If he wanted to elevate the economy, there was far too much to implement. The chief treasurer, noticing the young prince deep in thought, decided to add:


    - This sum is available for your new plans or savings. If you need to use more, it will require council approval, as the princely reserve holds primary importance


    Hearing the treasurer¡¯s words, Alexander gave a slight nod. The main goal of his visit - to gain an accurate understanding of the state of the treasury - had been achieved. But as he studied the scrolls spread out on the table, he realized this was only the beginning.


    The financial management system established during his father¡¯s reign appeared solid at first glance, but beneath its fa?ade lay numerous shortcomings demanding immediate correction.


    Numerous fragmented reports, the lack of unified accounting, and difficulties in verifying revenues created an impression of chaos. This not only slowed operations but also left openings for unscrupulous individuals. Alexander, with his management mindset from the future, quickly identified the system¡¯s weak points.


    His gaze settled on the treasurer. The chief treasurer, though he had served under Yaroslav the Wise, didn¡¯t seem like someone clinging to outdated methods. Instead, he appeared to be an experienced and cautious administrator, accustomed to clear instructions and well-defined tasks.


    Alexander didn''t plan to replace the Chief Treasurer. If he had served under his father, Yaroslav the Wise, for over twenty years, he was likely competent, reliable, and honest. Alexander needed only to win his trust and loyalty, while everything else could be reformed.


    - Hmm, I understand. Chief Treasurer, what is your name? - Alexander clasped his hands behind his back, surveying the spacious hall.


    - I am Radomir, Prince, - the Chief Treasurer bowed slightly, not hiding a hint of surprise.


    - You served under my father, correct? - Alexander looked at him with interest and then at Stanislav, who nodded.


    Radomir bowed slightly, pride evident in his voice:


    - Yes, Prince. I served the Grand Prince Yaroslav for more than twenty years


    - Excellent, Radomir. I want you to provide me with clear monthly reports on income and expenses, not just an annual summary. It will make it easier to monitor finances and notice any discrepancies


    - As you command, Prince, - Radomir replied with a brief nod, though it was clear he was surprised by the young prince''s request.


    Alexander approached a large table cluttered with scrolls. He picked up a couple, unfolded them carelessly, and began quickly scanning the lines. Numbers, dates, and names blurred into a chaotic stream. It seemed the reports were designed not for clarity but to be indecipherable without experience and time.


    - Radomir, - Alexander raised his gaze, his voice calm but firm, - do we have a unified registry of taxes and duties? One that records everything: where the money comes from, who collects it, and what sums the merchants pay?


    Radomir froze. Seeing how deftly the prince leafed through the scrolls, he realized Alexander wasn''t asking out of curiosity but testing him. After a brief pause, he spoke:


    - Prince, reports are kept¡­ but separately. Each volost, each land sends its records. We compile everything here in the treasury, but a unified ledger, as you mentioned, does not exist. Each collector is entrusted with their own, and the reports are checked as they arrive


    Alexander shook his head; such a system was unacceptable. He turned to the treasurer, his words sounding like a command:


    - Radomir, - Alexander''s voice grew firmer, - I want all taxes and duties in one place. Who collects them, from which lands, when, and how much. There should be no gaps


    - Create a unified registry. I want you to form a separate group of scribes to begin maintaining a unified ledger of taxes and duties across all lands. Start with trade duties, then land taxes, and finally separate reports by cities


    - Stanislav, also assign a couple of guards to protect the scribes and archives so no one can tamper with their work or destroy old records. Everything will be under the prince''s control


    - It will be done, - Stanislav nodded briefly but had already decided to embed trusted scribes into the process to monitor it internally. While he trusted Radomir, he preferred to be prepared for any eventuality.


    Radomir barely hid his surprise. The young prince seemed intent on completely overhauling the treasury''s operations. He frowned momentarily, assessing the upcoming work, but then straightened and nodded. The treasurer spoke cautiously, his voice carefully measured:


    - Prince, this will take time, - he said. - We''ll need to gather old records and request new data from the volosts...


    Alexander didn''t let him finish.


    - Radomir, - Alexander''s voice was firm, his gaze cold and piercing. - I''m not asking; I''m commanding. Order in the treasury is the foundation of the entire state. If your records are chaotic, then money is slipping through our fingers


    Radomir nodded silently, realizing the young prince was right. These directives weren''t just ideas - they were improvements.


    Alexander, seeing Radomir''s acknowledgment, paused and then continued in a calm tone:


    - Additionally, Radomir, prepare a complete list of tax collectors and treasurers responsible for our lands. I want to see them here for a personal audience. Each of them will explain their work and confirm their loyalty to the prince


    Radomir nodded, barely hiding a sense of relief - the young prince wasn''t rushing to impose purges or cut off heads.


    - That''s reasonable, Prince. These individuals served your father and are, for the most part, trustworthy


    - Even so, - Alexander understood this, - trust must be strengthened. I won''t replace those who serve honestly, but everyone must understand that negligence and greed will have no place under my rule


    Stanislav, standing nearby, smirked and nodded approvingly. He liked how Alexander respected the elders while ensuring personal control over everything.


    Alexander nodded and added:


    - Let them come with reports and be prepared to answer my questions. Those who prove their competence and loyalty will remain in their positions


    Radomir bowed deeply:


    - I will arrange everything, Prince. I will begin sending messengers tomorrow


    Alexander stood, his gaze still fixed on the tax scrolls. His voice was firm but composed:


    - Good. Begin today. Assign your best scribes to this work. And when the register is complete, deliver it to me personally


    Radomir bowed low. His eyes showed a mix of respect and caution. He had thought the young prince would limit himself to superficial inquiries, but Alexander was different. He didn''t just look at the numbers; he wanted to improve the system. Radomir immediately saw the advantages of these reforms and was far from opposed to them.


    Alexander fell silent for a moment, continuing to study the records. The only sound in the room was the rustling of scrolls. Radomir stood waiting, realizing the prince hadn''t finished speaking yet.


    Alexander browsed various scrolls, unwilling to spend time cross-checking all the reports himself. From history, he knew his father, Yaroslav the Wise, was renowned as a strong and wise ruler who maintained strict order.


    Under his rule, treasury and tax controls were at their peak, and any serious leakage or theft would have been immediately identified and stopped. Radomir, as a member of Yaroslav''s team, was undoubtedly a proven and reliable treasurer.


    After a while, Alexander raised his head and spoke again, his voice now even more assured:


    - Furthermore, we need to organize the trade duties. Radomir, prepare a full list of all merchants and trade caravans who recently paid duties: where, when, and how much. I want to see who conducts honest trade and who engages in schemes


    Radomir nodded, quickly jotting down notes. Alexander turned to Stanislav, standing nearby, and continued:


    - Stanislav, send your trusted men from the druzhina to inspect the security of the trade routes. Let your people find out if local collectors or guards are extorting illegal fees from merchants. If they are, the culprits will be punished to the fullest extent


    Stanislav smirked, his eyes glinting with approval:


    - Consider it done, Prince. A few exemplary punishments will quickly restore order on the roads and make bribery a thing of the past


    - Order must prevail not only in the treasury but also on the trade routes, - Alexander added, then looked at Radomir:


    - Get to work, Radomir. I know you served my father faithfully, and I trust you will handle these tasks as loyally for me. I never abandon my people


    Radomir bowed his head, feeling how the prince''s words not only reinforced his confidence but also placed even greater responsibility on him.


    He had always considered Yaroslav''s sons, especially Vsevolod and Iziaslav, the most educated and administratively skilled. However, now, seeing Alexander''s determination and intellect, Radomir began to wonder: could Prince Alexander turn out to be even better? Time would tell.


    Stanislav smirked, watching as Alexander confidently took the reins of governance into his hands.


    - Well then, our business here is done. Radomir, you know your tasks, so I''ll expect results. If you have any questions about organization, I''m always available, - he concluded calmly.


    Alexander patted Radomir on the shoulder and headed for the exit. Radomir nodded silently, but within him, a growing respect for the young prince took root. This firmness and commitment to great change convinced Radomir to make a mental vow: he would not fail.

 Chapter 9. Exploring the Archives

    Alexander finished his business in the treasury and headed to lunch to regain his strength. Stanislav, after bidding him farewell, immediately set to work on the prince¡¯s assignments: organizing security for the scribes, protecting the archives, and forming a squad to inspect trade posts.


    During lunch, Alexander reflected on the day¡¯s events. The meal was simple but hearty - roasted meat, stewed vegetables, and a cup of kvass. However, his mind was occupied not with the meal but with his plans. With each step forward, he realized the vastness and complexity of the task of transforming the state.


    After lunch, Alexander made his way to his chambers. He understood well that not everything could be resolved in a matter of days. Each task required attention, a detailed approach, and careful planning.


    At the treasury, he had gained an understanding of the state of the finances and the available funds, but the next step was just as crucial - setting priorities. Attempting to tackle everything at once risked leaving nothing completed.


    Settling into a chair by the window, Alexander picked up a book that had proven useful on more than one occasion. Its advice helped him focus on details that were of great importance in this era but could easily be overlooked. Yet, the deeper he delved into its pages, the clearer it became that the road ahead would be long and arduous.


    Opening the book to a section on economics, Alexander began rereading its lines, focusing on every word. His mind raced, filling with new questions he would need to answer.


    - Where on the lands of Kyivan Rus'' are deposits of iron, salt, and silver? Which areas are best suited for crops, and which for pastures? Which resources can be utilized immediately, and which will take years to develop?


    His fingers absently fidgeted with the corner of the page as his gaze drifted out the window, where the sun was setting, casting the city in a soft glow. Alexander sighed heavily.


    - How difficult this is... - he muttered. It seemed as though he would have to run across the entire principality for every new piece of information.


    Thoughts of what he had learned in the treasury kept returning. Now he knew how much money was at his disposal, but it wasn¡¯t enough. A state¡¯s economic strength is built not only on its treasury but also on its resources. To achieve progress, he needed a clear understanding of the riches Kyivan Rus'' possessed and how best to utilize them.


    Alexander¡¯s gaze returned to the book.


    It offered universal recommendations, suggested directions, and possible solutions, but it couldn¡¯t provide answers specific to his lands. He realized that creating a precise and thoughtful economic development plan would require detailed information that couldn¡¯t be obtained quickly. Traveling across all the lands of Kyivan Rus'' in person would take months, if not years.


    This thought led him to an obvious decision: to begin his search for answers in the library of St. Sophia Cathedral. There, chronicles, reports, and records on natural resources, agriculture, and trade might be stored. If the library didn¡¯t provide all the information he needed, the chief librarian would surely guide him on where to look next or recommend people who could help.


    Today, Alexander decided to focus on preparation. He carefully made notes in the book, wrote down key questions to ask the librarian, and compiled a list of information to gather first. His notes grew increasingly structured, and his thoughts became clearer.


    When the work was finished, he set the book aside and gazed out the window. The city below was sinking into a gentle twilight, illuminated by the gold of the setting sun. The rooftops, the distant chime of bells, and the first flickers of candlelight created an aura of majesty and peace, something Kyiv had been deprived of in recent years.


    Alexander allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. Recalling the day¡¯s events - the council discussions, treasury reforms, defense plans - he realized he had laid an important foundation for the future. Each step brought him closer to building a strong and prosperous state.


    - Tomorrow is a new day. My journey continues, - he said to himself, gripping the quill in his hand. His voice was firm, like a promise made not only to himself but to all those who believed in him and looked to him with hope.


    The next morning, after breakfast, Alexander decided not to waste time and headed to the library of St. Sophia Cathedral. He was accompanied by Mstislav and Mirnomir. Upon entering, the prince was greeted by the familiar scent of old scrolls, resin, and candle wax. In the tall hall, bathed in soft light, silence reigned, broken only by the rustling of parchment and quiet voices.


    One of the monks, noticing the prince, hurriedly bowed in greeting.


    - Prince, welcome. Shall I show you the way to the chief keeper?


    - Yes, lead the way - Alexander replied curtly.


    The chief keeper, sitting at a massive wooden table, was engrossed in studying yellowed scrolls stacked neatly. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, and upon noticing the prince, he quickly rose, bowing respectfully.


    - Welcome, Prince. How may I be of service? - his voice was even, but there was a note of anxious respect.


    - I need information about our lands - Alexander got straight to the point, his voice firm and his gaze demanding. - Salt deposits, iron, silver, mines. Which lands are fertile, and where are the pastures? I need books or scrolls with such information


    The chief keeper stepped away from the table, gesturing for the prince to take his seat. For a moment, he pondered, mentally sifting through possible sources.


    - Our library, Prince, contains mostly books on theology, law, medicine, and history. We have few precise records or geographic collections, but chronicles might contain mentions of estates or mines


    - So, there¡¯s no comprehensive collection of records here? - Alexander frowned, realizing that in this era, few would have maintained such documentation.


    - There isn¡¯t a complete one, Prince, - the keeper shook his head slightly with a touch of regret. - For such information, people usually refer to princely chronicles and reports. Those are typically stored in your archives


    Alexander nodded slightly, processing the information. However, those archives were likely outdated and potentially useless, whereas he needed current data. He realized he would likely have to gather information directly from people.


    - Who among the people can provide me with accurate information? - Alexander decided to ask, comparing his thoughts with those of the chief keeper.


    - Village elders and district chiefs know their lands best - the keeper began, noticing Alexander¡¯s assessing gaze. - Miners and craftsmen can provide details about the mines. The treasury keeps records of income from mines, fields, and pastures. And I believe the monks also know much - he added with a faint smile


    Alexander nodded - everything aligned with his assumptions. However, he hadn¡¯t considered the monks. Village elders, district chiefs, and miners could provide data, but it would take too long for them to reach him. He needed information now.


    Go to the treasury again? No, he had already burdened them enough. That left the monks, whom he had always assumed only performed religious duties. With mild interest mixed with skepticism, Alexander decided to clarify.


    - Monks? Why them?


    - Prince, monks are educated people. They often keep chronicles and gather information about lands. They document histories, collect knowledge, and are privy to many secrets of the land, especially those living in monasteries near local districts - the keeper explained.


    - Very well. Which monk can you recommend to me? Above all, he must be trustworthy - Alexander asked, fixing the keeper with a serious look.


    The keeper thought for a moment before confidently replying.


    - Senior monk Boris of the St. Iryna Monastery. A wise and honest man, deserving of trust. Your father personally appointed him as the monastery¡¯s abbot, which I believe speaks volumes. He has long been involved in chronicling and is familiar with the principality''s domains. Furthermore, the monastery is nearby


    Alexander pondered. If his father, Yaroslav the Wise, had personally appointed Boris as abbot, it meant he was one of his confidants, a man both useful and truly wise. Reassured by his thoughts, Alexander nodded and addressed the keeper.


    - Can you summon him?


    - Certainly, Prince - the keeper replied cheerfully. - While I send for him, we can look through the archives. There are chronicles and records that might prove useful


    Alexander nodded.


    - Very well. Lead the way


    The keeper sent a junior monk to fetch Boris, then invited Alexander to follow him to the archive room. Here, among tall wooden shelves lined with scrolls and manuscripts, a dim light from candles pierced the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of wax, old paper, and resin, and each step echoed softly on the creaking floor.


    Alexander''s gaze swept over the dusty scrolls, many of which were centuries old. This corner of knowledge seemed to hold answers to questions that could shape the future of the principality.


    Senior Monk Boris sat at his desk, immersed in reports at the St. Iryna Monastery. In the adjacent room, three dozen children, sheltered within the monastery walls, quietly repeated texts under the supervision of a junior monk. This was the largest number of orphans the monastery had ever cared for.


    Typically, monasteries provided refuge for no more than a dozen children, but Boris, having been an orphan himself, could not turn a blind eye to the suffering of those abandoned to their fate. He raised the children with both love and firm discipline, giving them what he had been deprived of in his own childhood.


    The monastery, granted to him by Yaroslav the Wise, became not only a place of service to God but also an instrument for realizing his dream: that every orphan in Kyivan Rus'' would have a chance for a dignified life.


    However, his dedication to this mission had turned into a heavy burden for the monastery. The funds left by Yaroslav were gradually depleting, and the occasional donations were insufficient to cover all the needs.


    His thoughts were interrupted by Epithrope Simeon, who entered the cell with a faint smile but an underlying note of concern in his eyes.


    - Senior Monk Boris, good news - he began as he approached. - This morning, we received new donations. A bag of silver coins and several crates of grain and honey from one of the boyarynias


    Boris lifted his gaze from the scroll and looked at Simeon. His face remained calm, but a flicker of relief crossed his eyes.


    - That¡¯s good - he said, though his voice remained restrained. - How long will this sustain us?


    Simeon hesitated, then lowered his gaze, as though expecting his words to disappoint Boris.


    - It¡¯s enough to cover basic needs for a few months - he admitted. - But the problem is, this is a one-time donation. If new contributions don¡¯t come more frequently, our supplies will start running out againSupport creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Boris frowned and turned to the window, crossing his hands behind his back. The thought of children being left without shelter once more burned in his soul.


    - Anything else? - he finally asked, without taking his eyes off the branches of an old apple tree outside the window.


    - Yes - Simeon replied after a brief pause. - We¡¯ve managed to reduce food expenses thanks to the recent donations, but it¡¯s still not enough. Supporting so many orphans is becoming increasingly difficult. Even with their help, we barely manage to buy food and clothing. And the issues with the building itself remain: the roof in one of the living quarters leaks, and the southern wall requires urgent repairs


    Boris nodded slowly, his expression heavy. He understood that these minor issues, like cracks in an old wall, were gradually eroding the foundation of their work. The monastery was held together only by his persistence and the rare kindness of those willing to donate for the orphans. But how much longer could this continue?


    - Food, clothing, books for teaching - all of this is important, but resources are finite. If donations cease or diminish, what then? - Simeon continued, cautiously watching Boris.


    - We will manage - Boris said firmly, though he wasn¡¯t entirely convinced himself. - As long as there¡¯s even one opportunity, I will do everything to support these children


    His gaze once again drifted to the window. How much more effort would it take to ensure the monastery remained a home for these children?


    Appealing to the boyars was out of the question. He knew that if they learned of the monastery¡¯s ties to the late prince, it would raise dangerous suspicions. Concealing his identity was a matter of survival for Boris.


    After the death of Grand Prince Yaroslav, he had lost much of his power and influence. His past as the head of intelligence and a secret advisor remained hidden, but he understood that if he began using the authority and resources he once wielded to solve his current problems, it could draw unwanted attention.


    Many boyars, suspicious and ambitious, might start questioning why a simple senior monk was so adept at solving complex problems and seemed to conjure money out of thin air. If they suspected Boris of connections to shadowy structures or ties to the late prince, it could spell disaster - not only for him but also for the orphans under his care.


    - Use my savings, - he said decisively. - As long as I can help even one child, I will.


    - Your savings won''t last long, Senior Monk. In two or three years, we''ll be in debt. We need more serious sources of income, - Simeon replied, shaking his head.


    Boris frowned as he bent over a scroll containing new information. It described how the Polovtsians and Pechenegs had resumed joint movements. But he had no time to worry about them; his thoughts were consumed by more immediate concerns.


    He bowed his head in prayer, his fingers touching the cross on his chest as his lips whispered:


    - Lord, what are we to do?


    His prayer and thoughts were interrupted by hurried footsteps. Junior Monk Ssava burst into the cell, breathless from running.


    - Senior Monk Boris, Prince Alexander is summoning you to the library of St. Sophia, - he said, struggling to catch his breath.


    Boris turned sharply, his face lighting up and his eyes glimmering with hope. He saw an opportunity.


    - What does he want? - he asked, keeping his composure.


    - The senior librarian said the prince is looking for information about the principality''s resources: mines, fertile lands, and pastures, - Ssava reported.


    Boris pondered for a moment before turning to Simeon.


    - Bring the scrolls containing that information


    Simeon hesitated, his face reflecting surprise and concern:


    - But those are secrets entrusted to us by Grand Prince Yaroslav¡­


    - I know, - Boris interrupted, - but if he is the son of the Grand Prince, he is worthy of knowing these secrets. We will let him read them, but we will not hand them over. This is our chance to save the children


    Simeon hesitated for a moment longer but then nodded and hurried to the monastery''s archives. These scrolls, containing detailed records of Kievan Rus'' lands and wealth, had always been kept in strict confidence to prevent them from falling into the hands of unscrupulous boyars. Boris knew he was taking a risk, but he felt he had no other choice.


    While Simeon searched for the scrolls, Ssava quietly added:


    - They say Prince Alexander is wise and just, despite his youth. He respects and listens to people, regardless of their status


    Boris cast a stern glance at him but then nodded:


    - Perhaps. But I need to see it for myself


    Minutes later, Simeon returned, holding aged scrolls yellowed with time. Boris took them, carefully checked each seal, and placed them in a leather satchel.


    - Thank you, Simeon, - he said. - You''ve done well


    Donning a simple monk''s robe and slinging the satchel over his shoulder, Boris headed for the exit. His steps were steady and confident, but inside he felt tense. Ssava followed closely, ready to assist.


    They quickly made their way to the library of St. Sophia. Boris knew this meeting would be a turning point. The future of his monastery and the lives of the orphans he had vowed to protect hung in the balance.


    Meanwhile, as Boris and Ssava traveled to the library, Alexander and the senior librarian continued examining chronicles and scrolls. The librarian tirelessly brought new documents, observing as the young prince grew more resolute with each discovery.


    As Alexander had anticipated, the three-field system had begun spreading in some volosts but had not yet been widely adopted. Most lands were still cultivated using the two-field system. At the same time, monasteries were experimenting with composting, adding ash and plant residues to fertilizers.


    Peasant tools remained primitive: wooden plows with iron tips were ubiquitous, while fully iron plows or harrows were found only in wealthy communities. Seasonal livestock migration was also practiced to preserve lands for planting.


    All of this aligned with his expectations for the period. Agricultural practices were relatively clear, but the situation with resources like salt, iron, silver, and others was far more complex. Most of these resources were controlled by boyars, and Alexander realized that to use them effectively, they needed to be centralized.


    He contemplated monopolizing the extraction and processing of resources, imagining a decree announcing that salt, iron, silver, and gold would henceforth become exclusive to the prince''s domain. Banning the interference of boyars and merchants in these industries would grant him complete control, bolstering both the economy and his power.


    However, he also realized that such a step would provoke fierce resistance. It was a risky path, and for now, it was too early to act in that direction. Yet, Alexander was already strategizing and looking for the right moment to begin.


    Another critical task after his coronation, he believed, was centralizing the tax collection system. During his time in the treasury, he had seen its inefficiency firsthand. Tribute collection relied on local boyars, who kept a significant portion of the revenue for themselves, undermining the state''s financial stability.


    - So much to do... - Alexander sighed tiredly. Thoughts of problems and potential solutions had already begun to exhaust him. He understood that if he sat idly by, his reign might end sooner than it began. But despite the difficulties, he enjoyed what he was doing. Even though it was hard, he knew he was improving not only his own life but also the lives of others.


    At the moment, his primary goal was to learn from Boris the actual situation in his lands. Flipping through his modern book, Alexander cross-referenced its advice with the current circumstances and began drafting a plan for developing agriculture on his princely fields.


    His musings were interrupted by a sudden question from the senior librarian, who was eyeing the unusual book in the prince''s hands with genuine curiosity. In all his years as a librarian, he had never seen anything like it:


    - My prince, what kind of book is that in your hands? The binding, the script... I have never seen anything like it


    - It''s a foreign book brought by a merchant, - Alexander replied calmly, trying not to reveal any nervousness. - It contains valuable knowledge about agriculture and governance from a more advanced empire


    The librarian nodded, continuing to examine it from a distance:


    - It looks quite intriguing...


    Realizing that the librarian''s interest could lead to further questions, Alexander decided to steer the conversation in another direction:


    - Valuable knowledge is always worth its price. If it can improve our lives, why not use the experience of other lands? For instance, - he opened one of the pages, - this describes the three-field system. Instead of leaving half the land fallow, it''s divided into three parts. This increases yields


    - Hmm, my prince, I know of the three-field system. In our principality, it''s already being introduced in some regions, but boyars and peasants are not always willing to adopt such changes


    - Precisely, - Alexander agreed, pointing to a page. - Here it explains that the three-field system not only increases yields but also preserves soil fertility. And if we add another field for fodder crops, it could improve livestock feeding and restore the land even faster


    The librarian raised an eyebrow in surprise:


    - A four-field system? That sounds unusual, but if such systems are used in the country where books like yours are made, I dare say they''ve advanced far beyond us, - said the senior librarian, his gaze still fixed on the book.


    As someone accustomed to holding various manuscripts in his hands, the librarian found himself mesmerized by Alexander''s book. The prince nodded, attempting to deflect attention from the book:


    - Yes, with the four-field system, we could outpace our neighbors. Now it''s just a matter of convincing the peasants


    - Well, my prince, peasants are used to their old ways. Convincing them will be difficult, especially in places where even the three-field system is not yet common, - the senior librarian remarked, understanding the challenge of introducing innovations to a population steeped in tradition.


    Alexander fell silent, but his plan was already forming clearly:


    - I''ll start with my princely lands. After all, they belong to me, not the boyars. I''ll also need educated monks and scribes. I''ll teach them the basics, and they, in turn, will teach the peasants


    - Wouldn''t it be easier to just let them read your book? - The senior librarian seemed puzzled, thinking Alexander might be unwilling to share such vital information.


    Alexander smirked and, without a word, handed him the book:


    - Go ahead, try to read it. I''m sure you know enough languages to understand


    The senior librarian bowed and carefully took the peculiar tome. It was a book entirely unlike the manuscripts he was used to. Its unusual paper, sturdy binding, and clearly printed letters stood out.


    But what struck him the most was the language it was written in. He began leafing through the pages but quickly realized he couldn''t understand a single word. It wasn''t Latin, Greek, Arabic, or even one of the rare dialects he had encountered before.


    - My prince, I don''t understand. What language is this? And how do you know it? - the librarian asked, looking at Alexander in amazement.


    Alexander looked at him with a slight smile, but his eyes held a glimmer of seriousness:


    - It''s the language of a very advanced country on the other side of the world. And as for how I know it... trust me, it''s better if you don''t


    The librarian, sensing that the conversation had reached a delicate point, bowed and returned the book. He understood that the prince had his secrets, and it was best not to interfere. To smooth over the awkwardness, he decided to share some useful information:


    - My prince, you mentioned needing educated monks and scribes. I know a few trustworthy individuals who could be entrusted with this knowledge. They''ve dedicated their lives to serving the people and would surely help you in your endeavor to improve the fields and feed the populace


    - Good, send them to me. I''ll find a use for them, - Alexander nodded curtly, already deciding that he would test them and, if possible, bring them under his influence.


    - I should also mention that Senior Monk Boris is already conducting experiments with composting and improving the land. Perhaps he should be included in your plans


    - Boris, - Alexander repeated thoughtfully. - It seems he''s quite talented if he knows so much about the princely lands and engages in such work


    Alexander was intrigued. His father, Yaroslav the Wise, had clearly been skilled at surrounding himself with exceptional people. Recruiting Boris to his side would be a strategically sound move.


    - Yes, Senior Monk Boris is not only talented but also a man of great character. As the abbot of his monastery, he cares for orphans more than anyone else. His monastery has taken in more than twenty children, and for three years, he has provided them with everything they need and taught them many skills, - the librarian continued to praise Senior Monk Boris, ensuring the prince formed a positive impression before their meeting.


    - What''s so special about that? He''s a good and righteous man. I think anyone in his place would do the same, - Alexander remarked, genuinely not understanding the significance of the deed.


    The senior librarian looked at the prince intently, realizing that Alexander might not yet fully grasp the realities of life in the principality. He decided to explain:


    - My prince, most monasteries take in no more than ten orphans, and sometimes none at all. They claim that children interfere with their worship and distract monks from their duties. Many only take in orphans for appearances, to seem compassionate and receive more donations. But Senior Monk Boris... he has taken in more than twenty orphans and has cared for them for over three years. He does it not for profit. You''ll understand if you visit his monastery


    Hearing this explanation, Alexander fell into thought. He realized his mistake. In his time, caring for orphans was seen as a norm, but here in Kievan Rus'', such actions were rare exceptions. The concept of orphanages as understood in modern times did not exist, and aid to orphans was often a matter of personal initiative or rare acts of Christian charity.


    Now he understood just how extraordinary Boris''s actions were. Alexander nodded respectfully, feeling a growing desire to learn more about this man and his work.

 Chapter 10. Senior Monk Boris

    The senior librarian was about to continue his conversation with Alexander when their discussion was interrupted by quick, confident footsteps echoing through the library''s quiet halls. Alexander and the librarian exchanged glances, immediately realizing that the person they had been waiting for had arrived. Within a minute, their assumption was confirmed: standing before them was Senior Monk Boris, followed closely by Junior Monk Savva.


    Senior Monk Boris commanded respect with his austere appearance. His tall frame and sharp facial features bore the marks of a life full of hardship. His dark eyes, framed by a network of wrinkles, radiated determination and hidden fatigue, while his graying hair, tied in a knot, underscored his years of wisdom. A simple yet neat robe, complemented by a leather satchel at his side, completed the image of a man who had endured countless trials yet retained a clear mind.


    He halted and bowed his head in a respectful gesture. His gaze remained calm but firm.


    - Greetings, Prince. I hear you wished to see me? - Boris said in a deep, confident voice.


    Junior Monk Savva bowed reverently and silently departed, as did the senior librarian, leaving them alone. Alexander looked at Boris intently, immediately sensing not only wisdom but also a certain inner strength within him.


    - Yes, - Alexander replied, studying Boris closely. - I''ve heard that you''re one of the few monks who keeps detailed records of our lands. You might know the exact locations of fertile lands, pastures, salt mines, iron deposits, and much more. Is that correct?


    Boris bowed again, withdrawing a scroll from the folds of his robe and offering it to the prince with respect.


    - Yes, Prince. Here is one of my scrolls. See if it contains the information you need


    Alexander took the scroll and unrolled it. His eyes quickly scanned the lines, which detailed the richest salt deposits in the Galician lands (Solotvyno, Drohobych) and the southern regions, where salt was extracted from salt lakes and marshes. The scroll included information on the ownership of these lands, the number of workers involved, the locations of the mines, and the annual income.


    Alexander finished reading and nodded. With this, he could begin planning how to utilize the salt resources strategically, but first, he needed to address the fields and pastures. His eyes moved from Boris to the monk''s satchel, which, as he already suspected, contained even more valuable information.


    - Yes, this is exactly what I need, - Alexander said succinctly, returning the scroll confidently, though his voice carried a barely noticeable note of impatience.


    Boris, sensing the prince''s interest, nodded slightly but added a mild warning in his tone:


    - Prince, this information is kept in the strictest confidence. By order of Metropolitan Hilarion, I ask that all scrolls be returned after you have reviewed them.


    - Metropolitan Hilarion, you say? - Alexander raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. - Could it be that my support for his plan to establish schools at the council impressed him so much that he decided to assist me with this information?


    Alexander understood that a simple senior monk like Boris couldn''t possess such precise and extensive information on his own. He pondered for a moment before deciding to clarify:


    - And why would the Metropolitan decide to share such knowledge?


    Boris paused for a long moment before replying. His gaze was steady, and his voice remained calm and assured. He carefully chose his words to sound convincing without revealing too much.


    - The Metropolitan understands, Prince, that strengthening your rule also strengthens the Church. However, his generosity is never without a purpose


    - I see, - Alexander nodded, immediately realizing that Hilarion intended to buy his favor with information. - I suppose Hilarion expects something in return?


    - Yes, Prince. Metropolitan Hilarion hopes for your greater support. He wishes to show the people that the Church cares for them while you care for the principality, - Boris spoke calmly and confidently.


    - Very well, - Alexander nodded. - And what exactly does he want? Another cathedral? More monasteries?


    Boris shook his head and explained:


    - Prince, to make your support appear less abrupt, the Metropolitan suggests encouraging Christian principles of charity. By donating to monasteries and churches that care for orphans, you will not only strengthen the people''s faith but also create a positive image of a ruler


    Alexander fixed his gaze on Boris and thought: - How many times have I seen noble intentions turn into means for personal enrichment for those hiding behind the guise of charity?


    However, the man standing before him seemed entirely different. Earlier, the senior librarian had told Alexander about Boris''s care for orphans and his upright character. Perhaps he could trust this man.


    Alexander looked at Boris, his voice growing firmer and his eyes igniting with confidence:


    - Why give money to monasteries where children are a secondary concern? Wouldn''t it be better to build shelters - places where children can not only survive but also receive an education to eventually become valuable members of society? After all, the Lord teaches us: ''Let the children come to Me.''


    - Additionally, I will organize the construction of separate wings for orphans at existing monasteries so that they supposedly do not interfere with spiritual practices. This way, the Church will receive its support, and the orphans will have a future


    Alexander spoke with conviction, his gaze unwavering as it met Boris''s. He sensed that Boris had yet to reveal his full intentions. Boris, on the other hand, remained composed, though there was a tension in the air.


    When Alexander shared his idea, Boris paused, taking a moment to comprehend the proposal.


    Boris had anticipated a standard response - that the prince would allocate a small portion of funds to support monasteries caring for orphans. Instead, Alexander''s proposal was far more ambitious.


    His suggestion seemed too good to be true. - He''s so young, but he already speaks like an experienced ruler, - thought Boris. - Could there be something else hidden behind this confidence? Or is it a genuine desire to help?


    - Prince, does the information in the scrolls truly warrant such efforts? - Boris asked cautiously.


    Alexander could have simply allocated part of the treasury to monasteries without bothering with complex solutions. But he chose a different path. A faint smile appeared on his face, and his voice resonated with conviction:


    - Children must not suffer, - Alexander declared with unwavering determination. - If I can save even one life, I will. Is that not the essence of our faith, Boris? The Lord teaches us not through words but actions. To turn away, knowing of their suffering, is to betray not only the people but also God


    Alexander was not a fanatically religious man. He simply adhered to his principles of honesty, righteousness, and fairness. These qualities made his words so convincing, so deeply affecting. His gaze swept over Boris''s face, searching for any subtle changes.


    Boris was a man who cared for orphans - Alexander had been told this by the senior librarian. This seemingly minor detail turned out to be the key to understanding Boris and, potentially, earning his trust.


    Alexander knew that helping children was the right thing to do, a matter of humanity. But he also understood that this could be the key to winning Boris over, securing his allegiance. It was a rare moment when good intentions aligned with political advantage.


    Alexander inwardly smiled. Three birds with one stone - helping orphans, winning Boris''s favor, and gaining access to critical information.


    Boris slowly clenched his fists, striving to contain his emotions. He saw something in this young prince, something greater than a mere youthful ruler. Perhaps it was a reflection of the great Yaroslav, Alexander''s father.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    - I see, Prince, - Boris finally replied, carefully selecting his words. - Your intentions are genuine. I believe Metropolitan Hilarion will accept your idea. After all, his request was not for money''s sake but for the orphans and the people''s faith in both the Church and you


    - Of course, he will, - Alexander nodded briefly, as if confirming to himself that he had made the right choice.


    - But what you propose is significant, Prince. What guarantees can you offer that these shelters will function as you describe? Who will ensure order is maintained? - Boris agreed with the idea of building shelters but now questioned their fair management.


    Alexander had anticipated this question. Smiling, he confidently replied:


    - Boris, I see you are not only wise but also compassionate. I''ve heard that you care for children yourself, so why not become the overseer of these shelters? I will see to your appointment. You will be responsible for all the children, their upbringing, and their welfare within the monasteries and shelters


    This time, Boris hesitated before responding. His gaze grew distant, as if lost in memories. After a moment, he raised his eyes and spoke:


    - This is a great responsibility, Prince. I cannot promise an easy path. But if you trust me, I will do everything to justify your faith. These children deserve a chance at a better future. I will do all in my power not to let you down


    - Excellent, - Alexander nodded, his smile fading into a serious expression. - I also want to see reports: every coin collected, every grain of food - everything must be accounted for. How many children there are, how they live, what they are taught. I will send my men to inspect regularly. And remember, Boris, if the children are mistreated, you will face my wrath. And not just you but also Hilarion


    Alexander''s last words struck like a hammer on an anvil. Boris, no stranger to firmness, still felt the weight of this warning. Bowing his head in respect, he responded firmly:


    - I, Senior Monk Boris, will carry out your command, Prince. Everything will be under reliable supervision. If any problems arise, I will resolve them before you even hear of them, Prince. I promise you this


    His words carried the weight of a vow. Alexander nodded, satisfied that he had found a reliable man ready to take on the challenge of safeguarding good in a harsh world.


    Confident they had reached an agreement, Alexander decided to act immediately. He unrolled a blank scroll and began drafting a new plan for creating orphan shelters and constructing additional wings at monasteries. Boris silently watched as Alexander methodically and decisively articulated his ideas. Each stroke of his quill was deliberate, each word carefully chosen.


    Alexander used his memories of the real-life Prince Olexander to quickly and skillfully outline a detailed document. The plan covered key aspects: objectives, specific steps, budget, responsible individuals, timelines, and reporting.


    Objective: Support for the clergy. In accordance with "Let the children come to me" (Mark 10:14) and Jesus''s teachings on helping the needy (Matthew 25:35¨C40), the creation of shelters for orphans and wings at monasteries.


    Specific steps: Construction of wings at monasteries, establishment of the Mark and Matthew shelters, appointment of responsible individuals, allocation of funds.


    Budget: Funding sources: a portion from the treasury, voluntary donations from the boyars, and Church funds.


    Construction of 10 wings at key monasteries across Kyivan Rus (250 grivnas). Two standalone shelters in Kyiv (160 grivnas for the initial two, 240 grivnas for three more later). Annual maintenance for 500 children in shelters and monasteries (500 ¨C 700 grivnas, partially covered by monasteries). Salaries for teachers and caregivers: 20 grivnas per year (free in monasteries). Administrative expenses: 20 grivnas.


    Responsible individuals: Metropolitan Hilarion: Overall supervisor of the project and its spiritual aspects. Senior Monk Boris: Head of shelters, directly responsible for the care of children and management of the entire aid process. Advisor Stanislav: Inspector ensuring adherence to the prince''s orders and accountability.


    Timelines and reports: The treasury must provide regular updates on expenditures and progress.


    Once the scroll was complete, Alexander affixed his princely seal, provided to him by Stanislav.


    - It''s done, - he said, nodding and handing the document to Boris. - Here is my sincerity and faith. Review it, Senior Monk


    Boris accepted the scroll, feeling a faint tremor in his hands. He slowly read through it, carefully examining each detail. A flicker of approval passed through his eyes, though his expression remained calm. He had not expected Alexander to possess such deep knowledge of sacred texts.


    Boris scanned the document several times, weighing each word. When he reached the mention of the Mark and Matthew shelters, his fingers tightened slightly. He averted his gaze from the scroll, closing his eyes momentarily as if gathering his thoughts.


    - Prince, this is a good and ambitious plan. More importantly, it is righteous and aligned with our teachings. I believe it will be accepted by all involved parties. Here are the scrolls as agreed, - Boris carefully set aside the prince''s scroll and began laying out his own before Alexander.


    - Good, - Alexander nodded, studying the stack of scrolls Boris had placed before him. - But first, this scroll needs to be sent to the treasury to begin preparations


    He paused, considering whom to entrust with such an important document. Boris, noticing his hesitation, offered assistance:


    - Prince, my trusted subordinate can deliver the decree accompanied by one of your guardsmen. Meanwhile, we can begin reviewing the scrolls and surveying your lands, allowing you to stay focused


    Alexander thought for a moment and nodded. After all, this document was crucial for both Boris and Metropolitan Hilarion, while the scrolls laid out before him contained the vital information he sought.


    - Fine. I don''t want to be running back and forth, but I also can''t send just anyone with such an important decree


    - Wise decision, Prince. Varlaam, come here, - Boris called out, and within moments, a monk of medium height with a focused expression appeared.


    - Greetings, Prince, Senior Monk. How may I assist you? - Varlaam bowed respectfully.


    - Here is the decree bearing the prince''s seal. Take it to the treasury accompanied by one of the prince''s guardsmen stationed at the entrance. This scroll concerns the lives of many children; do not lose it, - Boris instructed, his tone commanding and his gaze stern.


    Something flickered in Varlaam''s eyes as he bowed, accepted the scroll, bowed again, and departed. Alexander watched Boris with interest, noting how much significance he attached to the decree. The prince smiled, wondering where to begin.


    - Hmm, where should we start?


    - Prince, I believe you would first want to learn about the silver and iron mines, - Boris suggested, pulling a scroll from the stack and handing it to Alexander. - Iron ore is extracted in the river basins of the Dnipro, Pripyat, and Desna. Polissya and Volhynia also have deposits. Small silver and lead reserves are located in the Carpathians and western regions


    Alexander studied the scroll carefully, noting key locations. He observed Boris watching him closely but not yet fully committing his loyalty. It seemed the monk needed more time before he could be fully won over.


    Boris had no intention of offering full support to the prince just yet. Acting too hastily could be reckless. - I cannot trust him fully yet. Too many seek my head for the knowledge I possess. And what if the prince decides to betray me for the loyalty of greedy boyars? I must tread carefully. Only time will reveal whether he is truly worthy of my allegiance


    Meanwhile, in the treasury, the atmosphere was tense and bustling with activity. Scribes bent over their scrolls, and treasurers debated current tasks. Suddenly, Monk Varlaam and Guardsman Myrnomyr entered, carrying the decree.


    Chief Treasurer Radomyr, engrossed in carrying out the prince''s previous orders, did not wish to be disturbed. But as soon as he heard they had brought a new decree from Alexander, he rose quickly and approached them.


    Varlaam bowed and handed over the scroll bearing the prince''s seal. Taking the scroll, Radomyr expected it to address matters like taxes, military financing, or trade posts. But as he read, he froze.


    The plan outlined in the scroll concerned supporting the clergy and creating shelters for orphans. The young prince had chosen to allocate significant funds not to bolster his position but to care for the most vulnerable. It was an action Radomyr had not anticipated from such a youthful ruler.


    His eyes instinctively met Varlaam''s. Those eyes radiated unwavering faith and determination, laced with a subtle undertone of threat. Radomyr instantly understood that challenging the decree would not only be dangerous but foolish.


    - We will begin immediately. Funds will be allocated, and a construction plan will be drafted as soon as possible, - he said curtly, feeling the weight of the responsibility.


    - Senior Monk Boris will discuss the details with you after his meeting with the prince, - Varlaam replied briefly, bowed, and departed with Myrnomyr.


    Left alone with the document, Radomyr felt his fingers tighten around the edges of the scroll. Varlaam was not merely a messenger monk. Radomyr recalled him from the time of Yaroslav the Wise when Varlaam worked with subordinates of the legendary hidden advisor and head of intelligence.


    If this man now acted on behalf of Alexander, it meant the hidden advisor had allied with the young prince. To oppose him would be suicidal, especially now that he wielded the prince''s authority and influence once again.


    Radomyr, an experienced treasurer accustomed to seeking personal gain in every decision, found his gaze repeatedly returning to the lines about aiding orphans. For the first time in years, he felt something warm and long forgotten stir within him.


    It seemed as though the words between the lines carried a voice from the past, reminding him of times when honor and justice mattered more than wealth. Sometimes, one must simply act as a human being - not seek profit, not think of gain, but do what is right.


    He took a deep breath, calmly folded the scroll, and returned to work. Alexander had once again proven not only his strategic acumen but also his rare quality - humanity.


    Radomyr resolved to redouble his efforts to ensure the reforms of the treasury, initiated by the prince''s decree, were implemented as swiftly as possible. Now, he wasn''t just following orders; he worked with faith that he served a truly worthy ruler who would one day become a great prince of Kyiv.

 Chapter 11. Shadows over the crown

    While the city outside the walls sank into the early morning quiet, Counselor Oleg finally found time to visit the treasury. News of young Prince Alexander causing a stir there had reached him after the council the day before. Yet pressing matters had delayed him from investigating immediately. He had dismissed the incident as insignificant, believing the young prince unlikely to accomplish anything truly remarkable.


    Oleg entered at a measured pace, maintaining his habitual mask of calm. However, the atmosphere inside, usually tranquil and orderly, struck him as entirely uncharacteristic. A tense buzz filled the air, and the staff bustled about in a manner far beyond the usual routine.


    He surveyed the hall with a sharp gaze. Each person who noticed him hastily ducked behind desks or lowered their eyes. Clerks and scribes argued over tables filled with ledgers, while in one corner, parchment rustled noisily. At the center, a large table piled with scrolls stood Radomir, the head treasurer, issuing orders with the air of a man burdened beyond his capacity.


    Spotting Oleg, Radomir carefully placed his papers aside and stepped forward. His face bore a calculated expression of respect, though his eyes betrayed exhaustion.


    - Counselor Oleg, welcome, - Radomir said evenly, inclining his head slightly in formal acknowledgment rather than submission.


    Oleg¡¯s steps echoed as he approached the table, the sound emphasizing his presence. He halted and cast a critical eye over the scene of feverish activity. The tension in the air suggested that everyone felt the counselor¡¯s arrival might herald unforeseen consequences.


    - Radomir, - Oleg began in a low voice, though each word landed like the strike of a hammer, - what disorder has overtaken the treasury? This place was always regarded as the epitome of control


    Radomir lifted his gaze steadily. His face betrayed no emotion, but his careful tone revealed his wariness.


    - We are implementing a new directive from Prince Alexander, Counselor. His Majesty has ordered a reform of the treasury


    - Reform? - Oleg echoed, raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with a faint trace of disbelief. - And what grand changes has he decreed?


    Radomir held a deliberate pause before offering a succinct explanation.


    - We are creating a unified registry of taxes and duties, consolidating data from all the lands. The prince has also instructed us to compile lists of tax collectors and treasurers, intending to meet with them personally. His goal is to eliminate leaks in funds and ensure transparency in the treasury


    Oleg tilted his head slightly as though weighing the implications of this statement. His eyes glinted with a cold light.


    - Ambitious. And all this... in such uncertain times? Aren¡¯t you worried, Radomir, that such changes might provoke the displeasure of the boyars?


    The treasurer stood firm under the challenge.


    - Counselor, discontent is inevitable with any reform. However, the prince has shown resolve in his decision, and my task is to carry it out


    Oleg crossed his arms, his scrutinizing gaze fixed on Radomir. His voice, though restrained, carried an undercurrent of provocation.


    - Do you think these reforms will last? Determination is commendable, but it¡¯s meaningless without time and support. And time... - he paused, letting the weight of his words linger, - time is often merciless to overly bold designs


    Radomir inclined his head slightly, replying in a calm yet firm tone.


    - Counselor, time tests all things. But Prince Alexander has already demonstrated his understanding of its value. He moves quickly without losing attention to detail, and his support grows. This is not mere youthful fervor; it is calculation


    Oleg held Radomir¡¯s gaze, as if searching for cracks in the treasurer¡¯s poised confidence.


    - And what else has our prince decided? - he asked, his voice tinged with a faint trace of irritation.


    Radomir furrowed his brow slightly, his movements deliberate as he retrieved a scroll bearing Alexander¡¯s seal.


    - Here, Counselor. A new decree, issued just recently


    - Another decree? - Oleg accepted the scroll, unrolling it with deliberate slowness. - Treasury reform, and now something else? Intriguing


    His eyes scanned the lines of the text, and his expression grew darker with each word. He finished reading, folded the scroll, and gripped it tighter than necessary. The skin on his fingers whitened under the pressure.


    - Support of the clergy. Orphanages, - he said slowly, as if tasting these words. - Illarion... It was not enough for him that we approved his monastery schools at the meeting. Now he convinced the prince to support this too.


    Radomir calmly set aside another stack of scrolls. His gaze remained impassive, yet there was a quiet firmness in it.


    - Counselor Oleg, this is His Majesty¡¯s decree, - he said evenly, inclining his head just slightly. - The Metropolitan may have played a role, but the prince himself made the decision. It is his initiative driving these changes


    Oleg squinted, his icy stare piercing Radomir, yet the treasurer held his ground flawlessly. There was more strength in his calm demeanor than in any words.


    - So, this is the prince¡¯s initiative? - Oleg clarified slowly, his tone as if speaking aloud to himself. - Caring for the people... Too ambitious to be merely an act of goodwill. What could Illarion have offered to so captivate the young prince?


    For a moment, silence filled the hall, broken only by the scratch of pens and the rustle of parchment. Radomir used the pause to again emphasize his respect for Alexander¡¯s reforms.


    - Counselor, our prince is young, but his decisions are mature. He understands that without the trust of the people and the clergy, any reforms are impossible. Orphanages are not mere charity; they are a way to strengthen the ruler¡¯s power and trust among his people, - he said, carefully emphasizing the key points.


    Oleg briefly closed his eyes, suppressing a flash of irritation. When he looked at Radomir again, his voice was cold.


    - The trust of the people... That is too naive a goal. I am certain this isn¡¯t just the prince¡¯s doing. Or do you truly believe he acts independently, without anyone¡¯s influence?


    Radomir remained composed, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.


    - I believe that our prince listens to advice but makes his own decisions. His support is growing, as is his authority, Counselor.


    These words carried a subtle challenge, which Oleg did not miss. He focused once more on his own thoughts, calculating his next move. - If the prince truly initiated these reforms himself, how far is he willing to go? Or is someone else pulling the strings behind him? he pondered, his expression darkening inwardly


    Finally, he broke the silence with a short command:


    - Radomir, delay the execution of the decree. I will speak with the prince personally


    Radomir allowed himself a slight smile as he handed over the scroll, replying with deliberate respect:


    - Of course, Counselor. I am certain His Majesty will be glad to discuss his plans


    Oleg grabbed the scroll and walked briskly toward the exit. His movements were precise, but behind his decisiveness lay the weight of unresolved questions. Near the door, he stopped, turned back, and shot Radomir a piercing look.


    - I¡¯ll be back soon, - he said, his voice void of threat, containing only a dry statement of fact.


    As he closed the door behind him, it felt as though he left his doubts in that room. Yet the unease lingered, following him like a shadow.


    Walking across the courtyard of the detinets, Oleg pondered the situation, his thoughts racing as he clenched the scroll tightly in his hand.


    - If young Prince Alexander truly initiated these reforms, how far is he willing to go? Or is someone pulling the strings behind him? Perhaps his ambitions will open new opportunities for me. But for now, it¡¯s better to slow down the implementation of this decree and the reforms altogether


    His measured footsteps echoed across the stones, yet each step carried the weight of his thoughts.


    - How does the young prince intend to justify such vast expenditures on the clergy? We already allocate two thousand grivnas to them, and now another thousand? The treasury is gasping for air, yet he throws his generosity around. He still has much to learn if he wants to keep that throne, - he thought, gritting his teeth.


    A thin breeze swept through the courtyard, rustling the feathers on the guards'' helmets. The usually lively atmosphere had grown strangely quiet. Merchants had disappeared, and servants seemed to melt into the shadows. Even the guards at the gates were barely visible. Oleg unconsciously slowed his pace. Something felt off. A growing sense of unease crept over him.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Ahead, as though emerging from the shadows, stood a soldier of the prince¡¯s retinue. His face was obscured beneath his helmet, and his movements were unnervingly precise, almost mechanical. In his hands, he held a bundle.


    - Counselor Oleg, a letter for you, - the soldier said evenly, extending the parcel.


    Oleg frowned and took the bundle slowly, his eyes narrowing as he examined the retainer. The gestures, the tone - it all seemed eerily familiar yet detached, as though rehearsed.


    - Who sent this? - he demanded sharply, but the soldier merely bowed slightly, turned, and disappeared around the nearest corner.


    Oleg¡¯s frown deepened as his gaze lingered on the now-empty courtyard. Everything around him seemed unnaturally still, as if suspended in time. The shadows of the buildings stretched long, almost watching him, and the air felt charged with an unseen presence.


    He looked down at the parcel. The seal was simple, without any insignia. The plainness and anonymous precision of its presentation sent a chill down his spine. This wasn¡¯t a blatant threat - it was a calculated message meant to unnerve him, to make him feel exposed.


    - What kind of intrigue is this now? - he muttered, as the cool breeze sent a shiver up his spine.


    For a moment, his fingers hesitated, gripping the parcel tightly. Not fear, not trembling - just a tense readiness for the unknown. Over the years, Oleg had grown accustomed to threats, schemes, and attempts at coercion. But this was different. This letter, delivered in such a manner, carried the weight of a mind as calculating as his own.


    He refrained from opening it immediately. Instead, his sharp mind raced through potential sources. - The clergy? No, their methods are more overt. The boyars? Unlikely - this was too direct for their cautious tendencies. Then who? - The answer lay hidden, but Oleg was in no rush to draw conclusions.


    Finally, with a barely audible sigh, he broke the seal. The parchment unrolled with a faint rustle. His eyes skimmed the lines swiftly, but halfway through, the text began pressing on him like an invisible weight.


    The words revealed details he believed long buried: tax manipulations, falsified accounts, secret dealings with merchants. Every piece of information was disturbingly accurate. This wasn¡¯t just a threat - it was a statement of dominance, an assertion that someone held all the cards.


    His heart didn¡¯t race, and his gaze didn¡¯t dart across the text. Oleg knew the cost of panic - it only hastened defeat. Instead, his eyes grew heavy with thought, and his hands, accustomed to holding scrolls, tightened around the letter.


    - A meticulously gathered dossier, - he mused. - Not a single wasted word. Whoever this is isn¡¯t merely threatening - they are certain of their advantage


    At the bottom of the letter was a brief, almost mocking postscript: support Prince Alexander¡¯s decree for orphanages. Otherwise, the full content of this letter would be delivered to Alexander, the boyars, and even the clergy.


    For a long moment, Oleg stood still. His expression betrayed no emotion, but his fingers unconsciously crumpled the edge of the parchment. Memories flared: a younger, more audacious Oleg presenting falsified reports to Yaroslav the Wise, confident in his triumph. Now, that same past had become the snare someone was using against him.


    - So, it¡¯s finally come to this... - he whispered, though his voice carried no despair. Only a trace of weariness and irritation.


    He slowly scanned the courtyard, as if expecting the shadows to come alive. No one appeared. The world around him remained as empty as it had been, yet every detail now seemed part of a larger, unseen plan.


    - Someone is trying to move me like a piece on their chessboard, - he murmured to himself. His voice was steady, but the cold determination beneath it was unmistakable. - But they forget - I¡¯m no pawn. I¡¯m a player


    His mind raced, searching for answers. Illarion? No, too obvious. Sviatoslav? Unlikely. Then who? The image of a man, always hidden yet always present, began forming in his thoughts.


    - It¡¯s him... the hidden advisor, - he exhaled, clutching the letter tightly. Memories of that enigmatic figure, indispensable to Yaroslav the Wise, flooded back. No one knew his true name or face. No one except Yaroslav.


    - Still as audacious as ever, - he muttered. - He thinks he can keep us on his strings. How gravely mistaken he is


    His anger, like molten metal, cooled into hardened resolve. Oleg, suppressing the faint tremor in his hands, folded the letter sharply and tucked it into his cloak. He understood now: this wasn¡¯t just an adversary, but a cunning and formidable force that demanded respect. His fear and doubt gave way to a chilling analysis.


    - Is the young prince already gathering allies? - he whispered, a bitter smile curling his lips. - Ambitious. But I didn¡¯t hold onto my position all these years to be easily cast aside. It won¡¯t be so simple


    Oleg knew his task now was to keep this situation under control. He remained a pivotal figure on the council, representing the boyars¡¯ interests, and he understood that every reform Alexander proposed chipped away at their privileges. If he yielded now, it would mark the beginning of the end. His influence would crumble, and with it, everything he had built.


    His gaze lingered on the letter in his hands. The parchment felt like a burning brand, each word a calculated strike against his carefully constructed life. Yet, instead of succumbing to rage, Oleg allowed his mind to sharpen further. This wasn¡¯t a battle of emotions - it was a war of intellects.


    - If this reaches the prince or the boyars, I¡¯ll lose everything, - he thought, breathing heavily. - I cannot let that happen. Never


    As if doused in cold water, clarity returned to him. He had to act. There was still time to turn the tide. His fear receded, replaced by cold calculation.


    Oleg spun on his heel and strode back toward the treasury. His steps were precise, every movement deliberate. Hesitation was gone. The time for reflection had passed - now was the time for action.


    As Oleg entered the treasury hall, the door closed behind him with a resounding thud. His steps were quick, his movements sharp, as if he were striving to contain the simmering frustration within. It seemed as though the entire hall could feel his mood: work momentarily halted, the air growing heavy with tension.


    Radomir, standing by the central table, looked up, immediately sensing the shift in the counselor¡¯s demeanor. His gaze remained calm, but a flicker of understanding crossed his mind. Oleg had returned too quickly to have met with the prince. And not just returned - he seemed to have lost some of his unyielding resolve.


    As Oleg approached the table, Radomir watched him closely, concealing his thoughts behind a composed expression. Yet inwardly, everything was becoming clear. From the moment Vaarlam had delivered the prince¡¯s decree, Radomir had suspected that someone highly skilled, someone adept at wielding influence subtly, was guiding Alexander. The Hidden Advisor. The very person who had helped Yaroslav the Wise remain an unshakable ruler.


    And now, Oleg seemed forced to swallow his pride - a tacit confirmation of Radomir''s suspicions.


    - Counselor Oleg, - Radomir said in a neutral tone, his voice betraying neither tension nor amusement. - Is everything resolved?


    His question sounded polite, but there was an undercurrent of subtle implication that Oleg didn¡¯t miss. The counselor held Radomir¡¯s gaze for a moment, as if gauging how much he truly knew.


    - None of your concern, - Oleg retorted coldly, placing the scroll on the table. - Execute the prince¡¯s orders


    Radomir calmly picked up the document, unrolling it with a deliberate slowness. His eyes quickly scanned the lines, though he already knew the decree would remain unchanged. Inside, he felt a quiet satisfaction: yet another step in the series of changes being orchestrated by this "Hidden Advisor."


    - Of course, Counselor, - Radomir replied evenly, with no trace of sarcasm, though a note of confidence in his tone didn¡¯t escape Oleg¡¯s notice.


    Oleg stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. His shoulders betrayed his suppressed irritation, but he refused to let it show. With a sharp motion, he turned on his heel. His footsteps echoed loudly as he strode across the dimly lit hall. He didn¡¯t bother to look back or say another word.


    The door to the treasury slammed shut behind him as suddenly as it had opened. Silence descended once more, broken only by the cautious scratching of quills and muted whispers. Everyone understood: Oleg had tried to challenge the prince¡¯s decree but had been forced to relent.


    Radomir, calmly picking up another scroll, allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. The truth was now undeniable: young Alexander had secured the backing of someone far more formidable - the Hidden Advisor.


    - Step by step, - Radomir murmured under his breath, sifting through the scrolls. - The prince is on the right path. And Oleg knows it. But what will he do next?


    When Oleg stepped out of the treasury, the detinets greeted him with its usual bustle. At the main gates, guards inspected arriving merchants, servants hurried past with bundles of firewood, and a blacksmith''s cart rumbled noisily across the square. Yet, for Oleg, it all faded into a background blur. His thoughts were elsewhere. Every shadow seemed to conceal a threat, every glance carried a warning.


    He stopped near the gates, raising his eyes to the silhouette of St. Sophia Cathedral. Its golden domes, bathed in the light of the setting sun, towered over the city as if to remind him of an untouchable power. It was a symbol of Alexander''s new authority, one that was solidifying far too quickly.


    - Prince... - Oleg muttered through gritted teeth, his voice low and hoarse like a whisper carried by the wind. - You¡¯ve won this time, but your reign has just begun


    A storm raged within him. His thoughts collided: cold calculations clashed with wounded pride. He knew that Alexander had already begun to weave a formidable network of allies - Sviatoslav, Illarion, Radomir, and the Hidden Advisor.


    They were all becoming parts of this rapidly growing influence. But Oleg had no intention of merely standing by as his own position eroded. He was ready to fight - with cunning, manipulation, or force if necessary.


    His gaze drifted to the crowd in the square. Townsfolk bustled about, preparing for the upcoming coronation. In three days, Alexander would officially be crowned Grand Prince. That day was meant to symbolize his ultimate victory, but in Oleg¡¯s mind, a different scenario was taking shape.


    - The coronation... - he whispered to himself, a thin, almost sinister smile appearing on his lips. - That¡¯s when I¡¯ll show you, Prince, that your rule is far from secure


    He considered potential allies among the boyars whose discontent could be turned to his advantage. To strike at the prince during his moment of triumph, a precise and powerful blow was needed, supported by influential figures. Hidden connections had always been Oleg''s strength, and he knew how to use them.


    - Vasily Svyatopolkovich, - he thought. - A guardian of traditions who barely tolerates any change. He just needs a reminder of how the prince''s reforms threaten the boyars'' privileges, and he¡¯ll become my mouthpiece at the coronation


    His thoughts shifted to another key ally:


    - Svyatoslav Polovetsky. His retinue is a force that could alter the outcome of any conflict. Alexander wants to strengthen the clergy? Svyatoslav won¡¯t like that. He needs to see a warrior prince, not a patron of monks


    Oleg stopped by his carriage, mentally piecing together the details of his plot. Vasily and Svyatoslav could become the perfect duo to sow discord. One as the voice of boyar outrage, the other as the symbol of military might. With the right push, they could turn the coronation into a battleground.


    - The Hidden Advisor... - Oleg thought, clenching his teeth. - He¡¯s too clever to leave me without moves. But even he won¡¯t be able to interfere quickly if I execute this correctly


    Now Oleg had a clear goal. He ordered his driver to set off, ready to act with calculated ruthlessness.


    - We¡¯ll strike where Alexander least expects it, - he muttered. - And none of his allies will see it coming


    Oleg was determined to turn the coronation into an arena where the struggle for power would begin anew.

 Chapter 12. Tukal Bey

    The sun slowly set beyond the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the library walls. Alexander and Boris, surrounded by scrolls, leaned over the table. The light of candles struggled against the encroaching darkness, casting flickering shadows on the spread-out parchments.


    The silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of wax and the scratch of a quill on paper. Alexander delved into the scrolls Boris had prepared in advance: iron, salt, fertile lands, pastures - everything that Kyivska Rus'' possessed. Yet the absence of mentions of gold and silver in the scrolls left Alexander with a hint of disappointment. Without domestic sources of these metals, the prospect of minting coins remained a distant goal.


    It became increasingly clear to him that the strength of Kyivska Rus'' lay in its land. Agriculture, trade, and craftsmanship - all revolved around this foundation. To increase influence, he needed to develop what they already had: improving agriculture, attracting traders with symbolic goods that could be uniquely associated with Kyiv. Honey, wax, and quality textiles could elevate Kyivska Rus'' in the markets.


    Alexander sighed and leaned closer to the scroll. A clear path began to emerge in his thoughts: first, establish order; then, improve trade and crafts; and finally, move forward. Along this path, Kyiv could become not just the center of Kyivska Rus'' but its primary link to the broader world.


    - Kyivska Rus'' draws its strength from the land, - he said thoughtfully, running his hand along the edge of the table. - Fields, forests, rivers - this is our wealth. But to rule, it''s not enough. Order is needed. Trade, craftsmanship, governance - all must be properly organized


    Boris, standing nearby, nodded subtly. His calm, discerning gaze wandered over the scrolls with records.


    - You are right, Prince. Our fields feed all of Kyivska Rus'', but that''s not enough to consolidate power. If agriculture is improved, and peasants are provided with simple tools and knowledge... the harvests will grow. Where there is abundance, there are merchants. Kyiv already attracts traders, but turning it into an undeniable hub - that is what will make your authority unshakable


    Alexander looked at Boris. His words carried a confidence bolstered by keen observation and understanding of the situation.


    - Then we''ll start with what we already have. Develop agriculture. Expand arable lands, strengthen pastures, and support those who work the land. If Kyivska Rus'' is well-fed, everything else will be easier, - Alexander spoke firmly, though a hint of fatigue lingered in his voice.


    Boris allowed himself a faint smile.


    - It is a wise decision. But, Prince, fields alone will not attract merchants. They seek goods that can be sold abroad. Honey, wax, quality textiles, weapons - these could become Kyiv''s symbols in the markets


    Alexander paused in thought. Taking up a quill, he jotted down a few quick notes.


    - Crafts and goods, then. We need to expand fairs, attract more people. Kyiv must become a place everyone aspires to reach. But... - he squinted, looking up at Boris. - This will require order. Guards on the roads, rules for fairs, protection for merchants. The boyars won''t like this. They are used to doing as they please


    - You''re right, Prince, - Boris nodded. His face grew serious. - Order means not just protection but also control. The boyars have grown accustomed to exploiting chaos to enrich themselves at the expense of merchants. But... if you can improve the roads and ensure safety, their revenues will increase. That might convince at least some of them


    Alexander smirked.


    - Convince some... and the others?


    Boris paused. His voice became steady but quiet.


    - Everyone has a weakness, Prince. Some will want more land, others the rights to trade. And if that doesn''t work... perhaps some need to be reminded of the consequences. Or shown that their privileges depend on your goodwill


    Alexander shook his head thoughtfully, tapping the quill against the table.


    - You''re right. Time, security, and resources. Without them, nothing will work. I''ll have to take the risk


    Boris regarded him with approval glinting in his eyes.


    - You have vision, Prince. As for the boyars... let them see you not only as a ruler but as a protector of their interests. That might help avoid unnecessary conflicts


    Alexander exhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair.


    - So much to do... All right, let''s wrap up. Thank you, Boris. With your help, I''m beginning to see the full picture


    He handed the scrolls back to Boris. The monk, with a slight bow, carefully gathered them.


    - I''m glad to be of service, Prince. If you need anything else, I am always ready to help


    - Very well. You may go. Good night


    - And a peaceful evening to you, Prince, - Boris replied softly, disappearing through the door with a faint rustle.


    Left alone, Alexander organized the remaining parchments and ran his hand over his weary face. His fingers still felt the chill of the inkwell. Glancing at the candle, he froze; its flame flickered as if mirroring his restless thoughts - unceasing and yearning for action.


    Reaching his quarters, Alexander carefully set the scrolls on his desk. Removing his boots and exhaling heavily, he sank onto the hard bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Thoughts of his plans swirled in his mind, refusing to let his body rest.


    - Governing and developing a state is no easy task, - he muttered to himself. A faint smile flickered across his lips. - Life here demands effort in everything. Even simple records test patience and precision. But it''s exhilarating... knowing you can change everything. Make it better


    His gaze grew contemplative but carried a subtle trace of satisfaction.


    - This world is like an unfinished book. I can write my legend into it


    He ran his hand over his face, though for a moment his eyes dimmed.


    - But can I handle it? Sometimes it feels like the weight of this era is too great for me. But can I retreat? No. I''ll move forward


    Gathering his thoughts, Alexander rose again and sat at his desk. His hand confidently took up the quill. Plans for developing fields and pastures became increasingly clear.


    He wrote from the book about wheat cultivation, livestock breeding, crafts, and goods. The notes flowed onto the parchment in neat lines, his thoughts coming easily, one after another.


    The next morning came late. Alexander, having fallen asleep at his desk, seemed immersed in a deep slumber. On the table lay scattered notes, and the candles had burned out, leaving faint drops of wax. His face, weary but focused, reflected that he wasn''t merely ruling - he was creating.


    At the doors to his quarters, Mirnomir and Mstislav stood on guard. Vladimir, who had kept watch through the night, warned them before leaving.


    - The prince worked late into the night. Let him rest. Do not disturb him


    Inside the room, complete silence reigned. Only the morning light, filtering through the shutters, gently touched Alexander''s face, as if promising a new day and new opportunities.


    Meanwhile, in one of the largest Polovtsian hordes, the selection of a new khan was taking place. Khan Kara-Buran, once the terror of the steppes, had grown old and weak. The elders and the khan himself decided it was time to choose a successor.


    But the horde was divided in their opinions - no one could decide on a worthy candidate. In the end, the decision was made according to an ancient tradition: the winner of the duel would become the new khan.


    Kara-Buran had six sons: Tukal-Bey and Kara-Tash, the eldest and primary contenders for the throne; Sary-Batyr, the third son, renowned for his military prowess; Altyn-Aidar, a diplomat and politician who preferred intrigue to direct strength; Kulan-Burya, the fiery and impulsive fifth son; and Tuman-Taichi, the youngest, known as a skilled archer.


    That day, everything was to be decided in a duel where the stakes were not just life but the right to rule as khan.


    Before each of them stood a choice: fight to their last breath, proving their strength and fearlessness, or bow their heads and accept the authority of the victor.


    The strongest, the one who could prove their superiority not only in battle but also in spirit, would gain the right to rule. There was no place for weakness or mercy here - only iron will and the fangs of fate, ready to tear apart anyone who failed the trial.


    Tukal-Bey sat in his yurt, bent over a blade he was slowly sharpening. The metal reflected his face, but it was not the face he remembered. A week ago, he had woken up in this body under strange circumstances.


    Memories of the modern world mixed with the memories of this body. He, a man from the future, had been transported to the past to become the son of one of the most powerful Polovtsian khans. This body had been doomed to die, poisoned by venom, but instead of death, it had gained a new owner.


    - How thrilling this all is - he muttered, running a finger along the blade''s edge with a faint smile.


    The initial shock he had felt gave way to euphoria. Here, he was free. No one could impose their rules on him anymore or forbid him from being himself. He could finally do all the things he had dreamed of in his previous life but hadn''t dared to attempt. This freedom was intoxicating.


    - With this strength and power, I can finally become who I''ve always wanted to be. No one will dare to humiliate me again - his eyes gleamed with a mad light.


    He lifted his head and stared at the yurt''s ceiling, leaning back, and then quietly laughed - a low, piercing sound that seemed to come from deep within his soul.


    Behind him, among the rugs, lay bodies. Men and women. Their frozen faces were twisted in horror, the last remnants of life etched into their expressions. A man with a slit throat, a woman with a bloodied face and lifeless eyes. Their blood formed dark stains, soaking into the fabric of the rugs and the ground, filling the air with the scent of death.


    The stench of blood was everywhere. It struck the nose like venom, penetrating the lungs and instilling fear in the weak, forcing them to avoid this part of the camp. But not Tukal. To him, this wasn''t just a scene of carnage - it was triumph. The scent of blood was like the steppe wind, intoxicating and liberating. He breathed it in with pleasure, as though only now truly feeling alive.


    His calmness was unsettling. In this silent chaos of the dead and the blood, he looked like a ruler, as if this chaos belonged to him, was his creation. And in this creation, he found his place - wild, untamed, and, as he believed, true.


    Soon, a man entered the yurt. It was Targul-Arystan, his closest friend. Targul froze for a moment, taking in the scene. Tukal sat among the dead like a king on his bloody throne.


    - Oh, Targul, there was a little incident here, but don''t worry, I took care of it - Tukal said calmly, as though discussing a mundane hunting accident. - These must have been Altyn''s men. I suppose he realized the poison didn''t work and decided to try another method. But, as you can see, he underestimated me again.


    Targul struggled to tear his eyes away from the bodies and looked at his friend. Tukal seemed frighteningly cold-blooded. His smile, calm and slightly curved, was more terrifying than any threat.


    - The duel will start soon. Are you ready? - Targul asked, trying to hide his unease.


    - Ready? - Tukal laughed, his laugh almost joyous. - I''m better than ever! Today I''ll show them who the real khan is.


    - Are you sure? Are you still human, Tukal? Or have you already become a beast that has lost its soul? - Targul''s voice was quiet, but tension seeped through it. He watched his comrade, increasingly noticing the changes that had become part of Tukal.


    Tukal slowly raised his gaze to Targul. There was no anger or irritation in his eyes, only a chilling calm that made one uneasy. It seemed as though he had calculated everything around him, every word, every step.


    - Yes, I may have gotten carried away - he said with icy calmness, as if everything happening was just a game.


    Targul felt a chill run down his spine. It seemed the chaos surrounding Tukal was under his complete control. An unnatural calmness, bordering on indifference, revealed a man who had crossed a line, beyond which his former self began to dissolve.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    - Alright, I understand - Targul knew that Tukal had changed. But despite his fear, he remained by his side. Who else could prevent Tukal from becoming a monster if not him?


    Tukal''s thoughts slipped beyond the yurt and the upcoming battle. Not just power. Not just strength. This world was clay that he could shape with his own hands. It was his time, his laws, his rules.


    - Let''s go


    He stood up, grabbed his blade, and headed toward the exit. Outside the yurt, his loyal warriors were already waiting, ready to follow him into any fight.


    From the very beginning, he had been stunned to find himself in this world. But soon, this place began to feel like paradise. Here, there were no constraints of a society that judged his desires and ambitions.


    Here, he could be himself. If he desired a woman, he took her. If he wanted to kill, he killed. His desires became the law. But his cold-blooded nature, bordering on madness, made him unpredictable. In one moment, he could be calculating, like a master tactician, and in the next, a savage beast, destroying everything in his path.


    Today, he was to undergo the final trial - to become the khan. And he knew that none of his brothers could stop him.


    Tukal stepped out of the yurt into a camp bathed in morning sunlight. The steppe wind carried the noise of voices, the clanking of weapons, and the pounding of hooves. Warriors, servants, and shamans had all gathered around the arena, built on a raised platform, to witness the duel. This was the day that would decide the fate of their great horde.


    Seeing Tukal, his warriors raised their heads. Each of them knew that behind the Tegin (heir) stood more than just strength. They saw in his eyes a fire that didn''t waver, even in the face of the strongest winds.


    - Today, I will show you who deserves to rule - he said without turning around. His voice was quiet, but every one of his men heard it as though he were speaking directly to them.


    He stepped forward, and the crowd parted before him, like the steppe before a storm.


    On the arena, surrounded by thousands of watchful eyes, stood his brothers. Kara-Tash, as always, unmoving like a rock. His massive frame and stern gaze inspired fear even among the warriors of the horde. Sary-Batyr, calm but determined, already stood ready, gripping his sword.


    Altyn-Aidar casually surveyed the arena, appearing more of a strategist than a warrior. Kulan-Burya couldn''t stand still, nervously tapping his foot against the ground, while Tuman-Taichi, though the youngest, was focused, holding a bow at the ready. All of them awaited their eldest brother, the one whom half of them feared to their core.


    He was a true primordial beast - inhuman strength, an iron grip, and eyes as sharp as a hawk''s. His reactions were so lightning-fast they seemed almost supernatural. Yet even the mightiest beast can fall to poison. But somehow, Tukal had survived. They had gone to unimaginable lengths to poison him, but he still lived.


    They knew they stood no chance against him one-on-one. So they had convinced the elders to organize a mass duel, hoping this time they could finally destroy him.


    Tukal stopped at the edge of the arena, and his brothers turned to face him.


    - You''re late, Tukal - Kara-Tash sneered. - Saying your goodbyes before coming?


    Tukal smiled, but there wasn''t a hint of humor in his eyes.


    - Are you sure you''ll survive this day, brother? - he said coldly, taking a step forward. - Today, fate will decide who''s worthy. And that will be me


    Tukal felt no fear of them. He knew he surpassed them not only in strength but also in intellect. He fully understood that he would likely have to fight alone against all of them, for he was the strongest among them. Yet his brothers weren''t about to give up without a fight.


    This was a mass duel, where all participants entered the arena at once and fought until only one remained standing. The winner would be crowned as the new khan.


    The shaman stepped onto the raised platform. His voice carried across the arena, as if the wind itself had decided to speak:


    - Sons of Kara-Buran, today you will decide who will become the next khan. On this day, blood will be shed for strength, spirit, and the future of our horde. Death here is not defeat. Death here is a path to greatness


    The shaman raised his hand, and a battle horn signaled the beginning. The crowd roared, but on the arena, a tense silence fell. The brothers slowly began to surround Tukal, their gazes full of determination. Each of them knew: today, only one of them would leave the arena alive.


    - Tukal, your time has come - Altyn-Aidar called out loudly, not taking his eyes off his brother. - Together, we''ll finish you. Only then will we prove our strength


    - Come at me, little ones - Tukal sneered, beckoning them with his hand. His voice was cold, as if the verdict had already been passed in his words.


    - Enough talk!


    Kara-Tash was the first to charge forward, his massive axe slicing through the air with a whistle. But Tukal dodged like the wind of the steppe, and the strike hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Sary-Batyr immediately seized the opportunity and attacked from the other side. His sword gleamed in the sunlight, but Tukal parried the blow, making the crowd gasp.


    Kulan-Burya darted in from behind, like a predator, his daggers flashing as they traced swift arcs. One of them cut across Tukal''s side, leaving a deep wound.


    - Well done, Kulan - Tukal said, retreating, but his smirk was icy. - But you''re too predictable


    He spun around and struck his brother with his elbow, smashing into his face. Kulan staggered, blood dripping from his split lip.


    Tuman-Taichi, seizing the chaos, loosed an arrow aimed at Tukal''s knee. The arrow grazed the skin, leaving a long cut. Tukal gritted his teeth and quickly turned to face his youngest brother.


    - You''re shooting too close to us! - Sary-Batyr shouted, glancing at Tuman.


    - If you won''t kill him, I will! - Tuman shouted back, releasing another arrow.


    Now the arrows flew one after another, forcing Tukal to focus entirely on dodging. His movements were lightning-fast, but he knew this couldn''t go on for long. One arrow grazed his shoulder, and another buried itself in the ground mere inches from his foot.


    The wound on his shoulder burned, blood dripping down his armor. Yet Tukal did not stop. The pain was merely a reminder of the price he was willing to pay for the throne.


    He suddenly lunged toward Sary-Batyr, who was the closest. Their swords clashed once more, sparks lighting up the arena. Sary-Batyr was an experienced warrior, but Tukal was merciless. With a swift movement, he disarmed his brother and thrust his blade into his chest. The crowd gasped as blood splattered across the dusty ground.


    - You were a worthy warrior, brother - Tukal said coldly, watching the light fade from Sary''s eyes.


    - You will never be a great khan, Tukal!


    Kara-Tash roared and charged again. His enormous axe cut wide arcs through the air, but his swings were too slow. Tukal dodged and ducked under a strike, grabbing the axe by the shaft. Twisting it free from Kara-Tash''s grip, he swung it back and delivered a decisive blow with his sword. Kara-Tash''s head fell to the ground in an instant.


    - You don''t get to decide - Tukal said coldly, his gaze unwavering.


    As Kara-Tash fell, the crowd held its breath. Even the bravest warriors would have hesitated against such a foe. But Tukal simply raised his blood-soaked blade, his gaze locking onto his remaining brothers.


    Altyn-Aidar had stayed back, watching the chaos. When Kara-Tash fell, he knew he couldn''t wait any longer. Moving closer, he hurled a dagger that struck Tukal''s side. But instead of following up and finishing his wounded brother, Altyn retreated.


    - You''ve always been too clever to fight fair, - Tukal said, pulling the dagger out.


    Blood poured from his side, every movement stinging with pain. But Tukal knew that showing weakness meant defeat. His body burned, but his mind remained icy, like the freezing winds of the steppe.


    Kulan-Burya growled like a wild beast, his eyes darting between Tukal and their fallen brothers. He knew he would lose, but he couldn''t stop himself.


    - Better to die in battle than bow before you! - he roared.


    Kulan-Burya charged at Tukal. His dagger slashed through the air, but Tukal sidestepped and grabbed his brother''s arm. A brutal kick to the chest sent Kulan sprawling onto the ground.


    - You were never worthy of the throne, brother - Tukal said before plunging his sword into Kulan''s heart.


    Tuman-Taichi, with an almost empty quiver, kept shooting, but his hands trembled. He understood that death was inevitable. His arrows grew less accurate, and Tukal closed the distance with each miss. In moments, he was face to face with his youngest brother. Grabbing Tuman by the throat, Tukal snatched the bow from him and snapped it over his knee.


    - You''re too young to be my enemy - he said, his voice cold, before delivering the final blow.


    Some women closed their eyes, whispering prayers, while others screamed and raised their hands. The warriors looked at Tukal with a mix of awe and fear - he was no longer just the strongest; he was becoming a legend.


    Altyn-Aidar was the last one standing, his expression full of despair and acceptance of the inevitable. He knew that even wounded, Tukal was an unstoppable force. Every muscle in his body, every movement, spoke of unwavering determination. As Tukal approached with steady steps, Altyn made a desperate attempt to save his life:


    - You are strong, Tukal, but the horde is not just strength. Without wisdom to hold the throne, you will fall - he said, his voice tinged with desperation, trying to reach Tukal''s reason.


    Tukal merely smiled, shaking his head slowly, almost mockingly:


    - You''re wrong


    His voice was as firm as molten iron. He knew leaving Altyn alive would be like nursing a viper at his chest.


    Realizing his words had no effect, Altyn-Aidar pulled out another dagger and threw it. The blade sliced through the air but missed, narrowly avoiding Tukal. It was his last act of defiance. Accepting his fate, Altyn sank to his knees, his gaze filled with bitterness and resignation.


    - You''ve won, Tukal, but killing me will turn the spirits against you. Let me live, and I will prove that I can be of use. Even the strongest khan needs counsel - Altyn whispered, a faint hope flickering in his voice.


    Tukal''s eyes remained cold, like steel. His reply was short and unforgiving:


    - Blood is the price of strength


    And before Altyn could utter another word, Tukal struck the final blow, ending the bloody duel. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. His gaze moved over the bodies of his fallen brothers. Even with the memories of the real Tukal, he felt nothing for them - they were brothers by blood, but not by spirit.


    He knew from the real Tukal''s experience that the steppe did not forgive weakness. There was only one rule - the throne demanded blood. And Tukal was prepared to pay that price, again and again, if necessary.


    The throne of kings was always paved with bones. Standing above them, Tukal realized he was merely the latest to walk this path of thorns.


    He raised his bloodied sword, marking his victory.


    The shaman, lifting his bone staff to the heavens, uttered a thunderous incantation. His voice, sharp and powerful like the steppe wind, echoed over the arena, silencing even the most restless:


    - Today, the steppe has chosen its khan! The spirits have accepted the sacrifice of Kar-Buran''s sons, and only one has proven his right to lead the horde. Bow before Tukal, heir of great blood and unyielding will!


    The crowd froze, like a bull before a predator''s leap. The silence lasted but a moment, then a roar began to rise, growing louder with each passing second. Warriors started beating their swords against their shields, chanting the new khan''s name. Yet not all voices carried the same tone; those close by shouted with respect and approval, but from the distant ranks came wary murmurs, adding to the commotion.


    Women standing by their tents raised their hands to the sky. Some sang songs tinged with sorrow, others tossed embroidered scarves - symbols of submission - while still others pressed their lips together, fixing their gazes on Tukal. Faint dissent mixed with the rising excitement:


    - Too bloody a khan, - some whispered, only to be drowned out by other voices: - Strong as our ancestors!


    The elder warriors in the front ranks blessed the victor, though one of the aksakals muttered quietly, shaking his head:


    - The storm stirs the sand, and with it, the blood. He has won today, but can he hold it against the winds of the steppe?


    Amid the throng, Tukal''s supporters stood tall, their gazes steady and even defiant. They knew a strong khan was the shield of the horde. One warrior, a young but seasoned rider, shouted:


    - This day will be etched into the memory of the steppe! Khan Tukal will lead us to conquest!


    The crowd came alive again, with women echoing the men''s cries. Yet deep within the tents, one elder whispered:


    - Another bloody khan... Time will tell if he becomes a ruler or just a flame, quickly snuffed by the wind


    The ritual concluded, but the crowd''s roar persisted, transforming into a hymn to strength and legitimacy. At that moment, the steppe itself seemed to acknowledge Tukal as its master.


    The elders standing in the arena''s shadow exchanged glances. Their faces remained stoic, yet their eyes revealed varied emotions. One elder, old and hunched, stepped forward, his voice low but firm:


    - You have proven your strength, Tukal. Only those who shed blood for the throne may become khan. Remember, the horde bows only to the one who holds it in an iron grip


    - The khan leads us to new conquests, - agreed a younger aksakal, crossing his arms over his chest. - Today, the steppe sees its leader. So be it!


    The clan leaders, standing apart, observed the proceedings. For some, Tukal''s victory was expected - they already felt the winds of change, seeing in him the power to fortify the horde. For others, his methods seemed excessively brutal, though they understood that a strong khan was both the shield and the sword of the steppe.


    - We will follow him, - declared Kaysar, a large warrior with graying hair, addressing his men. - He has proven himself worthy. Let anyone who disagrees step onto the arena and say so!


    His words were met with approving shouts. The warriors around began beating drums, further lifting spirits. Young riders near the arena raised their spears high, shouting:


    - Tukal is the storm of the steppe! He will lead us to victories, as the great khans of our ancestors did!


    Women by their tents whispered among themselves. One, wrapped in furs with a long braid, spoke quietly:


    - He is strong, as a khan should be. Better to live under the protection of the strong than to suffer under the weak


    - Yes, - agreed another, older woman. - Let the steppe burn with fire, so long as the khan leads us forward


    Yet among the elders, there was a quiet murmur. One aksakal, known for his wisdom, leaned toward a neighbor:


    - He has proven his strength, but will he have the wisdom? A rule built on blood can bring division


    - There is no division in the steppe where the strongest rules, - his neighbor replied with narrowed eyes. - We have seen much blood. Tukal will be the one to unite us. Or he will fall, as others have


    The crowd continued chanting Tukal''s name, but in the air lingered something greater - a yearning for future triumphs. Everyone understood that this victory was only the beginning. A horde led by a strong khan would either move forward or perish.


    Tukal raised his head. His lips curved into a triumphant smile, but his eyes remained cold and ruthless, like the steel of his blade. In their depths burned a dark, unyielding thirst for power, as hot as the desert wind sweeping over scorched earth.


    He slowly scanned his warriors, elders, women, and children - everyone now standing under his banner.


    - This world will be mine

 Chapter 13. Christian Virtue

    While the city beyond the walls lay shrouded in the pre-dawn stillness, Metropolitan Illarion sat at a massive oak table. In front of him lay the prince¡¯s decree. The soft glow of candles illuminated the parchment, emphasizing the precise lines of its handwriting. Illarion read unhurriedly, his gaze carefully moving along the lines until it froze midway through the text. His slender fingers paused for a moment, as if feeling the weight of the words written there.


    His brow barely twitched, but his face remained calm and impenetrable, as always. Illarion was a master at concealing his thoughts, even when faced with something that challenged his experience and faith.


    It was the 23rd of Berezozol (March). Only two days remained until the coronation of the young prince, yet Alexander, despite his youth, was already displaying qualities befitting a great ruler. This decree only reinforced his ambitions and his desire not merely to govern but to transform Kyivan Rus''.


    - Orphanages - Illarion murmured softly, running his fingers along the edge of the parchment. - A magnificent gesture, and at the same time... a difficult step


    He leaned back in his chair, his thoughtful gaze fixed on the flickering candle flames. The decree had been carefully crafted: objectives were outlined, funding sources identified, and responsible individuals appointed. Everything appeared well-planned and imbued with nobility. Yet Illarion, having spent decades in the circles of power, knew that behind every great endeavor lay more than pure intentions.


    - "Let the little children come to Me" (Mark 10:14), - he muttered, recalling the words of Scripture. - It sounds noble. But what truly motivates the prince? Faith or politics?


    Illarion rose, approached a narrow window, and gazed out at the waking city. From the height of St. Sophia Cathedral, Kyiv appeared serene, but the metropolitan sensed the tension beneath this calm. Alexander¡¯s decree could bring either blessings or new difficulties.


    - The boyars will not appreciate this, - he said quietly, clasping his hands behind his back. - The scale of construction, funds from the treasury, the influence of the monasteries... They will see it as a threat to their interests


    His thoughts returned to the text of the decree. The allocation of funds, the appointment of responsible parties, the creation of orphanages under the supervision of monasteries - all of it seemed reasonable. But could this step become a source of dissatisfaction? The boyars might decide that the prince was unduly empowering the Church. Illarion knew that every coin from the treasury became a cause for debate, every initiative a target of suspicion.


    Illarion couldn''t help but feel a touch of respect. Even seasoned rulers rarely displayed such insight. Yet admiration couldn''t overshadow the fundamental question that perplexed him.


    - Why? - Illarion whispered softly, staring into the text.


    The decree seemed both a blessing and a test, strengthening the prince''s position while raising more questions than answers. Illarion couldn''t recall discussing such initiatives with Alexander. Moreover, even the faintest hint of this matter had been absent from their recent conversations.


    - There are no coincidences, - Illarion murmured, tracing the edges of the parchment with his finger.


    His thoughts returned to the morning meeting, where he had caught a shadow of wariness in Oleg''s eyes. It was faint, barely noticeable, but to Illarion, it shone brightly enough to discern. The new decree had clearly upset the delicate balance.


    - Oleg believes this is my doing, - he muttered, leaning back in his chair. - But I had no hand in this. Then who...


    He leaned over the document again, his gaze lingering on the list of those tasked with implementing the decree. His name was listed first, which was only natural; as the head of the Church, he was to oversee and guide all matters related to faith. Next came Stanislav''s name, a loyal advisor to the prince tasked with monitoring the process. But the third name gave Illarion pause.


    - Boris? - he whispered, frowning slightly.


    Senior Monk Boris, known for his care for orphans and dedication to acts of mercy, was a figure widely respected. Yet to Illarion, his involvement in such a large and sudden project seemed unexpected.


    Boris had never sought grand endeavors, preferring quiet, modest work. This decree clearly aligned with his beliefs, but why had the prince chosen him? Could it be that Boris had aligned himself with the prince?


    Illarion pondered deeply. If Boris was indeed instrumental in creating the decree and had aligned himself with the young prince, it changed everything. Perhaps Boris was far more perceptive than he appeared. Illarion ran his fingers along the parchment''s edge.


    - Perhaps the prince seeks to win Boris over


    Not for his loyalty as an Senior Monk, but for the influence he carries through his righteousness. Boris does not seek power, but his sincerity and care for the weak make him a symbol that people would readily follow. If Alexander aims to strengthen his position through the Church, this is not merely an act of charity - it''s a very strategic play.


    Illarion frowned, his gaze darkening.


    - The young prince is far more dangerous than he seems. Beneath his virtuous speech lies a mind capable of nullifying all prior calculations. If he can so deftly manipulate even sacred intentions, what else might he do to consolidate his power?


    He carefully folded the document, placed it in a leather folder, and rose. The candlelight played softly on his face, casting stern lines.


    - Faith must be strong. If the prince moves quickly, the Church must keep pace, - he stated firmly, his voice almost a prayer. - I need to meet with Boris and learn the truth. Truth is never simple. Time will tell who outmaneuvers whom


    Senior Monk Boris, upon receiving the message, did not delay in his response. He had anticipated that sooner or later the Metropolitan would summon him and was prepared for the conversation. His steps echoed evenly and calmly, but behind this composure lay a tension - Boris understood this meeting would not be simple.


    Boris entered the Metropolitan''s chambers quietly, like a shadow, but every part of him - from the slow bow to the folds of his robe - exuded profound humility. He disliked luxury, but it was his modesty that often drew attention.


    His figure, clothed in the simple garb of a monk, radiated serene dignity. Boris was respected for his righteousness, his care for orphans, and his deep knowledge of Scripture. However, Illarion, with his sharp eye and experience, knew that even the purest piety could conceal a deeper essence.


    - Boris, I''m glad to see you. Please, take a seat, - Illarion said, gesturing to the chair across from him. His voice was soft, but his eyes betrayed the habitual wariness.


    - Thank you, Your Eminence, - Boris replied, taking the seat. His voice was calm, but Illarion caught a faint trace of tension.


    Illarion glanced around the room, ensuring they were alone. The candlelight played across the massive desk, casting shadows on the walls. Folding his fingers together, the Metropolitan leaned forward, his expression inscrutable.


    - Are you aware, Boris, of the new decree from the prince? - Illarion began, his gaze fixed on the monk as if studying an adversary.


    - Yes, I am, - Boris nodded, maintaining his composure.


    - Care for orphans, support for monasteries¡­ It sounds wonderful, but don''t you think it''s a bit too timely? Alexander has yet to be crowned, yet he''s already playing the role of a great ruler. Why now, do you think? - Illarion''s gaze didn''t waver, probing Boris''s thoughts.


    Boris tilted his head slightly, contemplating before responding:


    - Perhaps the prince wishes to show that his reign will begin with mercy. It strengthens his authority and benefits those who need it most, - his voice was steady, with no hint of hesitation.


    - Mercy¡­ - Illarion nodded thoughtfully, though a spark of interest flickered in his eyes. - I''ve also heard that he summoned you to the library yesterday. Is that true?


    - Yes, the young prince wished to inquire about my records. You know, Your Eminence, I keep chronicles of our lands, - Boris replied calmly, deliberately avoiding mention of the detailed scrolls.


    - I see, - Illarion said, scrutinizing the monk''s face. - But how is it that immediately after your meeting, the prince decided to issue a decree about caring for orphans? Doesn''t that strike you as¡­ peculiar?


    Boris lowered his gaze for a moment, as though recalling something, then looked back at the Metropolitan.


    - Besides the chronicles, the prince asked about my work and the orphans. His questions were precise, even¡­ sharp, as if he was seeking something more than my words. I told him that over twenty orphans live in my monastery and that donations barely suffice. The prince listened intently, but I sensed he was contemplating more than just the children. I didn''t pry further or ask questions


    Illarion frowned, his sharp eyes studying Boris intently. - Too sincere, too straightforward, - he thought. Boris''s words contained no hint of deceit, but it was precisely this sincerity that unnerved him.


    The story sounded plausible, but it fit too perfectly into the larger picture. Though Illarion didn''t know the prince well, from the recent council he saw Alexander as a cautious individual inclined toward analysis, not impulsive acts.


    Was this truly an act of charity, or was the young prince pursuing something greater? Or had Boris influenced the prince, promising his loyalty in exchange for the decree? Everything felt strange.


    - And he so easily agreed to help the monasteries? - the Metropolitan''s voice was calm, but there was a barely perceptible edge. Illarion leaned forward slightly, his eyes scrutinizing Boris''s face. - Decisions of this magnitude are rarely made without thorough consideration and discussion. But after just one meeting, such a significant step. Why, do you think?


    - I was surprised by his resolve as well, Your Eminence, - Boris admitted sincerely, his reaction genuine. - I even asked him, "Why? Are my chronicles truly worth such efforts?" And he replied...


    Boris paused, as if to emphasize the prince''s words.


    - "Children must not suffer. If I can save even one life, I will do it. Is this not the essence of our faith? The Lord teaches us not with words but deeds. To stand by, knowing of suffering, is to betray not only people but God"


    Illarion listened in silence. His fingers tensed slightly, and his eyes studied Boris carefully. He saw that the monk spoke truthfully and without guile.


    - The young prince follows the path of the Lord, - Boris continued, his voice calm and assured.


    - He speaks and acts like a man of genuine faith. But even I¡­ was surprised by his determination. He quoted the Gospel of Mark: "Whoever receives one of these little children in My name receives Me." These words left no room for questions. But, Your Eminence, can a man truly be so flawless? - Boris paused momentarily, as if expecting a response.


    The Metropolitan leaned back slightly, his face thoughtful.


    - Boris, your faith in the prince is impressive, - he said slowly. - But you know as well as I do how our world works. Every action by the prince will be scrutinized not only as spiritual but also as political. Do you think he is prepared to face envy and dissent?


    - When he wrote this decree, he thought only of the children. He does not concern himself with envy or dissent. He simply does what he believes is right, Your Eminence, - Boris replied confidently. - He understands that good deeds always provoke resistance. But the prince knows: truth always meets opposition, and he is ready to move forward, no matter the cost


    Illarion nodded, his expression softening, though a shadow of doubt remained in his eyes.


    - Perhaps the Lord truly guides him. But remember, Boris, even David needed wise counselors. We must remain close to guide the prince if needed. Thank you for coming


    Boris rose and bowed his head slightly.


    - Thank you, Your Eminence. May the Lord strengthen us all, - he said, bowing and exiting.


    When Boris left the room, Illarion remained alone. His gaze rose to the icon of the Virgin Mary, but instead of solace, he felt a strange weight.


    - Lord, if he is truly Your chosen one, - he whispered, - give me a sign. But if all this is merely a trial for us, grant me the strength to uncover the truth before it descends upon Kievan RusThis book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    His thoughts were tangled, like a knot he could not untie. Ilarion ran his hand across the table, as if trying to find support in this fragile world. Everything seemed too perfect - like part of a meticulously planned game.


    But what''s done is done. The prince had made his move, and now Ilarion could only observe where this step would lead.


    - Ohh


    Illarion slowly rose and approached the window. Beyond the confines of the cell, the first rays of dawn gently bathed the waking city in warm golden - pink hues. Only two days remained until the coronation of the young prince. The metropolitan''s thoughts, like the morning mist, swirled around the future, gradually forming a clear picture.


    - The prince is taking a step toward the Church, - he said quietly, as if thinking aloud. His gaze lingered on the shimmering crosses of the cathedrals rising above the city. - Now we must respond, so as not to appear passive. We will support his intentions... and then we shall see


    Ilarion turned to his assistant, who stood in the doorway, waiting for instructions.


    - Let the priests announce schools and shelters, - said Ilarion calmly but firmly. - Let the services begin with these words, so that the people may see that the prince cares for the orphaned and destitute, for those most in need of God''s care


    - Only the priests? - the assistant''s voice sounded uncertain as he looked at the metropolitan. - Or¡­ should we involve the heralds? The people must hear it twice to believe it


    Ilarion paused briefly, clasping his hands behind his back. His gaze shifted to the icon of Christ, shimmering in the candlelight. He lingered as if seeking confirmation for his thoughts in the image, then responded with firm conviction:


    - Let the heralds proclaim the boundaries and fortifications. The people must see the prince not only as a merciful ruler but also as a protector. The boyars will not miss a chance to question his resolve. Let them know that his care encompasses both souls and the walls behind which these souls will be safe


    The assistant bowed and hurried to carry out the orders. Ilarion was left alone. His gaze was fixed into the void, but his thoughts darted like the flames of candles.


    - These orders are noble and righteous. But how will the boyars perceive them? Will the prince''s mercy become a reason to doubt his power?


    He knelt before the icon, clasping his hands in prayer.


    - Lord, if Alexander is your chosen one, grant him the strength to become a light for the people, - whispered Ilarion, bowing before the icon. - Let his mercy protect, not weaken Kievan Rus. And if this is a trial, grant me the wisdom not to be blinded to its true purpose


    With the first rays of sunlight, bells began to ring over Kyiv, their melodious chimes spreading through the city, awakening its residents and filling the streets with the sounds of footsteps. Worshippers were gathering in the churches - peasants, craftsmen, merchants, and nobility.


    The Cathedral of Saint Sophia was particularly crowded. People came not only to pray but also because rumors of the prince''s decrees had already spread throughout the city, adding a note of anticipation to the usual day.


    Inside the cathedral, the crowd buzzed like an agitated sea. Women whispered among themselves, men discussed recent events, and children clung to their mothers, trying to understand what was happening.


    When the priest ascended the pulpit, the murmurs ceased, and a tense silence settled over the cathedral. All eyes turned to him, and the air was heavy with expectation, like a taut string ready to snap.


    - Brothers and sisters! - his deep and solemn voice echoed under the cathedral''s arches like thunder. - Today, I shall proclaim the will of our prince Alexander, granted to us by the grace of the Lord


    The crowd froze. Even the children pressed closer to their mothers, curbing their usual restless nature. The priest unfurled the scroll, and each word he spoke seemed to come not just from the parchment but from his very heart.


    - "From this day forward, I decree that schools be established at monasteries and churches, so that the children of our land may learn literacy and the holy word. Let every child, whether from a poor or wealthy family, find a place where their mind and soul may be illuminated by God''s light"


    A murmur rippled through the crowd, like the rustling of autumn leaves. People exchanged glances; some whispered, while others stood pensively, trying to comprehend what they had heard.


    - Literacy? For all children? - a young woman whispered, clutching her son more tightly. - Can this be true?


    - The prince is like a father to us¡­ - muttered an old man, shaking his head. - Like something out of a tale. But how much will all this cost?


    A sigh of relief swept through the crowd, mingling with quiet prayers from the women and grumbling from the men. Tears glistened in one woman''s eyes, and she quickly wiped them away with her kerchief, hoping no one would notice.


    - "I also decree the creation of shelters for orphans, so that none of the destitute shall remain without a roof, food, and care. Let everyone find refuge within the church walls"


    At these words, the cathedral erupted into a true hubbub. Some knelt in prayer, while others whispered excitedly. A young girl in a green dress squeezed her mother''s hand and whispered:


    - See, he cares about us


    An elderly man with a stern gaze nodded quietly:


    - That''s what a true prince does


    The priest raised his hand, calling for silence. His voice grew louder and more impassioned:


    - Our prince, like Christ, has said: "Let the children come to Me!" These are not just words. The prince is already taking the first steps to transform our Kievan land for the better. Pray for our prince, that the Lord may grant him strength and wisdom!


    - God bless him! - someone shouted from the crowd, and others echoed the cry. The priest''s voice reverberated under the high arches like the tolling of a great bell, stirring not just faith but hope within the people.


    The crowd seemed to breathe as one. Some knelt, echoing the words of the prayer. The men straightened their backs as if realizing they must defend the land the prince spoke of. Women held their children closer, feeling that they, too, were part of a great future.


    Meanwhile, at the bustling marketplace, where life was in full swing, heralds climbed onto platforms. Their loud voices cut through the noise of traders and chatter. The air was filled with the scents of fresh bread, smoke from braziers, and winter chill. Some paused by fabric stalls, others argued at the butcher''s, but as soon as the first herald began to speak, everything around fell still.


    - Hear the will of Prince Alexander! - the herald''s booming voice rang out like a bronze bell.


    The butcher froze with his knife raised, the bread seller hesitated with a sliced loaf, and an old woman with a basket of apples lowered her goods with a sigh. Even the children chasing a dog fell quiet, straining to listen.


    - Our prince decrees the fortification of borders to protect Kievan land from the Polovtsian threat! - the herald proclaimed, his words sharp as hammer blows. - Schools for children, shelters for orphans - this is his word!


    The crowd buzzed like a disturbed hive. Voices mingled - approval, doubt, and even protest.


    - Now that''s something! Fortifying the borders is exactly what''s needed, - declared a blacksmith loudly, raising a calloused hand. - The Polovtsy are like wolves, always lurking for trouble. They''ve killed our princes before


    - But where will the bread come from? - a peasant countered quietly but firmly. - What good are borders and fortifications if people have nothing to eat? We need to survive, not build schools and shelters


    - Schools are necessary for children to defend the land not just with swords but with minds! - retorted a woman in a headscarf.


    - Shoes are more important than books! - an old man snapped, thumping his staff. - And walls are more important than schools


    - Fortifying the borders means protecting the children! - a young craftsman interjected, gesturing passionately.


    - Protection, you say? - a cold voice cut through the noise, belonging to an old man with a military bearing. His tone silenced the crowd. - Yes, walls are good. But without soldiers to defend them, walls are useless. Who will stand guard? You, craftsman?


    - Maybe not me, - the young man lifted his chin. - But my son, if educated, can offer more to the prince than a sword!


    - And who will pay for all this? - a merchant challenged, folding his arms. - Taxes will be raised again, I suppose? We, the traders, will bear the burden, won''t we?


    - The prince is building with his own funds, - the woman in the headscarf retorted sharply, turning to the merchant. - And as for taxes, it''ll be easier if children learn and the borders are made strong. Isn''t that right?


    - So be it, - the blacksmith finally declared, as if summing up. - Just don''t forget the walls while building schools. The Polovtsy - that''s the real threat, not literacy


    The herald raised his hand, calling for attention once more. His voice cut through the clamor of the crowd:


    - People of Kievan Rus! - the herald''s voice soared above the marketplace, casting shadows over the faces of those who stood frozen. - Our Prince Alexander thinks of you, of your children, and of your protection! He does not divide you into rich and poor; his will is for every one of you! Schools, shelters, strong walls - all of this is for the peace and strength of our land! This is the beginning of a new era! An era of united faith, reliable defense, and the light of knowledge!


    - Long live the prince! - someone shouted, and the crowd echoed the cry in a rising chorus.


    - Together, we will make our land stronger! - the herald concluded, spreading his arms as if embracing all of Kyiv.


    The crowd buzzed even louder than before; discussions flared up anew. Approval mixed with skepticism. Someone shouted, "Long live the prince!" while others muttered, "Another tax hike is coming."


    The hum of debates and hopes rose into the sky, but one name resounded above all else: Prince Alexander. It swept over the crowd like a bell of hope, rekindling faith in the changes that were just beginning.


    Meanwhile, on the edge of the square, slightly away from the crowd, two boyars stood in richly adorned caftans. One of them, a stout man with a ruddy face, nervously adjusted the silver-embellished belt around his waist. The other, tall and gaunt, kept his hands clasped behind his back, his cold gaze scanning the crowd like a wolf sizing up its prey.


    The crowd roared like a disturbed hive. Emotions swirled around the herald - some shouted jubilant "Long live the prince!", while others whispered in doubt. Nearby, a young man in a worn caftan called out:


    - How can we help? Or is all this just for the rich?


    The ruddy boyar flinched at the voice. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of an embroidered handkerchief.


    - Well, what do you say, Stepan? - he rumbled, wiping his face. - Schools, shelters¡­ It sounds nice, but who''s going to pay for it? Us, of course. Not the peasants


    His voice trembled with irritation and hidden unease. The gaunt boyar slowly turned toward him, then resumed surveying the crowd with a lingering gaze. His lips curled into a faint, cold smile.


    - Let the people rejoice. Let them rejoice, - he drawled, as if issuing a challenge. - Today, they shout "Long live the prince!", and tomorrow they''ll grumble. It always happens this way. One promises, others pay


    The ruddy boyar frowned, glancing at the herald standing confidently above the crowd. The young man''s shout seemed to echo in his mind. The man grimaced as if hearing an unpleasant sound.


    - All for the people, they say. But what has this people seen? The treasury isn''t bottomless. They''ll drain it, and then who will patch the holes? Us? Or will they raise taxes on the peasants again? - His voice rang with indignation.


    The gaunt boyar leaned forward slightly, his sharp, cold gaze flashing like a blade.


    - Do you think he''s doing this for the people? - he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. - No, brother. This is a game. Pretty words for them, but a dagger behind his back - for us. Schools, shelters¡­ Do you think he''ll stop there? Tomorrow, he''ll demand land, soldiers, money. And who, if not us, will pay for it?


    The ruddy boyar shifted uncomfortably, as if he felt a blow to his own purse. He retorted hesitantly:


    - The people love him. Maybe he truly wants change? What if this time it''s different?


    The gaunt boyar turned sharply, his eyes glinting with steel.


    - Love him? They love him today; tomorrow, they''ll curse him. They believe in fairy tales, but there are no fairy tales. And us? We''ll be the scapegoats. Do you think he''ll stop at the children? Or do you hope he won''t reach our estates?


    The ruddy boyar sighed heavily, his fingers still fiddling with the handkerchief. Doubt flickered in his eyes, but then he frowned.


    - Maybe we should visit the metropolitan? - he suggested in a low voice. - Find out what he thinks. I don''t like any of this


    The gaunt boyar smirked, his lips barely twitching. The herald on the square, seemingly oblivious to the tension among the boyars, continued proclaiming the prince''s will, and the crowd responded with a roar of enthusiasm.


    - Do you think the metropolitan is uninvolved? - the gaunt boyar hissed, as if afraid of being overheard. - If the prince is playing, the metropolitan is his first pawn. But it''s worth a visit. Find out what they''re planning¡­ and how we should act before they corner us


    At the same time, Ilarion sat in his cell, listening to the sounds drifting in from outside. The city buzzed like a disturbed hive. News of the prince''s decrees had spread through the streets, into homes, shops, and people''s hearts. He had been told that the churches were full, the squares lively. Some doubted, but most were struck by what they had heard.


    The metropolitan''s cell felt dark and cramped, as if it had shrunk under the weight of his thoughts. The dim candlelight highlighted the cracks on the walls, casting uncertain shadows on the icons. Ilarion leaned toward the icon of Christ, watching the candle flame dance on the Savior''s face. His thoughts wandered between pride for the young prince and his own exhaustion.


    - Perhaps Alexander truly is a sign from above, - he whispered, leaning back against the rigid chair. His voice carried not only hope but also a shadow of doubt, inevitable for someone who had seen too much.


    His hand reached for a goblet of water, but a sudden coughing fit bent him over. A sharp pain pierced his chest, stealing his breath, and weakness wrapped around him like a heavy shroud. He clutched the edge of the table, trying to steady himself. When the coughing subsided, Ilarion glanced at his hand and saw crimson droplets of blood staining his fingers, a living reminder of the approaching end.


    His heart clenched, but not out of fear. Ilarion had long since accepted the inevitability of death. Yet the thought that he might not fulfill his purpose gnawed at him more fiercely than any pain. His body, like an old cathedral, was crumbling, but his spirit remained steadfast.


    Ilarion raised his eyes to the icon, his voice trembling yet filled with resolve:


    - Lord, if Alexander is your chosen one, grant him the strength to be a light in this dark time, - the metropolitan whispered, his voice fading into the crackle of the candles. - Let his mercy protect Kievan Rus, not weaken it. Grant me the wisdom to see the truth before it destroys us¡­


    His prayer trailed off. Shaking but determined, Ilarion slowly rose. His legs trembled treacherously, but his gaze remained clear. He knew his time was drawing to a close, but as long as his hands could hold a pen and make the sign of the cross, he would not abandon his mission. Kievan Rus and its young prince still needed him.


    He surveyed his cell, where the faint flame of candles flickered, and whispered as if bidding farewell:


    - May the light of my prayer remain with him, even if I am gone


    Outside, distant voices from the city reached him - the hum of a populace stirred to life. The news of the prince''s orders had infiltrated every corner of the city, breathing hope into its people. Ilarion closed his eyes, realizing that this hope was now his only legacy.


    ***


    I would appreciate your feedback. This way I can see that I am doing everything right.

 Chapter 14. Envoys of the Empire

    For over a month, Miroslav and other boyars had been accompanying the Byzantine delegation to Kyiv. The mission, which began with negotiations in Constantinople over trade privileges and church independence, was meant to strengthen Kyivan Rus''s position. But now, just three days from the capital, news reached them that could change everything.


    At a rest stop in an old border town, the air was filled with the noise of carts and servants'' chatter. Miroslav, putting aside a map of the roads, looked around, sensing an unusual unease. This feeling intensified when a rider, covered in road dust, galloped into their camp. The horse was breathing heavily, its flanks shining with sweat. The rider, barely keeping his balance in the saddle, headed straight for Miroslav.


    - What¡¯s the matter? - asked the boyar, frowning, as the messenger dismounted and collapsed to his knees before him.


    The young man was barely catching his breath, but his eyes burned with urgency. Finally, summoning his strength, he spoke:


    - The prince¡­ the princes¡­ - the words came with difficulty. - They¡¯ve been killed. Only Prince Alexander remains. In five days, he will be crowned


    The camp fell silent, as if in a tomb. Servants exchanged glances and froze in place, barely daring to move. One of them dropped a jug of water, and its sharp clang echoed through the camp like a peal of thunder.


    The boyars stood rooted to the spot, some crossing themselves in desperation, while others murmured quiet prayers. The senior armorer whispered to Miroslav, careful not to disturb the oppressive silence:


    - My gracious boyar, what happens now?


    His words were strained, as if he feared the answer itself. The entire delegation, from nobles to common folk, seemed paralyzed by an unknown abyss. Miroslav felt a chill run down his spine as his fingers, gripping the map, began to tear its edges.


    - All of them? - Miroslav¡¯s voice echoed like a hollow sound in an empty hall, lifeless and subdued.


    The messenger nodded, barely standing on his feet.


    - Sviatoslav, Vsevolod, Iziaslav, Viacheslav¡­ all of them killed, except Alexander, - the words fell from his lips like hammer blows, resounding and relentless.


    Miroslav closed his eyes, as if trying to calm the storm raging inside. He felt as though the ground was slipping away beneath him, while dull thuds pulsed in his temples - the pain of loss and the terror of uncertainty.


    - Except Alexander? That youth who always sought battles, not councils? How will he hold the throne? - Dobrynia of Pereiaslav¡¯s voice broke, as though he, too, feared the answer.


    His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, and his gaze darted to the horizon, as if searching for answers there. Instead, images of ruined walls and burning cities from past campaigns rose before his eyes. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice.


    Miroslav turned his gaze to the horizon, where hills - the heralds of Kyivan land - were already visible. His thoughts raced - about Alexander, their mission, Byzantium, and the future of Kyivan Rus. He knew Alexander only as a warrior capable of inspiring in battle, not as a ruler prepared to govern such a complex state.


    - He is on the throne, - Miroslav said, struggling to keep his voice steady. - That means we have no choice. Either we strengthen his power, or Kyivan Rus will collapse under the weight of its enemies


    Dobrynia of Pereiaslav frowned, his hand tightening on his sword hilt.


    - But what will the Greeks say? They expected to see a stable Kyivan Rus, not chaos, - he said.


    - The Greeks? - Miroslav turned to Dobrynia. - The Greeks must see that Kyivan Rus has not faltered. We will arrive in Kyiv, and our prince will prove to them that he is worthy of the crown


    These words, spoken with confidence though trembling inside, briefly calmed the camp, though not everyone.


    Nikodim, the chief Byzantine envoy, remained silent. He sat on his horse a little apart, observing the conversation. When the messenger delivered the grim news, his usually impassive face changed slightly: his gaze sharpened, and his jaw clenched.


    He seemed entirely withdrawn from the discussion. But those who knew Nikodim understood that a storm of thoughts was already brewing within him.


    While Miroslav issued orders to prepare for departure, Nikodim never intervened. He quietly dismounted, took a few steps away from the camp, and stopped, bowing his head as if in prayer. But it was not prayer - his mind was analyzing the consequences.


    Anna, the granddaughter of the Byzantine emperor, and Vsevolod, the son of Yaroslav the Wise. Their marriage had symbolized the union of two great powers. Now it had lost all strategic significance.


    The princes¡¯ deaths meant that the entire political structure built over the years had crumbled in an instant. Now everything depended on one young prince, about whom little was known in Constantinople. Young, inexperienced Alexander - who was he? Who would he become? And could he hold together the great Kyivan Rus?


    Nikodim understood that the tragedy brought not only danger but also opportunity for Byzantium. He knew that in such moments, everything depended on quick thinking and the ability to seize the moment.


    He spent the entire day in contemplation. During the stops, while other boyars discussed what had happened and servants exchanged whispers, Nikodim remained silent. Even his companions, accustomed to his composure, sensed that he was lost in deeper thought than usual. Sophia, riding nearby, noticed his pensive mood but did not dare to ask questions. She understood that senior envoy Nikodim would speak when the time was right.


    The evening sky was covered with clouds, and the camp, weary from the long journey, gradually grew quiet. Only the occasional crackle of the fire and low conversations broke the silence.


    Nikodim stood slightly apart, gazing at the dancing flames. His thoughts were dark, and his face remained inscrutable, as if carved from marble. He had spent the entire day pondering the fate of the delegation and, most importantly, the situation in Byzantium.


    The death of the princes disrupted the fragile balance in Kyivan Rus, creating a dangerous power vacuum but also opening a path for Byzantium to strengthen its influence even further, as Alexander was now the sole leader of Kyivan Rus.


    When the morning light gently woke the camp, Nikodim had already made his decision. While the servants gathered belongings and saddled the horses, he gestured for Sophia to approach him. Her young face, usually serene, now revealed weariness from the road and a faint anxiety.


    - Sophia, - he began, his voice soft yet laden with a hidden weight, - we need to talk.


    Sophia clutched the fabric of her dress but stepped forward with apparent composure.


    Sophia Lakapina, the sixteen-year-old granddaughter of one of Emperor Constantine IX''s closest advisors, had been raised in the refined halls of Constantinople. Her life had been surrounded by luxury and ceremony, but from a young age, she understood that the court was not just about splendor but also an arena ruled by intrigue. Her mother, a distant relative of the emperor himself, often said:


    - In this life, a woman can choose only how to submit - with dignity or without it.


    Sophia recalled how she found herself on this long journey. When her grandfather, Magister Lakapin, summoned her to his study, filled with heavy tomes and bathed in the soft light of oil lamps, he had gazed at her for a long time before speaking.


    - Your role, Sophia, is not just a title or position, - he said, his voice calm but firm. - You will travel with the delegation to Kyiv to demonstrate the greatness of our court and strengthen ties with the northern lands. Much is at stake there - church independence, trade routes... and much more


    She was to show that Byzantium was not just power but also culture, art, and diplomacy. Her teachers had trained her as though she were not a girl but a tool, an instrument meant to command respect and underscore superiority. But plans had changed...


    - I am listening, sir, - she replied, though her voice wavered.


    Nikodim motioned for her to follow him to a more secluded spot, away from the other members of the delegation. He scanned their surroundings, ensuring no one was eavesdropping, and finally began to speak:


    - Everything has changed. The princes¡¯ blood has washed away the old order, leaving the throne to young Alexander. This is a disaster for some and an opportunity for others


    Sophia looked at him, trying to hide her growing unease.


    - An opportunity? - she repeated, her voice slightly higher than usual. - What does that mean for us?


    Nikodim squinted, assessing her reaction. Then, slowly, as if weighing every word, he said:


    - Your destiny has already changed, Sophia. Now you are not just an envoy but perhaps a future princess


    Sophia inhaled sharply, feeling her chest tighten with tension. Her fingers trembled, but her gaze remained steady.


    - A princess? To Alexander? I don¡¯t even know him - she exhaled, as if the words burned her tongue. - He rules a land where strength is valued over wisdom. What does Byzantium want from me?


    Nikodim tilted his head slightly, like a sculptor examining an unfinished statue. His tone remained soft, but beneath the pauses between his words lay a barely concealed steel. A slight shift of his shoulders, an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes - all indicated that he had already made up his mind, and any objection from her would merely delay the inevitable.


    - No one knows, Sophia. And that is our chance, - Nikodim said, though his gaze grew firmer. - You are the granddaughter of a magister, a representative of a great lineage. An alliance with you will strengthen Kyivan Rus in Byzantium¡¯s eyes and us in Kyivan Rus¡¯s. The young prince needs stability, and you can provide it


    Sophia raised her chin with effort to mask her indignation.


    - Are you certain this alliance won¡¯t become a trap for me? That I won¡¯t end up a pawn to be discarded once I¡¯ve served my purpose?


    Nikodim raised his hand, as if to call for silence.


    - This is not a trap, Sophia. It is your chance to hold the prince on a leash if you prove you can. Alexander will listen to you if you show him you are worthy of it. Your words could change the outcome of any diplomacy. But only if you prove that you deserve this place. This is not just politics, Sophia. It is an opportunity for you to step out of your family¡¯s shadow and enter history.


    Sophia averted her gaze, her attention lingering momentarily on a weary horse, as if trying to find a reflection of her thoughts in it. She felt exactly the same - exhausted, bound by circumstances.


    Her mind was overwhelmed, like a storm crashing into a quiet harbor. Nikodim continued to speak, but his words were drowned out by her doubts.


    - Why me? - she thought, but the words never left her lips. Her fingers clenched, as if she were trying to hold on at the edge of an abyss. Before her lay a choice: to accept the burden of an imposed future or to try to change it.


    She stepped forward, raising her eyes to meet Nikodim¡¯s.


    - And if I fail? - her voice broke, trembling at the end. - If my presence destroys everything we are trying to build? What then?


    Nikodim, usually unshakable, squinted slightly, his gaze becoming heavy. He slowly lowered his hands to his belt, as though carefully weighing his response.


    - You are afraid. And that is good, - he said, pausing. - It means you understand how high the stakes are


    Sophia lowered her eyes, her fingers unconsciously fidgeting with the edge of her dress. She pressed her lips together but soon raised her gaze again, filled with both fear and determination:


    - And you want me to become part of a game where I have no right to make a mistake?


    Nikodim smirked slightly, though there was more weariness than amusement in his expression.


    - Every game is a risk. But, Sophia, remember that in this game, a pawn that reaches the end becomes a queen


    Her lips trembled, but she suppressed a smile.


    - And if I don¡¯t make it to the end? If I¡¯m stopped halfway?


    Nikodim stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper:


    - Then you will never know what you were capable of. But I know one thing - you have everything it takes not just to reach the end but to change the rules of this game.


    Sophia exhaled, a shadow of resolve appearing in her eyes:Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    - If you are so certain, I will prove to you that you were not wrong. But I want to be more than just part of a deal. If I agree, it will be on my terms


    Nikodim froze for a moment, his gaze softening slightly.


    - Your terms will be shaped by your actions, Sophia. Alexander is a man who respects strength. Show him that you are not just a symbol but an ally


    Sophia''s gaze flashed with defiance, though a storm raged within her. Nikodim leaned in slightly, lowering his voice:


    - I will report to your grandfather, the Magister, and Emperor Constantine. They will understand that this decision was necessary. An alliance with Kyivan Rus is more crucial for the empire than ever. You could become the bridge that ensures peace and stability for both nations


    He paused, giving Sophia time to absorb his words, though her face remained tense. Then he allowed himself a faint smile, though it lacked any lightness.


    - You are the perfect choice. Your lineage and upbringing speak for you. Alexander is young, and he needs an ally who can become his support. You can strengthen his power, Sophia


    Sophia did not respond immediately. Her heart clenched, and a lump rose in her throat. Nikodim¡¯s words felt like a sentence, inescapable and final. She recalled stories of great women who made sacrifices for their nations but didn¡¯t feel prepared for such a role herself.


    - What if he rejects me? - her voice trembled, but her gaze remained resolute.


    Nikodim smiled, though the smile carried more calculation than warmth.


    - Then he will realize that refusing you means losing everything, - Nikodim said with cold certainty. - Alexander is a ruler, and rulers always seek advantage. We will remind him of the Polovtsy, of Chernihiv, of Novgorod - of all those who might challenge his authority. And you, Sophia, will be the one to show him the path to strength


    Sophia met his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.


    - And what if he sees this as a threat? - she asked softly. - What if he decides Byzantium wants to control him?


    Nikodim looked away, pondering briefly. When he turned back to her, his expression grew even graver.


    - Then we will assure him it is his choice. We will make him understand that you are an ally, not a spy. That you are his support, not a threat. But, Sophia¡­ if he still refuses, we will find another way. Kyivan Rus will remain our ally, whatever the cost


    Sophia took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the ground, while her thoughts raced. Her voice, when she spoke, was firmer than Nikodim had anticipated:


    - Even so, I will agree only on my terms. I don¡¯t want to be a symbol passed from hand to hand. I want to know I can influence my own life. And if I enter this alliance, it must be more than a deal


    Nikodim squinted slightly, studying her. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but his voice remained steady:


    - You speak like a seasoned diplomat, Sophia. But you understand that not all terms may be in your control? An alliance with Alexander is a step toward stability. However, if you show him your strength, he will have no choice but to listen to you


    Sophia raised her head, her gaze locking with his. She tried to speak calmly, but her fingers still nervously fidgeted with the edge of her dress:


    - And what if he doesn¡¯t listen? What if he sees me as just a part of this deal, without a voice? I can¡¯t just drift with the tide, Nikodim. I need to know I have the ability to fight for my place


    Nikodim paused, his gaze softening slightly.


    - Guarantees? No one will give them to you but yourself. If you want a place in this game, take it. You won¡¯t change his will immediately, but you can show him you¡¯re not just part of the deal. You can become his ally, his support - not merely a condition of peace


    Sophia frowned, reflecting on his words. She stepped forward, her voice steady:


    - Then I want to know everything I can. What should I say? How do I convince him that I¡¯m more than just a symbol? I don¡¯t want to be a shadow in this alliance


    Nikodim allowed himself a faint smile, his voice warming slightly:


    - That¡¯s already a good sign, Sophia. You¡¯re speaking not as someone who takes orders but as someone ready to change the situation. Alexander is young; he likely doesn¡¯t expect to see an equal in you. But if you show him that you are, he won¡¯t be able to ignore you


    He leaned in slightly, adding with a subtle smile:


    - And if you ask him how he envisions your life together, that would already be a beginning. Men, even rulers, respect those unafraid to ask questions


    Sophia straightened, her gaze firmer now:


    - Fine. If I agree, it will only be with the certainty that I can be more - more than just for him, but for myself as well


    Nikodim nodded approvingly, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer:


    - That is the right decision. Remember, Sophia, you are not a pawn in this game. You can become the piece that changes its course. But only if you believe in your strength and act on it


    Sophia nodded slowly, her face regaining its composure, though the confusion inside her was gone. She knew this was the beginning of a path where she would have to fight for her place.


    Nikodim watched her closely, observing every emotion flickering across her face. When she nodded in agreement, he barely suppressed a satisfied smile.


    Outwardly, he remained as inscrutable as ever, befitting an envoy of the empire. Yet his mind was constantly at work. The decision to propose Sophia as a bride for the young Prince Alexander had been far from impulsive. It was a calculated move dictated by the circumstances Byzantium now faced.


    Nikodim saw in Sophia¡¯s marriage an opportunity to strengthen relations between the two states, reinforce ecclesiastical unity, and secure control over critical trade routes. In the face of the growing schism with Rome and threats from the steppes, such support could prove vital for Constantinople - all achievable through a simple marriage.


    Soon, the Byzantine delegation led by Nikodim, accompanied by Miroslav, entered Kyiv to the solemn ringing of bells and the lively hum of the crowd. The city, like a vast beehive, buzzed with life, filled with anticipation and palpable tension.


    The narrow cobblestone streets were crowded with townsfolk - seasoned merchants with cunning eyes, peasants in simple garb - each vying to catch a glimpse of the foreign guests who had arrived for the coronation of the new prince. The momentous event was two days away, set for the 25th of Berezozol, and all of Kyivan Rus held its breath in expectation.


    Sophia sat in the carriage, hiding her emotions behind a cold mask, as she had been taught in Constantinople. Her gaze drifted over the faces of the townspeople. It was the first time she had seen such a contradictory city.


    Women with baskets brimming with fish and fruit, children chasing wooden hoops, elderly men with weary faces leaning on staffs - each person seemed busy with their own tasks. But as soon as the heralds began proclaiming the prince¡¯s decrees, the crowd¡¯s attention shifted instantly.


    - By decree of Prince Alexander! Establish shelters for orphans at monasteries! Strengthen the borders against the Polovtsian threat! Support the poor and protect those who seek peace! - the herald¡¯s booming voice rose above the general noise, echoing over the crowd.


    The crowd reacted with a mixture of cheers and protests. An old blacksmith snorted:


    - Strengthening the borders - that¡¯s what matters! The Polovtsians will strike again, and who will stop them?


    A woman with a basket of fish grumbled:


    - Shelters? He should lower taxes instead!


    A young woman holding a child crossed herself, her voice quiet but filled with hope:


    - A merciful prince. God grant him strength


    Sophia listened attentively to the people¡¯s reactions. Their voices and conflicting opinions intertwined like the city¡¯s collective breath. Her gaze shifted to Nikodim, who rode beside her on horseback. His face remained calm, as if carved from marble.


    - It seems his decrees stir mixed feelings, - she remarked.


    Nikodim smiled faintly, observing the arguing townsfolk. His gaze wandered to rows of merchant stalls, where animated negotiations had begun.


    - A crowd is a living being, Sophia, - he replied. - Some hear care, others hear threats. The art of governance lies in making them believe they¡¯re part of these decisions


    Her youthful face darkened briefly with thought.


    - He will have to be strong to achieve that, - she said with a hint of doubt.


    Miroslav, riding ahead, turned his head at her words, his voice firm and slightly hoarse:


    - Strength lies not only in decisions but in support. Without those who stand behind him, any ruler is just a lone sword in the field


    These words drew a faint smirk from Nikodim.


    - True, - he agreed. - But he is young. The question is whether he will listen to those who can teach him


    Miroslav cast a brief glance at the crowd, squinting his eyes.


    - He has no choice, - he said curtly. - Either he learns, or he is trampled


    Sophia once again looked out at the bustling square. People glanced at the carriage, speculating who might be inside. One of the heralds repeated the prince¡¯s decree, but his voice was drowned out by the crowd¡¯s hum.


    A merchant loudly remarked to his neighbor:


    - Strengthening the borders - that¡¯s the priority. Otherwise, the Polovtsians or Pechenegs will invade again


    Another, arms crossed, retorted:


    - And shelters? Who¡¯s going to pay for them? Us?


    The crowd argued, a sign that people cared. Miroslav noticed this and turned to Nikodim with a quiet, satisfied smile:


    - Let them argue. It means the prince has a chance to convince them. Indifference is worse than disputes


    The delegation moved slowly toward the Detinets, where envoys and boyars awaited them. Nikodim leaned closer to Sophia, his voice low but resolute:


    - This city is full of opportunities - and threats, - he said. - Do you see it, Sophia? Streets that could be called great but are steeped in anxiety. The tension in the air - it must be turned into strength before it becomes chaos


    Sophia nodded thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on children playing at the edge of the square. She spoke, barely audible:


    - Anxiety is not weakness. It¡¯s a chance. If he can protect them, they will believe in him


    As they approached the Detinets, a junior boyar hurried over to Miroslav. His movements were abrupt, and his eyes darted around as if he feared missing something important.


    - Boyars from Novgorod, Chernihiv, and other cities are starting to arrive. Dobrynia Ognyshanin is already handling their accommodations and reception. Poles and Hungarians are also on their way. And there are rumors that the Polovtsians plan to attend the coronation as well, - he reported, struggling to keep his voice steady.


    Miroslav frowned, contemplating what he had heard, and gave a curt nod. Then he turned to Nikodim, who, despite the general tension, remained unshaken.


    - Here we are at the heart of events, - Miroslav said calmly. - Now it¡¯s your turn to show that you are ready for this alliance. Alexander is waiting


    Nikodim¡¯s gaze was fixed on the Detinets, the majestic fortress towering over the city. Its walls, built from massive logs, looked formidable but also reminded him of how fragile strength could be without a steady hand to uphold it. He shifted his eyes to Sophia, seated in the carriage. Her face remained calm, but her eyes betrayed her tension.


    - We are ready, - Nikodim murmured almost to himself. Then, raising his head, he added, - But is the prince ready to receive us? We will find out soon


    Sophia straightened in her seat, her fingers gripping the armrests as she tried to mask her unease. Miroslav glanced at her intently, as though searching her gaze for an answer to an unspoken question.


    - He is young, - Miroslav said, his voice firm yet tinged with doubt. - But he is learning. And if his first steps tell us anything, it¡¯s about his determination to prove his strength


    The carriage moved slowly into the Detinets, where life bustled with double the energy. Servants hurried about their tasks, guards stood watch, and boyars gathered in clusters, discussing the latest news.


    Sophia¡¯s eyes wandered over the lively courtyard. The grand princely terem, adorned with intricate carvings and guarded by armed warriors, stood at the center - a symbol of the authority and responsibility Alexander now bore.


    She had arrived to demonstrate Byzantium¡¯s greatness and strengthen ties with Kyivan Rus. But the death of the princes had changed everything, turning a formal mission into a pivotal diplomatic moment.


    Sophia suddenly realized that her role was no longer just about showcasing the empire¡¯s grandeur. She had become part of something greater - something that could influence the future of both nations.


    Every movement, every word she uttered now carried additional weight. Ahead was not just a reception with the prince but a moment that could determine the fate of Kyivan Rus and its relationship with Byzantium.


    Her teachers in Constantinople had prepared her for intrigue and political games, but now she felt those lessons recede before a reality where every decision, every glance, could prove decisive.


    - Welcome to the heart of Kyivan Rus, - Miroslav said, turning to Nikodim, Sophia, and the other members of the delegation. His voice was steady, but those who knew him well could detect a hidden tension. - Now, it¡¯s up to you


    The carriage stopped before the terem. Sophia took a deep breath, feeling her heart quicken. She was about to step out when her gaze fell on a figure standing in the shadows near the entrance.


    It was a middle-aged man whose face bore an expression of cautious calm, though his eyes were as sharp as a predator¡¯s. His attire, rich but dusty, suggested a long journey.


    A dark cloak, with faint embroidery resembling the crest of a southern principality, framed his lean silhouette. At his waist hung a short sword - not merely an ornament but a weapon he seemed accustomed to wielding.


    Sophia felt her breathing quicken. There was something in his gaze that carried a hidden threat yet also cold calculation. This man was clearly no accidental guest.


    - Who is he? - Sophia whispered, feeling a chill run down her spine.


    Nikodim, who had been watching the man intently, furrowed his brow and subtly tightened his grip on his sword hilt. His voice was low, as if meant only for her ears.


    - Someone capable of turning everything upside down. Do not fear him, Sophia, but be ready - change often comes faster than it seems. Many trust him, but his loyalty is always in question


    The man, as if sensing he was being discussed, tilted his head slightly in their direction but did not step forward. His movement carried a hint of playfulness, as though inviting them to make the first move.


    - He knows we are here. And his presence is no coincidence, - Nikodim added, lowering his hand but remaining alert. His eyes never left the figure near the terem. - That is Branimir, a former close boyar of Vsevolod. Now he seeks a place beside the new prince - or a way to undermine him


    Sophia straightened, trying to suppress her anxiety. She understood that this man could become either an ally or an enemy, but she had yet to decide which.


    - He isn¡¯t here just for a greeting, - she quietly observed, locking eyes with Branimir once more.


    Nikodim nodded, his tone hardening.


    - He¡¯s here to see who will take the upper hand. And for men like him, there¡¯s nothing more dangerous than weakness


    The man finally stepped forward, a faint, almost friendly smile appearing on his face. But Sophia felt a chill run through her - there was no warmth in that smile. She understood that this encounter with Branimir might be her first test of resolve.


    ***


    Dear Readers,


    Thank you for your patience and interest in my story. I¡¯ve worked hard to improve chapters 1 through 13, adding over 10,000 words in the process. This has allowed me to make the narrative deeper, more vivid, and richer in detail.


    Your attention and support inspire me to keep moving forward. I am grateful for your time and for traveling with me through the pages of this story.


    The coronation I mentioned will likely take place in chapters 18 or 19. I write in real time, without a predetermined script, allowing the plot to unfold naturally and spontaneously before our eyes.


    This makes the creative process all the more exciting and unpredictable for both me and you. Thank you for staying with me on this journey!


    Happy reading!

 Chapter 15. A Delicate Balance

    Branimir stepped forward, a faint, almost friendly smile on his face, yet devoid of warmth. Sophia felt a chill run down her spine. That smile was not one of hospitality but rather of someone accustomed to observing, analyzing, and probing for weaknesses.


    Eustathius Kallistrat, the delegation''s secretary, who had remained silent until now, leaned slightly toward Nikodim to whisper:


    - This man is dangerous, my lord. His gaze scans us as if we were puppets in his hands


    Nikodim gave a curt nod, his eyes remaining fixed on Branimir.


    But before Branimir could speak, footsteps behind him caused him to pause. The delegation turned to see two more figures approaching.


    The first was a man - broad-shouldered and solid, with a thick gray beard. His posture, firm steps, and stone-carved gaze immediately commanded attention. Every movement exuded the confidence of someone accustomed to wielding power. He appeared not merely as a warrior but as a living embodiment of the strength of the prince''s druzhina.


    Beside him walked a tall woman with impeccable posture. Her movements, graceful yet assured, radiated a calm authority that bordered on absolute command. Sophia immediately sensed that this woman was used to leading - not through loud commands, but by her mere presence, which inspired more respect than any words.


    Branimir, who moments ago seemed in control of the situation, stepped back submissively and stood beside the newcomers. His sudden deference heightened the tension in the air. The Byzantines instantly recognized that these were no ordinary individuals.


    The man stopped and swept his heavy gaze over the delegation, as though seeing through each person. Sophia instinctively straightened even more, feeling the weight of his presence - a man whose influence extended across all of Kyivan Rus.


    This was Stanislav the Great, head of the prince''s druzhina and the most powerful member of the Prince''s Council. His presence spoke louder than words, underscoring the maturity and confidence of princely power.


    - Welcome to Kyiv, - Stanislav said in a low, firm voice. There was no flattery or excessive cordiality in his tone - only a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the importance of their visit.


    - Your accommodations are prepared. You may rest today. This evening, the prince will meet with you to discuss the matters that have brought you here


    His words came out as a command, devoid of ambiguity, and the air seemed to grow heavier. Nikodim took a smooth step forward, bowing his head with impeccable courtesy. His voice, soft yet imbued with an underlying strength, resonated with the flawless intonation of a diplomat who knew how to turn words into weapons:


    - We thank you for the gracious welcome, Lord Stanislav. Kyiv indeed impresses with its might and dignity. I trust that our negotiations will strengthen the bonds that bring prosperity to both our peoples. Allow me also to extend our deepest condolences for your loss. Such a tragedy is a wound that is felt far beyond the borders of your principality


    Stanislav gave a brief nod, accepting Nikodim''s words. His gaze then swept over the delegation and settled on Sophia. She felt the weight of his scrutiny - not merely as a participant in negotiations but as a pivotal figure upon whom much might depend.


    Miroslav, standing slightly apart, stepped forward:


    - Forgive my absence, but I must attend to matters with Dobrynia of Pereiaslav. I''m sure our paths will cross again this evening at the prince''s reception


    Sophia noticed a subtle urgency in Miroslav''s tone. His words were polite, but they were clearly driven by the need to leave the scene.


    - I leave you in the capable hands of Counselor Stanislav and his companions, - Dobrynia added. His tone was warmer than Miroslav''s but still retained an official distance.


    As Miroslav and Dobrynia departed, Stanislav turned to the woman standing slightly behind him. Her posture, as if carved from marble, radiated serene majesty.


    - Olga, please see to their accommodations. You and Branimir will escort our guests to their quarters. If they need anything, let them tell you


    Having given his instructions, Stanislav nodded lightly to the Byzantine delegation, his gaze lingering on Nikodim and Sophia, marking them as key figures. Then, with deliberate steps, he headed toward the princely terem, leaving Olga to manage the situation.


    This woman was not merely a courtly lady - Olga Strumenskaya held a unique position among the leaders of the Pro-Prince Union, led by Stanislav. Her impeccable reputation as a skilled organizer and shrewd strategist made her an indispensable link in the governance of Kyivan Rus.


    Her sharp gaze, as if penetrating into the essence of a person, briefly swept over each member of the delegation, lingering a moment longer on Nikodim and Sophia. In these two, she unerringly recognized hidden strength and importance.


    - Follow me, - she said softly but firmly. - Your stay in Kyiv will be as comfortable as possible. If you need anything, Branimir or I will attend to it


    Sophia glanced at Nikodim. The chief envoy silently observed the unfolding scene but then gave a slight nod, as if confirming he had taken in everything and drawn his conclusions. His face remained composed, but a flicker of interest mixed with tension gleamed in his eyes. He was clearly deep in thought.


    - We have always believed that the true greatness of a city lies not in its walls or wealth, - Nikodim began, his voice calm yet tinged with a note of approval. - It resides in the people who build and protect it. Your hospitality, Lady Olga, is the finest testament to that


    Olga inclined her head slightly in response, preparing to speak, but before she could, Lev Komnin stepped forward. His sharp, piercing gaze swept over Olga and Branimir, assessing their posture, demeanor, and hidden intentions. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk flickered on his lips.


    - Lady Olga, - he began, his deep voice resonating with the refined intonation characteristic of Byzantine speech. - Your words are reassuring, yet our interest extends beyond comfort. Kyiv is renowned for its artisans and hospitality. I trust we will see something here that can impress even the citizens of Constantinople. Although, - he allowed himself a brief smile, - as the envoy rightly said, the greatness of a city is not in its walls but in those who defend them


    Branimir, his irritation barely concealed, stepped forward deliberately. His hand brushed his belt, where a dagger rested, and his eyes flashed with a predatory gleam. He clearly had no intention of letting Lev''s words pass unchallenged.


    - Follow me, - Branimir said with exaggerated politeness, his tone laced with a faint note of cold mockery. - Rest assured, everything has been prepared to make you feel at home. Although, - he paused, smirking, - home means different things to different people. Some prefer palaces, others simplicity. Kyiv may not rival Constantinople, but I trust you will not be disappointed


    One of the Varangians subtly tensed, gripping the shaft of his axe. His sharp, attentive eyes fixed on Branimir, as if evaluating whether his words contained a hidden threat. Another warrior near Sophia shifted his weight slightly, readying himself for a command but remaining as still as a statue.


    Sophia caught the challenge in his words, which carried more provocation than welcome. Her fingers instinctively tightened on the edge of her cloak, and she glanced at Nikodim, as if to gauge his reaction. As always, he remained calm, though his eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile.


    - A home is a place where people can hear one another, Lord Branimir, - Nikodim replied evenly, his tone steady but carrying a subtle hint. - And I must admit, I already like Kyiv. Every step here feels like more than an invitation to dialogue - it is an opportunity to feel like a truly welcome guest. That, I assure you, is more valuable than any palace


    Lev Komnin raised an eyebrow slightly, his expression neutral yet attentive. It seemed he was weighing Nikodim''s words and deciding whether to continue the verbal sparring or let his companion claim this round. His gaze lingered on Branimir, as if assessing whether he was capable of more than sharp words.


    Olga, observing the subtle exchange of words, chose the right moment to regain control of the situation. Her gentle smile softened the tension, and her voice was calm yet firm.


    - Gentlemen, - she said, inclining her head slightly, - in Kyiv, guests are always at the center of attention. Please, follow me. The quarters prepared for you are in the main guesthouse, located near the prince''s halls. We hope they will offer you not only comfort but also convey the respect Kyivan Rus holds for the great Byzantine Empire


    With an elegant gesture, she indicated a wide passage leading to a building surrounded by a grove of young lime trees. The guesthouse stood on a small hill, emphasizing its importance. As they approached, the Byzantines were drawn to the massive oak door adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of hunting and princely feasts - symbols of strength and hospitality.


    The building, constructed in traditional Old Slavic style, exuded grandeur without losing its refinement. Its wooden walls, reinforced with oak logs, radiated reliability, while the tall windows with ornate frames allowed sunlight to flood the rooms, filling them with a warm glow.


    When the delegation entered, a soft scent of pine and beeswax enveloped them, creating an atmosphere of coziness and cleanliness. At the entrance, two guards armed with long spears and shields bowed silently in greeting.


    Their watchful eyes followed every movement, a reminder that security was paramount even in such a peaceful setting. The inner hall they were led to was adorned with Persian rugs and finely embroidered textiles.


    A few servants, dressed in simple linen tunics, moved soundlessly around the room: one carefully adjusted the folds of a tablecloth, another poured wine into silver goblets with such precision that not a single drop was spilled. Their faces remained impassive, but their precise movements reflected a deep sense of duty.


    The d¨¦cor was further enriched by wooden panels carved with scenes of princely exploits and episodes from the lives of saints. At the center of the room stood a table draped with an embroidered cloth, set with polished silver vessels and wooden cups gleaming with care.


    Olga, observing the delegation, maintained the same composure and dignity that characterized her demeanor. Once the tension had eased, she led the guests further into the guesthouse, moving at a deliberate yet unhurried pace.


    The wide corridors were adorned with wooden panels carved with scenes of hunts, feasts, and the Christianization of Kyivan Rus. Tapestries with intricate patterns hung throughout, adding warmth and grandeur to the space. The aroma of pine and fresh wax mingled with the faint scent of herbs placed in small ceramic vases on shelves.


    - This house was built to host the finest guests of Rus, - Olga said, glancing back at Nikodim. Her voice was soft but carried a note of pride. - We have done our best to ensure your comfort here


    The delegation followed her, each member taking in their surroundings. Sophia, walking slightly behind Nikodim, let her gaze linger on the details: the intricate carvings on doorframes, the painted ceramic plates adorning the walls, and the light streaming through the patterned windows, bringing life to the interiors. Her movements remained composed, her gaze cool but attentive.


    - Greatness is seen not only in walls but in how they welcome their guests, - Nikodim remarked, casting a glance at one of the carved panels. - You are showing that Kyiv knows how to honor its allies, Lady Olga


    Standing slightly behind, Sophia took a quiet step forward. Her movement was fluid, almost unnoticed, yet her presence was impossible to ignore.


    - These halls speak of your people''s greatness more than words, - she said softly. Her voice carried a light note of approval, underlined by subtle diplomacy. - Art and history intertwine here in every detail


    Olga nodded at Nikodim, her gaze now fixed on the young woman. For a moment, her face remained impassive, but then a faint, barely perceptible smile touched the corners of her lips.


    - Forgive my curiosity, Lord Nikodim, - Olga addressed the envoy, her voice slightly warmer yet retaining a tone of respectful firmness. - This young lady accompanying you exudes an extraordinary inner strength. May I ask what role she plays in your delegation?


    Nikodim, maintaining his composed demeanor, paused for a moment, fixing his gaze briefly on Olga before casting a subtle, almost imperceptible glance at Sophia.


    - Sophia is one of our finest representatives, - he replied calmly, slightly turning his head toward her. - Her intellect and foresight greatly contribute to the success of our endeavors. Through her actions, Kyiv will witness the greatness of Byzantium


    A servant standing nearby seemed to hold his breath upon hearing such a candid statement but quickly returned to his tasks, careful not to draw attention. One of the guards stationed at the door exchanged a fleeting glance with his companion but remained silent and motionless.


    Sophia inclined her head in a polite gesture. Her composure and grace emphasized the understated authority that could not be ignored. However, she chose to remain silent, allowing Nikodim''s words to speak for her.


    Olga nodded with interest, while Branimir, who had been observing from the sidelines, smirked slightly. His voice, when he spoke, carried a faint dryness, though cloaked in formal politeness:


    - Well then, my lords, - he said, stepping forward, - I trust you will feel at home here. If not, we can always discuss how to make your stay more comfortable


    In the background, a servant carrying a tray of empty goblets slowed his pace upon catching Branimir''s tone. His eyes briefly flickered toward the Byzantines, as if trying to discern whether the comment might offend them. One of the guards furrowed his brow slightly but remained motionless, standing like a statue.


    Nikodim turned to Branimir, his expression unchanging, and replied in a calm tone:


    - A home is a place where respect and understanding reign, Lord Branimir. Kyiv has already proven itself capable of being such a place


    Olga, seeking to diffuse the tension that had resurfaced, made a graceful gesture toward a large door adorned with intricate patterns depicting scenes of princely life.


    - These will be your quarters, Lord Nikodim, - she said, opening the door.


    The room they entered was spacious and inviting. Polished wooden floors, covered with soft rugs, seemed to absorb every sound. Against the far wall stood a wide bed draped with fabrics embroidered in gold. A small table near the window was covered with an embroidered cloth, with a tray of goblets and pitchers of wine placed beside it.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    - Thank you, Lady Olga, - Nikodim said, his voice soft but measured. - This is worthy of the alliances we are forging


    Sophia, observing the exchange, remained silent but occasionally glanced at Olga. Her analytical mind worked constantly, evaluating every detail.


    Olga, as if sensing Sophia''s gaze, turned to her and, with a slight nod, gestured toward the doors across the hall.


    - For you, Lady Sophia, we have prepared separate quarters, - she said, her voice warm yet retaining an official tone. - They will provide you with privacy and an opportunity to rest


    Sophia inclined her head slightly, her gesture full of dignity.


    - Thank you, Lady Olga. Your people''s attention to detail is truly impressive


    Olga allowed herself a faint smile and gestured for the rest of the delegation to follow her. Lev Komnin, who had remained silent throughout, observing every detail with the suspicion of a military strategist, stepped forward to follow Olga. His gaze briefly lingered on Sophia, but he said nothing.


    The remaining delegation members were assigned rooms in the same wing. Lev Komnin, Eustathius Kallistrat, Sebastian Phocas, and Agathius Scholasticus were housed in adjacent quarters, each reflecting the high status of the Byzantine guests. More modest accommodations on the lower floor were provided for the bodyguards and support staff, yet even there, the attention to detail was evident.


    When Olga finished the tour and escorted the last member of the delegation to their room, she turned to Branimir, who stood in the shadows by the wall. His sharp, calculating gaze missed no detail of the proceedings.


    - If the Byzantines require anything, I entrust it to you, Branimir, - she said, her voice calm but firm. - Ensure their stay here is flawless


    Branimir inclined his head slightly, his expression impassive, though a faint smirk touched the corners of his lips.


    - As you wish, my lady, - he replied, his voice dry but marked with formal courtesy. - Rest assured, they will not lack attention


    Olga cast one last glance at him and nodded. Her footsteps sounded soft yet confident as she made her way out of the guesthouse. Branimir remained inside, like a shadow, silently observing the quiet that now enveloped the building.


    In the princely chambers, a gentle knock on the door disrupted the thick silence. Alexander flinched slightly, barely catching the sound in his half-asleep state, and slowly opened his eyes. A second, more insistent knock echoed, compelling him to sit up abruptly and rub his face.


    The weight of the previous night lingered - it settled in his body like a stone, pulling him toward the ground. Yet the discipline honed by years of experience prevailed. A deep breath, a slow exhale - he forced himself to wake up, shaking off sleep and scattered thoughts.


    The room was dimly lit, with faint light filtering through heavy drapes that allowed no stray beams to penetrate. Their shadows stretched softly across the floor, imbuing the space with an atmosphere of focused solitude.


    On a massive wooden table lay scrolls and parchments scattered haphazardly, covered in sketches and notes. Each line, every stroke on these sheets, seemed alive - they embodied the bold ambition of merging two worlds: the knowledge of the future with the possibilities of this time.


    Agriculture, crafts, governance - all were subjected to meticulous analysis. Drafting a new legal system, refining land cultivation methods, developing winemaking technologies, enhancing the military structure, and improving blacksmithing - these ideas weren''t merely words on paper for him. They were a bridge Alexander was building between his past and present lives.


    The knock on the door came again, more insistent this time.


    - Prince, - a low, gravelly voice called from behind the door, exuding confidence and habitual businesslike urgency. It was a voice Alexander had grown accustomed to and, more importantly, trusted ever since he found himself in this time.


    Alexander sat up straighter, glancing at the heavy door.


    - Enter, - he called loudly, cutting through the hesitant morning stillness.


    The door creaked open, and the massive figure of Stanislav filled the doorway entirely. His posture, carved seemingly from granite, exuded strength, and his measured footsteps echoed faintly, like hammer blows. Broad shoulders and a face chiseled from stone rarely betrayed emotion, but today a faint shadow of concern flickered in his eyes. He inclined his head slightly in respect.


    - Prince, the envoys from Byzantium have already arrived, - he said in a low voice, his words falling like heavy stones, echoing through the morning silence.


    Alexander frowned, processing the news. His thoughts raced with lightning speed. Byzantines. Recalling their diplomatic cunning and uncompromising nature, he felt his muscles tense briefly. Within moments, he remembered - the coronation was just two days away.


    His focus, consumed by preparations for reforms and a thorough study of Kyivan Rus'' resources, had relegated the ceremony to the background. In recent days, instead of sleeping, he had been poring over records, devising strategies, and analyzing weaknesses in the administrative system.


    Now, instead of a planned respite, he faced politics and diplomacy - domains unfamiliar to both the twenty-year-old prince and his more mature self from the future.


    Alexander ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of the previous night pulling him back to bed. The fatigue was palpable, but duty demanded focus. He knew the day ahead would be filled with challenging questions. His voice came out steady, firm, though the internal tension was still evident.


    - Who else has arrived?


    Stanislav took a few steps forward and stopped before the table. His confident, resonant steps seemed to add weight to his words.


    - The Polish and Hungarian delegations are expected tomorrow. Some Novgorodians and Chernihivites are being received by Dobrynya Vsevolodich Ognyshanin. And¡­ - Stanislav paused, as if choosing his words carefully. - Tugorkan, the Khan of the Polovtsians, is heading to Kyiv. His caravan is said to be laden with gifts. But among the merchants and boyars, troubling rumors circulate that his name is linked to the death of your brothers


    The name Tugorkan was like a sudden clap of thunder, forewarning an impending storm. Alexander froze, absorbing each syllable that echoed with a hint of menace. This man was known to him through history - a powerful khan whose renown among the Polovtsians was growing.


    In the future, he could become a significant threat, but for now, his name was surrounded by rumors and intrigue. However, Stanislav''s words prompted a deeper consideration that his involvement might indeed be real. Trusting in apparent generosity would be a mistake.


    - Very well. So, the reception for the Byzantine delegation is today? - Alexander said, straightening with determination, as if shaking off the remnants of sleep. His movements were swift and precise, though his fingers trembled slightly as he fastened his belt - the tension barely breaking through his cold confidence. - These people are masters at spotting weakness, even where there is none. How have you prepared?


    Stanislav straightened even more, if that were possible, and answered clearly, without hesitation:


    - Indeed, a reception can be arranged in a few hours to remind them who the master of Kyiv is. Nikodim has been given the best quarters. He expressed condolences for your brothers, but his words were ambiguous, Prince. He has already hinted at a willingness to discuss new agreements. However, he observes. Every step you take, every word you speak


    Alexander listened, nodding. His face became inscrutable, like a mask. His inner reflections were hidden beneath this calm, yet their weight was palpable. Stanislav''s words only confirmed his suspicions.


    Nikodim was not merely an envoy but a seasoned player in the most intricate game of diplomacy. His eyes held the cunning honed through years of courtly intrigue in Constantinople. Byzantium did not seek brute force - it mastered the art of subjugating nations without swords, using only words and gold.


    Every detail - a glance, a gesture, a tone of voice - would become a weapon in Nikodim''s hands if he deemed it capable of striking. Their diplomacy was an art of manipulation, and the game had begun the moment Nikodim set foot on the land of Kyivan Rus''.


    - Very well, - Alexander repeated, shifting his gaze to the table with records that, just minutes ago, had absorbed all his attention. Now they receded into the background, yielding to the immediate task at hand - a diplomatic dance where every step could be costly. His eyes remained calm, but a spark flickered within them.


    - Stanislav, - he said abruptly, breaking the silence, - if you were in Nikodim''s place, what weaknesses would you see in me?


    The question struck like a whip, causing Stanislav to pause for a moment. He looked at the prince, and a flicker of respect mixed with caution passed through his eyes. Stanislav knew that such questions were not merely tests. They were an opportunity for the young prince to hear the truth, no matter how bitter.


    - Weaknesses, Prince? - he drawled, as if weighing each word before responding. - Perhaps you strive too often to change everything at once. That makes you vulnerable in the eyes of those accustomed to the old ways. Your strength lies in your vision of the future, but that future still needs to be explained to those who see it as a threat


    Alexander nodded, listening intently. His face remained focused, and his voice was cold and measured:


    - And how do I convince them? With words? Or deeds?


    Stanislav straightened further, his posture becoming even more imposing.


    - First with deeds, then with words. Decisive actions are the best guarantee that your words will be heard. But remember, Prince, within your court are those who await your misstep. Until you solidify your authority among the boyars and the druzhina, even the Byzantines will sense it. They are masters of reading signs you may not even notice


    Alexander frowned, his fingers brushing the edge of the table. Stanislav''s words struck a nerve, but he recognized their truth. This conversation was not easy, but within it lay the foundation for his future actions.


    Meanwhile, Miroslav, having finished his business with Dobrynya of Pereyaslav, crossed the wide courtyard of the prince''s terem, where the aroma of freshly cut wood lingered in the air. The druzhinniki, clad in chainmail with long spears slung over their backs, watched him as if he were an outsider, while the sounds of gusli and the muffled voices of servants preparing for the upcoming reception drifted from open windows.


    His posture remained upright, his movements precise, yet an inner tension lingered, borne from recent events and the long journey. His thoughts repeatedly returned to the transformations that had overtaken Kievan Rus'' during his absence.


    When he left Kyiv, the principalities resembled a chessboard, where each ruler maneuvered between alliances and disputes. Novgorod''s trade routes, Chernihiv''s gold, Kyiv''s craftsmanship - all fit into a fragile yet stable system where everyone fought to maintain their position.


    Now, however, the board had been upended: only one king remained - Alexander. Young, inexperienced, surrounded by the greedy gazes of those eager to seize the reins of power. Would he establish himself in time or become nothing more than a pawn in the game of more seasoned players?


    Miroslav tried to suppress the bitterness rising in his throat as memories of the past surfaced. He and Stanislav, along with other loyal servants of Yaroslav the Wise, had sworn to protect his legacy.


    Prince Iziaslav had been the one to whom they pledged loyalty, supporting his claims and strengthening his position. Yet, during Miroslav''s diplomatic mission to Byzantium, everything crumbled.


    The death of all the brothers, the sudden collapse of balance - these blows struck not only Kievan Rus'' but also Miroslav''s personal honor. How could it have happened that those meant to protect them stood aside?


    Memories of Iziaslav, Yaroslav''s eldest son, whom Miroslav had known as a wise and just ruler, now mingled with anger. In his place stood Alexander - young, skilled in battle but lacking experience in governance and diplomacy. Miroslav understood that the future of Kievan Rus'' now depended on how quickly the new prince could learn to navigate the intricate web of intrigues and conspiracies.


    And Stanislav, head of the prince''s druzhina. His figure loomed in Miroslav''s mind repeatedly. The man who should have been at Iziaslav''s side in his most crucial moment was alive and well. Not only that, but he now stood firmly by the new prince, not just holding his place on the council but seemingly fortifying his influence.


    - Coincidence?


    Miroslav found it hard to believe. His mind, sharpened by years of diplomacy, knew there were no coincidences in such matters. How had it come to pass that the one who swore loyalty had survived while all others perished? Why was it that this man seemed to be the only one to benefit from the tragedy?


    Miroslav walked on, his fists clenched tightly, his gaze searching for answers in every element of his surroundings. Yet all his questions led back to a single point: could Stanislav be trusted? Or was he a master of the game, skillfully manipulating everyone around him?


    At the entrance to the princely terem, Miroslav spotted a familiar figure. Even from a distance, he recognized Gleb of Turov, one of the most influential boyars and a staunch ally of Stanislav.


    As the ruler of the Turov principality - a vital link in the southwestern lands - Gleb was far more than a regional leader. His word carried weight in Kyiv, and his deeds wielded influence. But today, instead of his usual role as a mediator, he looked more like a guard.


    - Miroslav the Wise, - Gleb''s voice was even, with a faint trace of mockery. - Our esteemed chief diplomat returns. What urgency compels you to rush to the prince after such a long journey? Could it be that the Byzantines have frightened you so much you ran straight here? His tone carried a challenge, veiled behind polite civility


    Miroslav stopped, his gaze narrowing slightly as he studied the figure blocking the entrance.


    - Gleb, if you knew even half of what the Byzantines know, you''d rush as well. I have urgent business with the prince, - his voice was steady, though tinged with icy clarity. - Business that concerns not just his authority, but the entirety of Kievan Rus''. Or have you decided your role here is to obstruct rather than facilitate?


    Gleb, seemingly unbothered by the veiled jab, took a step forward, fully blocking the entrance. His imposing frame resembled an unyielding wall. He tilted his head slightly, but a flicker of sternness crossed his eyes.


    - I regret to inform you, but I can''t let you pass, - he replied with deliberate calm, folding his arms across his chest. - I have direct orders from Stanislav: no one is to disturb the prince without his permission. Surely, you understand how Stanislav treats those who disregard his instructions. Or do you believe yourself an exception?


    - An exception, you say? - Miroslav raised an eyebrow, his tone growing colder. - You surely understand that the Byzantines will not wait. For them, internal discord is weakness they will eagerly exploit. Or perhaps you''d rather demonstrate that the princely court has become a place where orders are used to mask personal fears?


    Gleb smirked faintly, but steel glinted in his gaze.


    - Stanislav issued the order to maintain order, not discord, - he said softly but firmly. - If everyone who considers themselves important begins ignoring it, all that will remain of order is smoke. Isn''t that what they teach in Byzantium?


    Miroslav stepped forward, his eyes locking onto Gleb''s. The tension in the air became almost palpable.


    - Order, - he repeated quietly, his voice now icy steel. - You love that word, Gleb. But you know as well as I do that order is fragile. Especially when it''s upheld by force. Or are you saying Turov has become the paragon of perfect order? I''ve heard whispers that your borders are once again threatened by the Polovtsians. Are those just rumors?


    Gleb''s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his response came with feigned composure:


    - We defend Kievan Rus'', Miroslav. But defense begins not with rhetoric, but action. For example, explaining to the prince why someone who once served his brother so loyally is now so eager to see him. Or are you trying to prove that you''re still worthy of the new prince''s trust?


    Miroslav inclined his head slightly, a faint trace of mockery in his gaze.


    - Princes change, Gleb. But the goals of Kievan Rus'' remain. However, your loyalty - that''s an interesting question. Are you here to preserve order or to prove that you''re still useful to Stanislav? What if your loyalty is merely fear of losing your place under his wing?


    Gleb''s face darkened, and he stepped closer, nearly colliding with Miroslav.


    - You''ve been in Byzantium and seem to have forgotten that this is Kyiv. Here, warriors rule, not lovers of pretty words. You have no strength behind you, Miroslav. And if you think anyone will trust a man left without a master, you''re sorely mistaken


    Miroslav narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice quiet but laced with menace:


    - Strength, Gleb, isn''t just in swords. It''s in seeing beyond your own shadow. But perhaps that''s not something they teach in Turov


    They stared at each other like two adversaries poised for a duel. Suddenly, Gleb beckoned to a junior boyar with a sharp gesture, issuing a curt order:


    - Inform Stanislav that Miroslav is here. Let him decide whether to let him in


    As the junior boyar hurried into the terem, Gleb turned back to Miroslav. His face remained impassive, but his voice carried a subtle edge:


    - As long as I''m here, order will remain in the hands of those who know how to maintain it


    Miroslav smiled faintly, but coldness gleamed in his eyes.


    - I hope, Gleb, that your order doesn''t become the start of our collective downfall. You know how destructive the consequences of mistakes can be. Very destructive


    ***


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 Chapter 16. The Weight of Greatness

    While Miroslav and Gleb engaged in their tense exchange at the entrance to the terem, Igor hurried across the courtyard, his eyes darting as he searched for the prince''s chambers. His thoughts raced, his fists clenched tight, and the urgency of his mission surged through him like a wave. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, as if hitting an unseen barrier.


    From the shadows, two figures emerged. Igor recognized them instantly: Mirnomir and Mstislav, two master swordsmen, sworn to the Knyaz''s Voivode, Stanislav. Their names alone were enough to send chills down the spines of even the most steadfast men.


    One of them slowly adjusted the strap of his sword, while the other cast a grim, assessing glance over Igor, as though deciding if he was even worth their attention. The faint gleam of chainmail caught the dim light, and the shields on their backs looked as immovable as fortress walls. Their gazes were like drawn blades, and their silence weighed heavier than words.


    - Boyarin, - Mstislav barked abruptly, his voice striking like the blunt edge of an axe. He stepped forward, his boot striking the stone with a sharp echo. - What are you doing here?


    Mirnomir allowed himself a faint, sardonic smile, staying where he was. His tone was softer but no less dangerous:


    - In a hurry to see the prince? I don''t see someone who knows how to approach him without provoking his wrath


    A shiver ran down Igor''s spine, cold as a winter wind seeping through heavy furs. His fists clenched tighter, nails digging into his palms as he tried to steady himself. Gleb''s voice echoed in his mind: If you fail, Igor¡­


    He exhaled shakily, but the fear remained, like a weight pressing on his chest. It felt as though the fate of not only his mission but also his family''s honor hung in the balance. You can''t falter. Hold yourself together. They must not see your fear


    Swallowing the lump in his throat, Igor forced himself to speak:


    - Knyaz''s counselor Miroslav has returned from Byzantium with urgent news, - his voice trembled, but his gaze held firm. He recalled how a junior boyarin under Gleb''s service had disappeared a year ago, vanished like smoke in the wind. Rumors hinted that Prince Svyatoslav had uncovered his deceit¡­ or perhaps merely his weakness. Now, this was Igor''s chance - a chance or a death sentence.


    - Senior Boyarin Gleb Turovsky instructed me to deliver a message: Miroslav requests an urgent audience


    Mstislav said nothing, his piercing gaze cold as frost in midwinter. Mirnomir stepped closer - unhurriedly, deliberately. Each measured step felt like a blow to Igor''s ribs, making it harder to breathe. They remained silent, their silence louder than any words.


    At last, Mirnomir idly stroked the hilt of his sword, as though debating whether or not to unsheathe it. There was a chilling nonchalance in his movements, like a predator toying with its prey. Igor nervously smoothed his tunic, but his trembling hands betrayed him.


    - Turovsky sent you? - Mirnomir''s tone carried a mocking edge, like a wolf playing with its meal. - Pawns fall first on the board. Are you one of them?


    - It''s¡­ - Igor''s voice cracked, but he took a deep breath to steady himself. - It''s his order, - the words came out hoarse, as though forced through a constricted throat. - Counselor Miroslav has just returned, and Senior Boyarin Gleb Turovsky¡­ - he hesitated, his mouth dry as ash, - deemed this a matter of the utmost urgency. It cannot wait


    Mstislav watched him intently, his face as unreadable as stone, but his eyes dissected Igor, probing for any sign of weakness. The faint creak of weapon straps and the distant shouts of servants were the only sounds breaking the heavy silence.


    - Gleb has chosen to stay out of this, - Mstislav finally said, his voice low and clipped, like the muted rumble of distant thunder. - Perhaps the prince is a test for him. And you? Do you think you''ll endure it?


    Igor swallowed hard, the rising tide of fear burning his throat. The words caught, strangling him with his own shame. The pressure in his chest was unbearable, but he forced himself to meet Mstislav''s gaze.


    - I¡­ I was the closest, - he breathed out, trembling. - Gleb said I could deliver his words faster than anyone else. He trusts me. Turovsky said this matter brooks no delay


    Mirnomir held Igor''s gaze for a moment longer before shifting his attention to Mstislav, as though silently conferring. A subtle raise of Mstislav''s eyebrow was the only answer. Mirnomir''s fingers relaxed on the hilt of his sword, and the courtyard seemed to exhale, the tension cracking like a taut bowstring finally loosed.


    Mstislav turned back to Igor, his gaze sharp and heavy, as though searching for the weakest link in a chain about to snap. There was no doubt in that gaze - only cold resolve born from experience.


    - Fine, - he said curtly, his voice ringing like steel striking a shield. - But lie, and you''ll regret ever stepping foot near the prince. Do you understand?


    Igor nodded quickly, trying to suppress his trembling. He hadn''t realized he was clutching the edge of his tunic so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The chill in his cheeks matched the icy cobblestones beneath his boots.


    Mstislav nodded to Mirnomir, who let out a low, humorless chuckle as he eased back into his stance. His hand remained on the sword''s hilt, ready for anything.


    - Mirnomir, keep watch. I''ll report to the prince myself, - Mstislav said firmly, his gaze still fixed on Igor. - If this truly cannot wait, the prince must hear it from me


    Mirnomir gave a short nod and stepped back into position, his hand still resting on his sword, as though always prepared to strike.


    Mstislav strode toward the massive door and knocked three times. Each strike echoed down the corridor, a summons that shattered the suffocating silence like a drumbeat in the stillness.


    Meanwhile, Alexander stood frozen by the window, his gaze fixed on the crimson light streaming through the intricate patterns of the glass. The setting sun painted the stone walls like blood on the blade of a sword. This sunset reminded him of the fragility of a world held together by the edge of his will.


    Alexander ran his fingers over the cold wood of the windowsill, gripping it tightly until a faint crack sounded. The thought of Nikodim pricked at him like a rusted thorn. - Weakness is the end. If he finds it¡­


    He froze, holding his breath, as if even his thoughts might betray him.


    - Sometimes I think, - he began quietly but firmly, without turning around, - that this crown is not meant for me


    Stanislav stood by the table, like an ancient stone idol, absorbing the prince''s every movement. The silence in the room rang like a taut bowstring before the shot, emphasizing his confidence - the confidence of a man accustomed to taming not only storms but also human souls.


    - Fear breaks the soul, Prince, but only if you turn back. An Unshakable Heart is stronger than the steel of a sword. Believe in your weakness, and they''ll sense it, like wolves scenting blood. The boyars don''t need a soft prince. They need someone who holds them in an iron grip


    Finishing his words, Stanislav smoothly sat in a chair, resting his hands on the armrests. His hands, lying there, appeared relaxed, but in them was a readiness, as if they were holding a restless steed. - He''s still young, but his words are growing sharper, - Stanislav thought, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly.


    Alexander slowly turned his head, a tired smile flickering at the corners of his lips. Taking a step toward the table, he ran his palm over its smooth surface, as if testing its strength - or his own. Then his gaze met the voivode''s eyes, and in it flared a shadow of resolve.


    - Very well. I''m counting on you. The Greeks and the boyars must understand that their intrigues are nothing more than empty wind. Kyiv will answer them with strength


    - So it will, Prince, - Stanislav replied curtly. His voice was even, his gaze confident, cold as a blade ready to strike.


    A knock at the door silenced them both. Alexander glanced at Stanislav and, locking eyes with him, held the gaze for a moment. Then he gave a short nod without turning away.


    - Enter


    The door creaked, as if warning of an approaching storm. The heavy steps of Mstislav echoed like hammer blows, reverberating through the room. He stopped at the threshold and bowed his head, as though even his shadow acknowledged the authority of those present.


    - Prince, Voivode Stanislav, - Mstislav said in a deep voice, bowing his head a little lower. - The princely advisor, Miroslav the Wise, has arrived from Byzantium. He insists on an immediate audience. Senior boyar Gleb of Turov has conveyed that the matter is urgent and requires your attention


    Stanislav raised an eyebrow slightly and slowly rose from his chair. The sound of the wood creaking under his weight broke the thick silence. His figure seemed to fill the entire room. His hands, clasped behind his back, tensed, his fingers tightening subtly, as if holding back unsaid words.


    Alexander ran his finger over the hilt of the dagger hanging at his belt, feeling the coolness of the metal. A flicker of something alive passed through his eyes - a mixture of curiosity and concealed concern.


    - Miroslav¡­ - Alexander repeated the name, as if tasting it. Something between curiosity and hidden resentment flickered in his voice. - I remember him reproaching me for my indifference to governance


    The young prince''s memories stirred an image of the man who had once been his father''s advisor, Yaroslav the Wise. Miroslav always spoke little, but each word carried more weight than the speeches of entire boyar assemblies.


    To the young prince, he remained a stranger - they had met only twice, and even those conversations had been brief, barely touching the essence of matters. But now¡­ Now, as he sat on the throne himself, this man suddenly became a figure to be reckoned with.


    - He represented not just himself, but an entire alliance of boyars, - Alexander thought. - Too many interests, too much influence


    - Do you wish to meet him, Prince? - Stanislav asked cautiously, stepping forward. His voice remained steady, but his eyes betrayed wariness.


    - Miroslav is not one to be easily deciphered, - he added after a short pause. - He sees weaknesses where no one else does. Sometimes it feels like he knows more about you than you do yourself


    Alexander tensed slightly but forced himself to straighten. He exhaled slowly, hiding the flash of doubt that had momentarily flickered in his eyes.


    - All the more reason to see him, - he finally said, more firmly than he had expected of himself. His gaze lifted to Stanislav, now filled not just with resolve but with a challenge - to himself, to the advisor, and to everyone who doubted his right to the throne. - Let this princely advisor prove that his wisdom is worthy of his name


    Stanislav watched the prince intently, his gaze heavy, as if weighing every word Alexander spoke. A slight movement of his eyebrows betrayed his thoughts, but he said nothing. For a moment, a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes before he curtly, almost chopping the phrase, threw over his shoulder to Mstislav:


    - You heard the prince. Bring him here. Let him not delay his explanations


    - As you command, Prince, Voivode, - Mstislav responded, bowing his head lower than formality required. His boots echoed heavily in the silence, fading into it like the distant rumble of thunder. The door creaked shut behind him, leaving the room in a tense emptiness.


    A faint click of the latch echoed against the walls like the warning roll of distant thunder. The silence that followed Mstislav''s departure thickened once more, pressing down on the room like a heavy shroud.


    Alexander looked at Stanislav. The unsaid words hung in the air, but they were unnecessary - his voivode understood everything without them.


    - What do you think? - the prince finally asked, trying to sound firmer than he felt. His voice was even, but his gaze betrayed the doubt he struggled to conceal.


    Stanislav exhaled slowly, and to Alexander, the sound felt louder than any answer.


    The creak of the massive door cut through the silence like a crack in a wall, forewarning calamity. Mstislav entered first. His heavy steps sounded like hammer blows, echoing against the stone walls of the hall. Stopping at the doorway, he bowed his head slightly lower than usual, a gesture that conveyed not only respect but also tension: the guard was prepared to act if necessary.


    Behind him came Miroslav. His steps, in contrast, were soft, almost silent, like a predator slipping into foreign territory. Each step was calculated to the smallest detail, as if he wasn''t merely walking but carefully setting up a chessboard.


    The flickering candlelight played over his face, highlighting sharp features and the faintest curve of his lips - was it mockery or sheer defiance? Miroslav didn''t appear as a stranger; he was more like an observer who could blend into any hall without losing his independence.


    Stopping before the prince, he inclined his head ever so slightly. The gesture spoke more of control than submission. In it was the unspoken message: I see and acknowledge your title, but you will find no dependence in this recognition


    Miroslav''s gaze settled on Alexander. The young prince sat upright, his fingers gripping the edge of the table tightly, as if trying to steady the balance of the world laid out before him. The gesture was not incidental - Miroslav studied Alexander''s face like an architect inspecting fortress walls, searching for the faintest cracks that could bring down the entire structure.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    But then his gaze shifted slightly, landing on Stanislav. The princely voivode seemed not just a warrior but an immovable monolith, an impenetrable wall guarding the young prince. Yet Miroslav knew that even in such walls, cracks could sometimes be found. His eyes lingered on Stanislav''s face a moment longer than courtesy required.


    Mstislav, who had until now been a silent presence, suddenly cleared his throat noisily, like a drum signaling the start of a battle. His deep, resonant voice rang out like a blow.


    - Miroslav the Wise, - he proclaimed, as though announcing the arrival of a figure whose moves could decide the fate of Kievan Rus''.


    Alexander raised his head, his gaze attentive but slightly wary. He held himself with confidence, though Miroslav''s trained eye caught the faint tension in the line of the prince''s shoulders.


    - At last you''ve arrived, Miroslav, - said Alexander, his voice steady but carrying a barely perceptible edge of steel. - How was your journey?


    Miroslav inclined his head slightly, allowing a faint, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips. It was not an answer but a pause - the first move in a conversation he intended to control.


    - The journey was long, Prince. But the tidings I bring are heavier than the road, - his voice was deep but quiet, as though meant only for those who knew how to listen.


    Tense silence fell over the hall. Even the candles seemed to crackle more softly.


    - Your brothers, - Miroslav continued, his voice low and almost mournful, - their deaths are a loss for all of us


    These words struck like a heavy sword against a shield. Alexander''s brow furrowed slightly, but his face remained nearly expressionless. He knew that every emotion, every careless tremor in his voice would be noticed.


    - It was a blow, - he said, clenching his fists under the table so tightly that his nails dug into his skin. His voice was firm, even a touch louder than necessary. - But we endured. Kievan Rus'' will not fall


    Miroslav remained silent, his eyes studying the young prince as if a priest examining a penitent sinner. Alexander''s gaze flicked toward Stanislav, as if seeking support, but the voivode remained motionless, like a figure carved from stone.


    - You are right, Prince, - Miroslav''s voice remained soft, but each word seemed to carry weight, as though he was laying stones for the foundation of a future decision. - Kievan Rus'' still has its pillars. But time¡­ time spares no fortress


    He paused, his gaze sweeping over Alexander and Stanislav.


    - Even the strongest walls crack if they rely solely on strength


    - Are you suggesting our strength is insufficient? - Alexander narrowed his eyes. His voice was steady, but a shadow of doubt slipped through the words.


    - Strength can be a powerful weapon, Prince, - Miroslav replied, his eyes never leaving the young prince. - But leave it uncontrolled, and it will destroy itself


    Miroslav stepped forward. His movements were unhurried, yet every gesture was precise, like a sword strike in battle.


    - That is why I am here, Prince. To help you guide it


    - Guide it? - Stanislav, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. His heavy gaze locked onto Miroslav''s, filled with cold wariness. - Do you know where to lead, or are you simply waiting to see who stumbles?


    In his voice, there was a veiled but unmistakable threat.


    Miroslav held a pause, his face remaining calm, though his gaze narrowed slightly, as if weighing how far he should go.


    - My duty is to protect Kievan Rus'', Stanislav, - Miroslav said softly, his words stretching out like a thin thread of silk. - We both serve her, don''t we? Or do our views on protection... differ?


    Stanislav leaned back in his chair, but his gaze did not waver.


    - You''re mistaken, - he retorted curtly. - I protect the prince. That is Kievan Rus''.


    For a moment, silence fell over the room, heavy like a taut bowstring. Miroslav''s eyes lingered on the voivode, and a shadow of a smirk flickered in them.


    - You''re right, Stanislav, - Miroslav replied, his voice even, though his gaze stayed locked on the voivode. - But cracks often form from within. When hidden behind strong walls, they''re the hardest to find. - He paused briefly, as if awaiting a reaction. - Surely, you know this?


    - From within? - Stanislav straightened sharply. His massive figure suddenly seemed to take up more space, like a wall bracing for impact. His hands left the armrests and clasped together tightly. - There are no cracks within us. We are the wall that holds all of Kievan Rus''. Or are you suggesting we dismantle it to chase your fantasies?


    The hidden threat in his voice was gone - this was an outright challenge, and even the air in the hall grew heavier.


    Miroslav raised his eyes slowly, as if allowing Stanislav to feel the full weight of his gaze. His calm was akin to a cold blade, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered at the corners of his lips, making the voivode''s glare harden further.


    - Yes, walls protect. But someone must look behind them to find the cracks, - Miroslav said quietly.


    Stanislav leaned forward slightly, as if about to step forward, but stopped halfway. His massive frame seemed to cast a shadow over the entire hall.


    - Speak plainly, princely advisor, - he said in a low voice that rumbled like a distant bell toll. There was a hidden menace in his words, and his gaze was as unyielding as a steel trap. - Or do you prefer to hide your thoughts behind pauses and flowery words?


    Miroslav didn''t respond immediately. His cold, piercing eyes rested on the voivode, as if weighing each word. Then, the corners of his lips lifted in a subtle smirk.


    - Plainness is a dangerous weapon, Stanislav, - he said calmly, taking a step forward. His voice was quiet, but each note seemed capable of cutting through the air. - Especially when the truth can destroy what appears unbreakable


    He paused briefly, as if deliberately testing the voivode''s patience, and then, with a slight smile, continued:


    - Very well, - Miroslav''s voice grew firmer, taking on a steely edge. - You want the truth? Here it is: Oleg in Vyshhorod is already gathering supporters. He promises them more than they can get here in Kyiv. And in Pereyaslav, the steppe watches our lands with its usual patience. The nomads have not yet marched to war, but they are waiting... waiting for cracks. And do you know, Stanislav, what makes them wait? They sense something breaking within Rus''. Not the walls, but unity. They will see it first if we hesitate


    The words struck like a clap of thunder, shattering the tense silence. Alexander froze, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He tried to maintain an air of confidence, but a slight tremor in his fingers betrayed his hidden unease.


    His gaze darted to Stanislav, as if seeking confirmation or a response. The voivode, like a statue carved from stone, remained motionless, his eyes boring into the advisor.


    - Are you accusing us of treason? - Stanislav''s voice rumbled low and threatening, like the distant thunder before a storm. He spoke slowly, but each word landed with the weight of a hammer.


    Miroslav met his gaze with the same calmness.


    - I accuse only those who close their eyes, - he replied, his eyes never leaving the voivode. - Sometimes that is just as dangerous as betrayal


    - Enough! - Alexander''s voice tore through the silence. He rose so abruptly that his chair nearly tipped over.


    His sharpness momentarily interrupted the argument. Both Stanislav and Miroslav turned to the prince simultaneously, but their gazes conveyed entirely different emotions: the voivode''s was expectant of action, while the advisor''s held a faint shadow of hidden defiance.


    - You both speak of walls and cracks, - Alexander said, striving to keep his voice steady, though tension was evident. - But if you want to convince me of your words, provide evidence. I won''t rely on empty accusations and insinuations


    He shifted his gaze to Stanislav but added:


    - Nor on empty confidence


    Stanislav clenched his jaw but remained silent. His heavy gaze flicked to Miroslav, who responded with a faint smirk.


    - Prince, - Miroslav began, but Alexander raised a hand to cut him off.


    - Are you here to help? - Alexander snapped, his voice firm, though a barely noticeable tremor in his fingers gripping the table betrayed his tension. - Then prove it. I will not tolerate mistakes or empty accusations. Miroslav, your truth must strengthen the walls, not crumble with them


    Miroslav inclined his head slightly, though there was no submission in the gesture - only a careful acknowledgment of temporary equilibrium.


    - Of course, Prince, - he said softly. - My duty is to speak the truth, even if it''s unwelcome


    Alexander exhaled, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, but he quickly gathered himself, restoring a facade of firmness. His gaze fell on Stanislav.


    - And your duty is to protect me, voivode, - Alexander said sharply, his voice firm but his eyes searching for affirmation. - Not walls, not heritage, but the prince. Do you understand?


    - Of course, Prince, - Stanislav replied with a slight bow of his head. - But my duty is not limited to protection. A ruler''s true strength lies in his entourage - in those who know how to fortify the throne, not just shield it


    Alexander froze momentarily, as if assessing whether his authority was secure in this moment. Then, he slowly sat back, leaning into his chair.


    - Then that''s settled. Miroslav, go. Prepare what you need to prove your words


    The advisor inclined his head again, this time a fraction deeper.


    - As you command, Prince


    His steps were soft, yet in the hall''s silence, each one echoed as if to remind them that no word had been forgotten.


    When the door closed behind the advisor, silence enveloped the hall, heavy as a layer of winter frost. Alexander ran a hand over his face but quickly lowered it, as if fearing that the gesture might reveal too much.


    - He plays too subtly, - murmured Alexander, his gaze still fixed on the door.


    Stanislav silently stepped closer. His figure radiated the confidence Alexander so sorely lacked.


    - Miroslav always plays, Prince. That is his strength. But every game ends when the wrong move is made


    Alexander didn''t nod immediately. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his fingers tightened on the edge of the table, as if holding an invisible weight.


    - But what if he... - his voice faltered, and a pause hung in the air for a moment. - What if he plays better than us?


    Stanislav''s eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, his voice deepening.


    - Then you must be stronger, Prince. If you don''t force your opponent to play by your rules, someone else will do it for you


    Alexander tore his gaze away from the door, but only briefly. He looked at the voivode, a flicker of gratitude passing through his eyes before it was quickly hidden behind a mask of cold contemplation.


    - Power always returns to the one who understands it, - Stanislav added after a brief pause. - You already know what to do


    Alexander straightened. His hand slid across the table, leaving a barely noticeable scratch on its surface.


    - Then I will teach him to play by my rules, - he said quietly but firmly.


    The evening sun slowly descended toward the horizon, filling the Kyiv sky with warm golden hues. In the courtyard of the prince''s tower, there was lively activity, though without excess noise. Servants were placing jugs of water and mead, as well as cast iron pots filled with kutia - the traditional ceremonial dish, while the boyars gathered in groups, discussing the significance of the Byzantine delegation''s first visit.


    A grand feast was scheduled for two days later to coincide with Prince Alexander''s coronation. The initial meetings with the Byzantine guests were to take place in a restrained yet solemn setting, reflecting respect for the mourning of the prince''s deceased brothers. This decision Alexander had made firmly, understanding that excessive splendor now might seem inappropriate.


    In the Great Hall, the bustle was palpable, but it carried a deliberate restraint, like a battle formation being prepared. Servants placed goblets carved with patterns of birds and suns, their movements swift but precise, like craftsmen perfecting their work.


    The scent of hot wax mingled with the aromas of fish and flatbread, wrapping the hall in a dense veil. Somewhere in the corner, logs crackled softly in the hearth, adding a sound reminiscent of the steady ticking of a clock.


    The massive throne, adorned with carvings of lions and oak leaves, stood in the center of the hall, a reminder of power as an eternal burden.


    In his chambers, Alexander looked at the polished bronze disc set on a wooden stand. The reflection in it trembled and distorted in the flickering candlelight, like a shaky image of his thoughts.


    - War is so much simpler, - flashed through his mind. - The enemy can be seen. He can be heard. Every blow has a target. And here? - his gaze slid over the bronze disc, reflecting a blurred image. - Here the enemies hide behind words, and the blows strike where they''re least expected


    But he pushed the thought away, like an annoying fly. War could solve much, but its price was too high. Alexander knew that a strong ruler wins not only with the sword but also with words.


    His fingers slid over the dense fabric of his kaftan, and its weight echoed somewhere deep inside. This kaftan was more than clothing. It was the first link in the chain with which Alexander himself shackled himself to power. Alexander clenched his fist, as if gathering his doubts within it. - They must not see me hesitate, - he thought.


    - Stanislav, - the prince said, not turning around. - Do you think they will see my weakness?


    The princely voivode, standing by the door, stepped closer. His movements were confident, like those of a man accustomed to battles.


    - If you show it yourself, they will see it, - he replied calmly but firmly. His voice sounded like an old, indisputable rule. - But remember, Prince: the world sees only what it is shown. If you show strength, they will believe in it. If someone doesn''t notice it, - he made a barely perceptible pause, as if testing how ready Alexander was to hear the continuation, - then we will make them see it


    Alexander looked at the reflection. - If they see that I doubt... - He clenched his fist again, but this time for longer.


    - Today will be difficult, - he said almost in a whisper. His hand slid to the edge of the disc, as if searching for support.


    - Difficulty is not defeat, Prince, - Stanislav stepped closer. - You are not alone. The strength of Kievan Rus'' lies not only in you but also in those who stand by your side. In those who are ready to protect her and you


    Alexander straightened, and his hand slowly slid over the smooth bronze disc, as if erasing from the reflection the remnants of his former self - young, hesitant. Now his eyes looked forward with determination. This moment was not just a step toward the audience but the first blow to the wall of his own fears.


    - Yes. Let them see, - he said. - Let them know that Kyiv is strength


    ***


    Thank you to everyone reading this!


    I continue to learn and improve my writing, striving to balance detail, historical accuracy, realism, logic, tension, conciseness, and focus. It''s proving to be quite a challenge.


    I''ve edited this chapter more than ten times, aiming to blend detail with historical accuracy so that readers can feel as though they''re standing beside the characters and immersing themselves in the era where the events unfold. At the same time, I tried to maintain conciseness and focus to keep the story engaging and easy to follow.


    I hope that these numerous edits haven''t disrupted the coherence of the plot or left out any crucial details. If you notice anything missing or that affects the story''s integrity, please let me know. It''s possible I got too caught up in the process and overlooked something.


    At some point, I realized there''s no limit to perfection. I found myself stuck on this chapter, fine-tuning minor details, but the deeper I dove into them, the more new aspects demanded adjustment. I''m an idealist and strive for perfection, so I could have spent several more days refining this chapter before moving on to the audience and negotiations. However, I decided enough is enough: it will stay as it is written.


    I''ll stick to this style from now on. If it feels like it''s gotten worse in places, please don''t hesitate to let me know.

 Chapter 17. Audience

    Alexander stopped before the massive doors carved with intricate designs. The metal plates attached to the wood seemed to be part of an ancient pattern where crosses and grapevines intertwined. The dim torchlight gave the carvings a flickering life, as though an invisible force pulsed within them.


    On the shield mounted to the door shimmered the image of Archangel Michael. His raised sword inspired awe, as if reminding that he was not only the protector of princes but also the judge of their deeds.


    The metal overlays emitted a dull, almost lifeless cold, as though the silence of centuries was frozen within them. Alexander''s fingers felt the icy sting. The ancient doors seemed to hold the breath of bygone eras, their every curve whispering of past deeds, testing whoever dared to open them. A deep voice echoed in his mind:


    - This is their hope. Their destiny. But will you endure? Or will you become their disgrace?


    The scent of iron and aged wood filled the air, and the dust of centuries seemed to settle on the prince''s shoulders along with the weight of history. Alexander took a deep breath, feeling his breath merge with the unmoving silence of the hall.


    He stepped closer, hearing each sound beneath his feet echo, as if the stones themselves were deciding whether to let him in. Behind the doors was silence. It seemed to breathe, filling the space, growing heavier with each passing moment. Alexander raised his hand to push, feeling how the motion seemed to cut through the air.


    - History itself waits... waits for me


    Alexander inhaled deeply, but the cold air only tightened the fear gripping his throat like icy fingers. He closed his eyes, as if to shield himself from the weight of countless gazes. It was a moment to gather strength: the cold metal beneath his palms became an anchor, restoring his confidence.


    One more moment - and the doors creaked, as if an ancient giant finally yielded to his will.


    A rush of cold air struck his face. Alexander stepped forward, and it seemed as though the doors hadn''t opened but had pushed him inside.


    - Now go. Or break


    The doors swung open with a low groan, as though the ancient hinges resented being disturbed. Alexander felt the rush of cold air, carrying with it a faint scent of incense and dust - a fragrance that filled the hall like an echo of ancient secrets trapped in stone.


    The boyars stirred: some barely moved, as if trying to conceal their unease, others cautiously stepped back, while a few straightened, freezing as though sculpted from stone.


    The incense, mingled with the dampness of the stone, hung heavy in the air, absorbing whispers and watchful glances. Alexander inhaled deeply, and the dull thud in his chest reverberated like the hall itself was reminding him of the burdensome shadow of the past, woven into every fresco and stone.


    He froze on the threshold, sensing how the tension of the hall pulled him forward, like invisible chains. At that moment, he resembled a man standing at the edge of an icy abyss, ready to take his first step.


    The torchlight danced on the frescoes, making the stern lines of the carvings move, as though in a strange prayer. St. George, poised with his spear, froze in eternal attack, his gaze seemingly demanding courage from anyone daring to proceed. Nearby, Apostle Andrew raised a hand in blessing, the golden light falling on his face creating the impression that he was watching every step.


    Alexander finally stepped inside, feeling the cold stone slabs beneath him resonate with a muffled echo, as though the ancient walls reluctantly let him in. The hall seemed alive with its hidden life: the muted rustle of brocade, the faint clink of goblets, and barely audible whispers lurking in the shadows, as if observing from the darkness.


    When the guests slowly rose from their seats, their movements resembled a ritual dance. Their gazes - some icy and silent, others intently appraising - touched him like invisible hands. Alexander caught hints of caution, indifference, and barely veiled hostility. Some faces studied him like a merchant examines a new coin: testing its weight, shine, and potential flaws.


    From a distant corner of the hall, a loud rustling suddenly broke the tense silence. One of the boyars, seated in the shadows, hastily leaned toward his servant, his wide sleeve falling onto the table. The muffled echo of this motion rippled through the hall, causing a few guests to nervously turn their heads.


    Alexander caught this small disturbance, and for a moment, a thought flashed in his mind:


    - Even here, there are those who fear. Not just me


    He took a few more steps, sensing how invisible threads stretched from every gaze, clinging to him. Some sought to trap him, while others seemed to grant him the chance to move forward, watching for his misstep.


    Alexander suddenly realized he was holding his breath and exhaled cautiously, striving not to reveal his tension.


    - They''re watching. Some look for weakness in my steps, others crave proof of strength. But I feel it: their expectations weigh heavier than any sword


    From the shadows behind him, like a predator, emerged Stanislav the Great. His hand rested habitually on the hilt of his sword, a gesture that seemed capable of halting time. His cold, sharp gaze scanned the faces of the boyars, searching for weakness. Each step of Stanislav sounded like the pounding of a blacksmith''s hammer - confident and rhythmic.


    - Today, everyone will reveal their true face


    Each breath, every shadowed glance, seemed to reveal more than words. His gaze lingered on the Byzantines standing at the far end of the hall - their ceremonial bows and calm smiles caused him more unease than the boyars'' sullen silence.


    Behind Stanislav, synchronizing his steps almost imperceptibly, moved the retainers Mirnomir and Mstislav.


    Mirnomir moved so quietly that his figure seemed like a reflection of light gliding between the columns, creeping along the edge of the hall. His gait was like a breeze in an empty forest - barely perceptible yet unsettling.


    A simple yet skillfully crafted strap held his sword, which resembled more a shepherd''s staff - an instrument of order, not chaos. His sharp gaze, filled with predatory focus, wandered through the rows of boyars as though dissecting them to uncover hidden threats.


    - Too many eyes. They''re all waiting for something, - he muttered quietly, not turning his head, and Alexander sensed in those words more than mere observation. Mirnomir spoke as someone accustomed to spotting danger before it took shape.


    Next to him strode Mstislav with a sharp, almost threatening confidence, as though every movement was a challenge to the very ground beneath him. His steps echoed sharply and resolutely, like the blows of a blacksmith''s hammer shattering steel in the quiet of night. He gripped the scabbard of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white, as if this alone kept him from making a sudden lunge. His eyes, flashing with defiance, roved the hall, seeking the first to falter if he drew his blade.


    - You know, Mirnomir, I wonder who here will turn pale with fear first if I unsheathe my sword


    He tightened his grip on the hilt until his knuckles whitened, as though the thought warmed him more than the torches around. These words, sharp as a cleaving blow, rang unexpectedly loud, breaking the silence. Alexander paused briefly, sensing how that voice echoed within him, leaving a bitter aftertaste.


    Stanislav slightly turned, his cold gaze sliding over Mstislav. There was neither anger nor threat in that look - only a silent reminder of a boundary not to be crossed.


    - Calm down, Mstislav, - he said evenly, his voice ringing like steel effortlessly laid on an anvil. - Blood will spill only when I give the order


    Mirnomir cast a brief glance at Stanislav and quietly added:


    - To them, we''re predators in a cage. Show your fangs, and they''ll decide we can be tamed


    These words, spoken with icy calm, felt as heavy as the burden the prince suddenly sensed on his shoulders.


    Alexander was acutely aware of their presence behind him. Stanislav''s footsteps echoed heavily but rhythmically, like an ancient mechanism starting to count time. Mirnomir moved almost soundlessly, like a beast stalking through shadows, while Mstislav''s heavy, impulsive strides carried barely restrained fury.


    - Which of them is closest to me? Who will be my support if I falter? - the thought flickered in his mind. He did not turn, but he felt the tension of their figures behind him, like the weight of invisible chains.


    They were joined by the elder boyar, Boris Stalnogorsky, walking alongside Stanislav as if reinforcing his invisible shield of the pro-princely alliance. His massive figure, reminiscent of a cliff unmoved by the winds of time, radiated an imposing strength. A fur cloak made of wolf pelts swayed lazily with each of his steps, as if emphasizing the unyielding power of its owner.


    Boris''s face, etched with a web of deep wrinkles, exuded both the weariness of centuries and an unbreakable resolve. Each of his steps echoed through the vaulted hall like the ancient stones themselves bore the weight of centuries along with him. The hall seemed to breathe in rhythm with his confident stride, as if Boris was a living extension of these ancient walls.


    Boris lifted his head heavily, his eyes gleaming like stones forged under the hammer. Every glance cast at Nikodim was deliberate, like a measured strike: not a single unnecessary movement, not a hint of weakness. He was a man who had stood against the wind for centuries and seemed prepared to endure a thousand more.


    Nikodim felt this scrutiny and, without faltering, responded with a light, flawlessly calculated bow. Yet behind this gesture lay the cold caution of someone accustomed to the distrust of others.


    Boris''s hand involuntarily tightened on the hilt of a massive knife hidden beneath his cloak.


    - Soft words often hide sharp blades, - he thought. His lips twitched but never formed a smile.


    Behind Boris, as if grace followed strength, Vasily Svyatopolkovich walked with majestic poise. An elder boyar and another influential member of Stanislav''s pro-princely alliance, his kaftan, masterfully embroidered with golden threads, shimmered in the soft torchlight. Patterns of sacred vines intertwined with delicate depictions of birds, as though heavenly blessings accompanied his every step.


    Vasily''s movements seemed crafted for the stage: his steps flowed like the course of water, and his bow to the prince resembled a refined reverence, designed for every gaze fixed upon him.


    His eyes slowly rose to meet Alexander''s. In Vasily''s gaze, faint sparks of light mockery danced, but behind them lay calculation - cold and precise, like that of a master placing a wager in a game where every coin mattered. The corners of his lips twitched slightly, as though posing an unspoken question: is the young prince worthy of the support he might offer?


    - Your Highness, - Vasily said quietly, his voice soft yet edged with the firmness of steel. - Should the Lord will it, this day will be recorded in the chronicles


    These words, seemingly a surface-level gesture of respect, left behind a subtle sense of hidden challenge.


    Boris, catching the tone, turned briefly. His heavy gaze, filled with the weight of centuries, fell upon Vasily like a hammer striking a delicate blade. For a moment, tension hung between them - immovable and palpable, like thunder before a storm. Boris said nothing, but his silence was louder than any reproach.


    Alexander gave a curt nod, observing the moment. Two forces: Boris - a steadfast rock capable of withstanding any blow, and Vasily - brilliance, grace, and hidden danger. They seemed so different yet equally formidable.


    - Each carries their own strength, - Alexander thought. - But who will be an ally, and who a foe?


    When Alexander approached the dais, the hall froze. His steps echoed loudly in the stone silence, but the air itself seemed motionless, holding the tension in place. Each step felt as though it disrupted the established order until the surrounding silence became almost tangible, pressing down like the weight of history.


    - One more step. One more breath. - Alexander felt as if the weight of millennia was pressing him into the stone tiles of the floor, but he continued forward. Not for them. For himself.


    In the dim torchlight above the throne, the images of saints shimmered. St. George, driving his spear into the serpent, loomed over the hall, as though warning that anyone who stood here must be a protector. Nearby, angels with outstretched wings seemed frozen in a silent choir. Their stern faces, carved in the Byzantine style, appeared almost alive, their still and piercing eyes watching anyone daring to approach. Alexander involuntarily lingered on their faces.


    - They''re waiting too, - the thought flashed.


    Before the throne, like a stone statue, stood Metropolitan Illarion. His mantle fell heavily in folds, and his staff seemed to be not just a support but an extension of his will. His thin fingers rhythmically counted the beads of a rosary, as if marking invisible time.


    His lips barely moved in a soundless prayer, but his gaze, sharp and piercing like a sword, scanned the hall. Illarion observed every movement, searching for truth in the eyes of those gathered beneath these vaults.


    For a moment, his gaze rested on the prince''s face, as if testing whether he would falter. Illarion''s lips moved slightly, almost imperceptibly, as in the act of prayer.


    - Time will tell, - his gaze seemed to say.


    Alexander stepped closer to the throne. He felt as though Illarion''s gaze pierced through him, exposing hidden doubts. The muscles in his shoulders tensed, and his breathing deepened slightly.


    - What does he see in me? An heir or a boy trembling before the gaze of the hall?


    The throne, towering above the hall, was carved from dark oak, its surface adorned with delicate carvings: interwoven grapevines and slender crosses, a reminder of divine protection and the burden of power. Modest gilding highlighted the patterns, softly shimmering in the light of the lamps, as though the throne had absorbed the reflections of light long extinguished within these walls.


    Alexander felt as if the throne itself was watching him, cold and unyielding, measuring whether he was worthy to take the place where his father once sat. The faint glimmer of gold did not add grandeur but served as a quiet reminder of the weight he would have to bear. Even from a distance, Alexander could feel that weight, as if it were pulling his shoulders downward.


    - They saw my father on this throne, - the thought crossed his mind. He stopped at the base, holding his breath. - But he was different. He knew what to do. And me?


    Some watched like predators, others like judges delivering a verdict. Still others, by contrast, did not hide their disdainful expectation of failure, nodding slowly as if they already knew where he would stumble. Alexander felt his breath grow heavier under these gazes.


    - They''re waiting. Some hope to see strength, others a mistake. But in their eyes is judgment. And I cannot falter, even if everything inside me is clenched with pain


    Alexander raised his head, and in response came a short laugh, like the crack of ice underfoot. His fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword, and his gaze froze as if trying to find the one who dared. Someone quickly whispered, their words lost, but in that brief disturbance of silence was a mix of mockery and anxiety. Alexander felt the echo of it settle on him like a heavy weight. His fingers tightened again on the sword''s hilt.


    - Do you want to see weakness? Do you want me to break? But every step I take is more than just a movement. This throne will be mine not because I am the heir, but because I will earn it


    His fingers instinctively brushed against the hilt of his sword, as if it could give him strength. When Alexander slowly sat on the throne, the hall seemed to turn to stone. But then, somewhere in the back rows, a whisper broke the silence - barely audible, like the rustle of grass before a storm.


    - He held his ground, - muttered one of the retainers approvingly.


    - Let''s see for how long, - quietly added a voice from the opposite end, belonging to one of the boyars.


    Someone shifted from foot to foot, then another voice murmured, like wind brushing against the walls. Alexander realized that the guests were not just waiting. They were watching, like hunters stalking their prey, waiting to see what he would do next.


    Alexander''s gaze slowly swept across the hall. The elder boyars in the front rows resembled stone statues, their faces frozen in an expression of authority and weariness - marks of endless struggles for their place under the sun. Alexander felt their stares like waves - still on the surface but ready to surge like a torrent should he falter.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    For a moment, his gaze lingered on Olga Strumenskaya. Her brocade attire, adorned with grapevine patterns, radiated grandeur, while her dark eyes, deep as an abyss, stared straight at him. There was a predatory glint in her gaze, making it impossible to discern whether she was ready to support the prince or waiting for the right moment to strike.


    Next to her stood Dobrynya Vsevolodich Ognishanin - a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard that swayed slightly as he whispered sharp, clipped phrases to Gleb Turovsky. His fingers fidgeted with a rosary so tensely that it seemed each movement could spark a flame.


    Gleb held a cane with a carved bear''s head - a symbol of his strength and authority. His silent gaze, attentive and cold, scanned the hall as though evaluating the strength of everyone before him.


    Slightly farther away stood the autonomists, led by the Grand Administrator Oleg Vyshgorodsky. Among them, Rurik Pechersky stood out. His long mantle, embroidered with gold, glittered in the torchlight. His hands, adorned with massive rings, were clasped behind his back, while his hawk-like eyes tracked every move the prince made. Alexander caught a sense of wariness in that gaze, almost expectant.


    On the opposite side of the hall stood the voivodes. Supreme Voivode Ignat Slavyansky stood like a statue, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his sword. Beside him was Svyatoslav Polovetsky, whose kindly face was crossed by an old scar that belied his stern gaze. They exchanged glances with Boris Dneprovsky, whose raspy voice, like the heavy strike of an axe, briefly broke the silence.


    Miroslav the Wise, the prince''s advisor, leaned forward slightly, his perceptive eyes scrutinizing Nikodim, the head of the Byzantine delegation, as though attempting to uncover hidden motives behind the diplomat''s flawless mask. Next to him stood Mikhail Sofiysky, a mentor of knowledge, renowned for his unflappable composure and rationality. His arms crossed behind his back emphasized his confidence, while the faint movement of his lips betrayed that he was already analyzing the situation.


    Behind them lingered Gavriil Zlatopisets, the patron of scribes, whose face reflected quiet pride in his inclusion in this gathering. He sought no attention, preferring to remain in the shadows where he could observe and remember, like a chronicler whose role was to know but not interfere.


    At the base of the dais stood the Byzantine delegation. Nikodim, dressed in black robes with golden embroidery, resembled a drawn bowstring. His cloak, adorned with thin vine patterns and ornaments, symbolized nobility and power. Snow-white hair fell neatly over his shoulders, and his bow toward Alexander was calibrated to perfection. Yet behind the composed exterior lay the cold calculation of a master of intrigue, for whom every word and gesture was part of a complex game.


    Behind him stood Leo Komnenos, a stately protospatharios, the embodiment of Byzantine discipline. A medallion with a double-headed eagle - the symbol of both authority and unity of the Empire - gleamed on his chest. His hands rested on an ornate belt, and his heavy gaze spoke of his military past. Even in the hall of negotiation, he looked like a man prepared for battle.


    Beside him loomed Agathias Scholasticus in a purple chiton with gold trim. His piercing gaze studied Alexander, as if deciphering hidden intentions. His calm posture and arms crossed over his chest made him resemble a philosopher who always saw farther than the rest.


    Standing slightly in the shadows was Sophia Lakapina, the embodiment of fragile grace. Her chiton, adorned with golden birds and crosses, softly outlined her figure, while the maforium with a purple border added solemnity to her appearance. Her slender fingers gripped an intricately inlaid fan, betraying her tension. Her deep, contemplative gaze repeatedly returned to the prince. Her lips trembled, as though a prayer escaped them in a barely audible whisper:


    - You are strong. You are a Lakapina, - she repeated to herself, trying to suppress her trembling.


    Yet her gaze kept returning to the prince. Alexander moved smoothly, but there was tension in his steps that he refused to let show.


    Sophia couldn''t take her eyes off the young prince. His steps - confident yet seemingly slightly slowed - reminded her of her mother''s lessons:


    - Never hesitate, but don''t let it show


    She could see how hard he was trying to appear firm. But why did she sense in his stride the same weight she felt in her own fingers clutching the fan?


    - He''s like me, - the thought flashed. - He''s scared too


    His tense posture and gaze fixed on the throne seemed to declare to everyone: - I''m ready


    But she saw more - the barely perceptible tension in his shoulders, the slight twitch of his lips, as though he was suppressing either anger or fear.


    - Such calmness... Is it a mask? Or is he truly holding himself together better than I am?


    Standing next to her was her cousin, Clio Lakapina, modest and almost unnoticed, yet her sharp, perceptive eyes scanned the hall, picking out the tiniest movements.


    - Sophia, - Clio whispered, leaning closer. Her voice was a soft hiss, tinged with slight anxiety. - Are you really just going to stand there? Even a pawn can move if it dares


    Sophia slowly lifted her head, her voice steady, though something defiant sparkled in her eyes:


    - Pawns always move forward, Clio. But only the king decides the victory


    Alexander, seated on the throne, let his gaze sweep over the hall once more. The stares of the boyars were like sharp blades, poised to strike at the slightest misstep. They would not forgive a mistake. And neither would he forgive himself. His fingers gripped the armrests of the throne, and suddenly, clarity came to him.


    - This is my war. Let it begin


    Alexander spoke, his voice breaking the heavy silence of the hall like the ring of a blade striking stone walls.


    - Boyars and loyal allies, - his gaze lingered on the front rows as if searching for either support or challenge. His voice was firm, yet beneath it ran a subtle, almost imperceptible crack of tension. - Today, in this hall, we host guests from great Byzantium. They speak of an alliance... But at what price this alliance will be forged - it is for us to decide


    He straightened on the throne, his figure taut with determination, like a statue carved from resolve. Yet his fingers, tightening slightly on the armrests, betrayed the inner struggle. Every word seemed to land in the hall like the strike of a blacksmith''s hammer - heavy and deliberate.


    Nikodim stepped forward, his movements precise and calculated. His bow was deep, but measured - respectful, without submission. His voice flowed smoothly, like the rustle of pages in an ancient book, yet with the precision of a master''s chisel.


    - Your principality, - he began slowly, without a hint of hesitation, - accept my deepest condolences to you and your people for the loss of your brothers. Their valor and wisdom were guiding stars, lighting the way not only for your land but for the entire Christian world


    His tone was soft, yet it carried an underlying strength. He spoke not just words of comfort but reminded them that Byzantium saw itself as the spiritual guide of the Orthodox world.


    Alexander held his gaze, forcing himself not to look away. His fingers tightened once more, but he willed himself to maintain composure.


    - Thank you for your words, envoy, - the prince replied, nodding slightly. His voice was steady, though a faint trace of tension slipped through. - Kievan Rus remembers the fallen, but for us, sorrow is no cause for weakness. We continue to stand as our ancestors taught us


    He straightened on the throne, his gaze becoming sharp like a blade freshly honed by a blacksmith.


    - However, such an esteemed delegation must understand that Kievan Rus values actions, not words


    The words rang out like the sound of a sword drawn from its sheath. A murmur rippled through the back rows like the harbinger of a storm, but no voice dared rise above it. Nikodim, standing at the foot of the throne, lifted his head slightly. A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across his lips.


    - Young, but bold, - he thought, a glint of interest flashing in his eyes.


    - Your words are strong, as is your people, - he replied. The envoy''s voice was even, yet carried the precision of a surgeon who knows exactly where to strike. - The gifts we bring are but symbols of our humility. True wealth lies not in gold but in the unity of nations. Is it not so, gentlemen?


    He inclined his head slightly. Servants in simple gray chitons stepped forward, their movements silent as shadows brought to life by the torchlight. Chests with metal fittings were placed on the floor with a heavy creak, breaking the tense silence.


    Grand Administrator Oleg Vyshgorodsky, never taking his eyes off the servants, leaned slightly forward. His sharp, hawk-like gaze scrutinized every gesture.


    - Heavy, - he muttered under his breath, though his voice was loud enough for the nearby boyars to hear. - Such gifts always carry more weight than they appear


    Senior Boyar Rurik Pechersky, seated beside him, lazily ran a finger over the massive ring adorning his hand. His face remained calm, but a flicker of amusement sparkled in his eyes.


    - The Empire has always known how to make its gifts imposing, - he remarked, leaning back in his chair. - But such impositions often leave traces harder to forget than to receive


    Oleg turned his head slightly toward Rurik, though his gaze remained fixed on the chests.


    - You think such traces are inevitable?


    Rurik smirked, taking his time before answering. Then his heavy, piercing eyes, like leaden weights, turned toward Nikodim.


    - Envoy, - his voice carried cold formality, - tell us, what do you hope to achieve with this gift? Or do you expect Kievan Rus to guess on its own?


    Nikodim, maintaining his unshaken composure, took a step forward. His movements were unhurried yet precise, like those of an experienced dancer on the edge of a precipice.


    - Lord Rurik, Lord Oleg, - he began, letting his gaze sweep over both of them. His voice, soft as silk, concealed a core of steel. - These chests are not mere gifts. They are symbols of our faith in an alliance that will unite our peoples


    He gestured toward the chests as if inviting the hall to listen to what they might reveal themselves.


    - But words cannot always explain everything. I prefer that each of you judge for yourselves what lies within. Let the objects speak on our behalf


    His gaze lingered on Alexander. Within it lay a subtle test, though not a challenge. Nikodim inclined his head slightly, as if pondering, then spoke:


    - Let each see in these gifts what they will: a sign of peace for the strong... or the beginning of a path for the weak. The gifts we bring are not just symbols. They are our trust... or its absence


    The servants, catching the signal, moved slowly toward the chests. Their steps echoed dully, like the beat of a heart before battle. The hall fell still.


    Even the most indifferent boyars leaned forward slightly, as if sensing that the chests held the fate of their land. One of the servants, unhurriedly, lifted the lid.


    The scent of incense settled heavily in the air, like an invisible cloud of blessing slowly spreading to the corners of the hall. Inside the chests, as if in a mythical treasury, glimmered vessels adorned with intricate patterns. Each line breathed Byzantine craftsmanship, and scenes from the lives of saints seemed to come alive on their surfaces. Pearls shimmered in the torchlight like drops of dew in the morning sun, their perfection almost unsettling.


    At the center of one chest lay a cross - a Byzantine encolpion, inlaid with sapphires and rubies. Its form was flawless, and inside, as experience suggested, might lie a relic. Massive and gleaming, it bore a mysterious inscription in Greek that seemed to absorb the light, defying every gaze.


    Alexander frowned, his eyes fixed on the words: "He who bows shall be saved"


    The meaning was familiar, but the message rang in his ears like a challenge directed at him personally.


    Nikodim raised his hands as if enclosing the hall in an invisible circle of blessing and spoke softly:


    - This is a symbol of faith that unites us


    As his words echoed through the hall, Metropolitan Illarion, standing near the throne, leaned slightly forward. He stared intently at the encolpion, as though seeking an answer to a long-standing question in its gleam. His fingers, gripping his staff, trembled slightly, but when he finally spoke, his voice was as firm as the strike of a hammer:


    - Gold shines, but its glow blinds only the weak. We, envoy, are strong in faith, not in gifts. Let he who brings this cross remember what it speaks


    The hall trembled. The boyars exchanged glances. Someone whispered to a neighbor, but the words were lost in the silence. Stanislav the Great, who had stood motionless until now, shifted slightly, tilting his head to one side, casting a sharp glance at the metropolitan.


    - Your Grace, - he said, his voice firm but tinged with an icy undertone. - A gift can be a test. The one who accepts it shows not weakness but the strength of their will


    Dobrynya Vsevolodich struck the floor with his cane, the sound echoing through the hall.


    - This gold shines, but its gleam is just the wrapping. What lies behind it? - he said slowly, as if his words were carved into stone.


    Oleg Vyshgorodsky, sitting in the depths of the hall, frowned. His powerful frame leaned forward as if preparing to rise.


    - Too many questions for a gift, - he remarked, his voice rough but laced with irony. - Sometimes a gift is just a gift. Or do you see a conspirator''s shadow in every gesture?


    Ignat Slavyansky, standing nearby, crossed his arms over his chest, his voice cutting through the silence like a taut string snapping:


    - A gift? It''s an offer wrapped in gold. But some of us will read it as a command


    He turned sharply to Nikodim.


    - "He who bows shall be saved" Is that a hint? An offer? Or a threat wrapped in gold?


    A ripple of uncertainty swept through the rows of boyars, like a light, cold wind. Some exchanged cautious glances; others stubbornly stared at the floor, as if afraid that the answer would sound like a verdict. Only Dobrynya Vsevolodich raised his eyes, his heavy gaze fixed on Alexander, as if testing whether the prince would waver under the veiled threat.


    Olga, without taking her eyes off Alexander, adjusted the pattern on her bracelet, as if the gesture could conceal her true intentions. A hint of mockery lingered in the corners of her eyes, and a faint shadow of a smile played on her lips, as though she was waiting to see who would make the first move. Gleb Turovsky silently tightened his grip on the handle of his cane, as if preparing to hear something dangerous.


    Gavriil Zlatopisets tilted his head slightly, his gaze distant, as though already composing the chronicle of what was unfolding. Svyatoslav Polovetsky, standing nearby, scanned the hall grimly, his scarred face reflecting caution.


    Nikodim spread his hands as if bestowing a blessing upon the hall and held a long pause, his eyes carefully observing every movement. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but steady:


    - Lord Ignat, - he began gently, with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, - gold does not threaten. It only opens doors. And to what world they lead is decided by the one who holds the key


    His gaze shifted to Alexander, lingering longer than necessary.


    - Your principality, - Nikodim said with marked reverence, his voice soft but with an underlying weight. - This gift is not merely a symbol of our faith. It is a mirror in which each side will see its true reflection. To accept it is to prove not only the strength of one''s will but the wisdom of one''s choice. Our peoples can walk side by side as equals and friends, or remain divided like rivers whose banks will never meet. The choice is yours


    After Nikodim''s words, the silence in the hall became almost tangible, pressing down like an invisible weight. The boyars remained motionless, their gazes bearing down on Alexander as if pinning him to the throne. Even Metropolitan Illarion remained silent, stepping back slightly, as though granting the prince the right to strike the first blow.


    Boris Stalnogorsky furrowed his brow, weighing every word the prince might say, ready to judge whether he was worthy of his authority. Vasily Svyatopolkovich, on the other hand, smirked slightly, lazily running a finger along the armrest of his chair. Mikhail Sofiysky stood nearby, his calm eyes fixed on Alexander, as if waiting to see what his next move would be.


    Alexander felt the weight of this pressure in every part of his body. Nikodim''s words, echoing in his mind, were like hammer blows forging his resolve. He looked at the cross as if it were a sword - sharp but double-edged. He read the words inscribed on it: "He who bows shall be saved."


    - But bow before whom?


    A fiery voice within demanded that he reject the gift, to prove his strength. But another, quieter, whispered: - If you reject it, you will bring ruin upon all


    He closed his eyes, hearing his father''s words:


    - A prince who seeks enemies where there could have been friends will not keep peace


    Drawing a deep breath, he opened his eyes and met Nikodim''s gaze, which burned with hidden challenge.


    - I will not bow. But I will not break. This cross is a key. But will it become my chain? If I accept it, can I hold my power without losing myself? For peace, or for submission? Nikodim wants to see me falter. But if I reject the gift, they will see me as an enemy. If I accept it, it will be a step into the unknown. Then I must accept - but on my own terms


    His fingers tightened momentarily on the armrests of the throne. Then he slowly rose.


    - Nikodim, - he said firmly, his voice echoing through the hall. - Kievan Rus knows how to accept gifts. But we know even better how to guard our honor


    He took a step forward, his gaze piercing the envoy.


    - We will accept your gift, envoy. But know this: Kievan Rus bows only before God. And we keep the ground beneath our feet not for decoration but to defend it


    The hall froze, as if all the air had vanished, leaving only a tension that could be cut with a knife. It was the moment before the storm - a moment where one step or one word could shatter the silence like a thunderclap.


    Metropolitan Illarion gave a slight nod, though his eyes betrayed more doubt than agreement. Stanislav, unmoving, narrowed his eyes slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. Nearby, Dobrynya Vsevolodich shifted his gaze heavily from Nikodim to the prince, his fingers gripping the throne''s armrest.


    - As you command, my prince


    Nikodim inclined his head slightly, but his gaze remained piercing, like a needle, carefully noting the hall''s reaction.


    A faint murmur swept through the back rows, as though the boyars debated an unspoken verdict, but no one dared speak louder. Alexander straightened, though his heart still beat unevenly.


    - The decision is made, - he thought, sensing that the tension in the hall did not dissipate but only shifted its form.


    But this is only the first step


    ****


    Thank you to everyone who is reading!


    This chapter turned out to be quite detailed and lengthy because I strive to depict events as realistically as possible. Here, you won''t find a scenario where only Alexander, Nikodim, and a couple of advisors engage in dialogue while everyone else remains silent, serving as mere background or extras, without reacting to what is happening.


    To give some perspective: originally, I wrote this chapter at about 2,500 words, where the entire audience scene unfolded rather quickly. Alexander entered the hall, accepted the gifts, thanked Nikodim, they briefly discussed terms, and immediately moved on to another hall to negotiate the alliance details.


    However, when I started editing the text, imagining myself in Alexander''s place and trying to see everything through his eyes, I felt the need to add more intrigue, interactions, and tension. This expanded the chapter from 2,500 words to 7,500.


    As a result, I had to split it into two chapters - one at 5,000 words and another at 2,500 words - plus Chapter 18, in order to convey the events more deeply and thoroughly. Comparing the original 2,500-word version with these revised chapters, I see a difference as vast as earth and sky. And honestly, I will always choose the sky.


    I hope that despite the length, these chapters remain engaging for you and help immerse you more deeply into the unfolding events in Kievan Rus. Don''t worry, the negotiations will begin in Chapter 18, and they''ll conclude in Chapter 19.


    It might seem like I''m stretching out the events, but imagine yourself there, inside the book. Could such events, in such a charged atmosphere, really unfold easily or quickly? I don''t think so. Each day like this would be filled with tension, intrigue, and anticipation. In such an atmosphere, time would drag painfully, allowing every detail to be felt.


    I hope you''re enjoying diving into the era of Kievan Rus. I''m doing my best to convey its atmosphere as accurately as possible and to preserve historical authenticity so you can truly feel the spirit of that time.

 Chapter 18. Pawn or Queen?

    Alexander accepted the gifts, preserving the honor of Kievan Rus. Most of the boyars murmured their approval - their voices, resembling the hum of a swarm of bees, rose to the vaulted ceiling of the hall. Only a few frowned and grunted, clearly expecting more.


    Nikodim¡¯s voice was soft, but anyone who understood Greek could detect the subtle firmness skillfully concealed within. Alexander grasped his words without difficulty, as did Miroslav, accustomed to listening to such envoys during his diplomatic service. Stanislav and Ignat, whose knowledge of the language had been honed during military campaigns, followed every word with an expression of cautious mistrust.


    Ilarion, sitting in his unyielding pose, listened to Nikodim¡¯s words with a stern approval. His knowledge of Greek allowed him to perceive the hidden meanings the Byzantines preferred to veil within their words.


    Ryurik Pechersky, arms crossed over his chest, listened attentively to Nikodim. He had learned Greek through interactions with the monks of the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra, where theological writings and ties with Constantinople were commonplace. His calm gaze caught every nuance.


    For the rest of the boyars, the translation was whispered by Gavriil the Chronicler, David the Scribe, and Ilarion the Annalist. Their quiet voices conveyed the general meaning, but occasionally, Mikhail of Sophia, impatient with the pace of the translation, would quietly add his own clarifications.


    At the far end of the hall, Olga Strumenskaya sat motionless, like a statue carved from stone. Her predatory gaze cut through the shadows of the hall, resting on Nikodim. The whispering of the translators was mere noise to her, like the buzzing of insects. Her knowledge of Greek seemed to penetrate not only the words but also the thoughts of the Byzantine envoy.


    - What is he hiding? - flashed through her mind as her fingers slowly brushed against a massive ring.


    Alexander felt the weight of the boyars¡¯ gazes, like cold chains wrapping around his body. These chains pressed beneath his mail, bearing down on his shoulders: they awaited the slightest mistake to turn it into their strength.


    Stanislav¡¯s voice sliced through the tension like a sword stroke.


    - Generous gifts, - he said quietly, his gaze shifting from the chests to the Byzantine envoy. - But is generosity ever without motive?


    These words fell into the hall like a heavy stone. Even the crackling of the torches seemed to pause in deference to his raspy tone.


    - Or will the price of this ¡°friendship¡± prove too high? - Stanislav raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, but it was enough to stretch the taut string of tension.


    All the boyars turned their attention to the Byzantine envoy. Some exchanged glances; one of them tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, as though pondering the hidden meaning of what had been said. Ignat, arms crossed over his chest, cast a heavy gaze at Nikodim. He said nothing, but his tense silence spoke volumes: he knew the cost of fine words and understood that behind them might lie a threat.


    Svyatoslav Polovetsky, standing beside Ignat, frowned. His narrowed eyes followed Nikodim¡¯s every move intently. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of a knife protruding from his wide leather belt. The motion was barely noticeable, but it conveyed readiness to act.


    On the other side, Boris Stalnogorsky furrowed his brow, his glare burning into Nikodim. He slowly ran his hand through his beard, as though deliberating over every word the envoy had spoken. He disliked Nikodim¡¯s composure - it irritated him, like a reminder of a hidden trap that could not yet be seen.


    A whisper crept through the hall like a cold wind - barely perceptible but carrying distrust. Someone muttered a quiet remark, exchanging a brief glance with a neighbor, but the tension in the air pressed heavier than any words.


    - Clever as a serpent, - one of the boyars muttered, touching a massive ring, as though seeking protection from the hidden threat.


    Alexander felt the murmur of whispers, like a pulsating sound flowing in from all sides. Every gaze in the hall pierced him like invisible threads weaving a web of expectations. He had accepted the gifts, but what lay hidden behind this generosity? The thought that a hidden meaning could change everything pressed down on him like a weight.


    - If there¡¯s a scheme behind the gifts, Stanislav will uncover it, - flashed through the prince¡¯s mind as his eyes shifted to the princely voivode. Stanislav had a knack for seeing what others missed, and his sharp mind unraveled even the most intricate diplomatic maneuvers as if slicing through the web of cunning plans.


    The Byzantine envoy maintained absolute composure. A subtle, almost imperceptible smile flickered across his lips, as if intended only for those accustomed to reading such signs in the shadows of diplomatic intrigue.


    - Lord Stanislav, - Nikodim began in a soft but piercing voice. - Your words, as always, reflect wisdom. The price of friendship, of course, is great, but does it not become lighter when shared?


    He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the strength of his interlocutor while preserving his own dignity.


    - These gifts are a sign of trust, - Nikodim continued, his gaze lingering on the chests. - We believe that Kievan Rus and the Empire can become two pillars supporting a single temple of faith. But a temple built on gold is always doomed to collapse. Its foundation must be truth, not wealth


    His gaze paused on Alexander - a brief, almost imperceptible moment in which a veiled warning lingered.


    - But, of course, - his tone turned deliberately respectful, - words will remain words unless the lord prince gives them meaning


    Alexander felt the boyars¡¯ piercing gazes on him. He straightened, maintaining his composure, though tension simmered within.


    - Weakness or refusal of an alliance? How to preserve the honor and strength of Rus?


    His fingers briefly gripped the armrests of the throne, grounding him in reality. The prince¡¯s eyes locked onto Nikodim¡¯s.


    - But I am the prince. They must see that


    He opened his mouth to speak, but before his voice could break the silence, Stanislav intervened again.


    - Envoy, - Stanislav¡¯s voice was quiet, but its force was tangible, like the blow of an axe against wood. - You speak of pillars. But who will bear the weight of this temple when the storm comes?


    His gaze fixed on Nikodim, cold and unwavering, as if attempting to pierce the core of his intentions. It was an attack, elegant yet precise.


    Nikodim inclined his head, holding the gesture for a moment longer than custom required. There was acknowledgment in it, but also a challenge - refined, like the maneuver of an experienced diplomat.


    - Those who believe, Lord Stanislav. Only faith makes an alliance strong, while gold is merely a tool. We offer a hand, not a chain


    Nikodim leaned forward slightly, signaling that the next move was the prince¡¯s. This time, Alexander did not hesitate.


    - In Kievan Rus, we value neither the weight of words nor the glitter of gold, - he began, his voice firm, like the first rumble of thunder over the fields. - Here, we value deeds. Nikodim, you speak of pillars, but to build them, we need not only faith but also equality. We will not be the foundation of a temple where Kievan Rus is the base and someone else crowns the vaults


    Alexander¡¯s words rang out so confidently that the tension in the hall became almost palpable. The boyars seated to the side began whispering louder. Gleb Turovsky nodded approvingly, and one of the younger boyars even clapped briefly but quickly stopped under the disapproving glances of the elders.


    Nikodim maintained his mask of composure, his gaze sliding to Alexander and lingering a moment longer than usual. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips - a subtle hint that he saw Rus not as an ally, but as a tool.


    - Lord Prince, - he said, bowing more deeply, - the wisdom of your words strengthens my faith in the power of Rus. The alliance we propose is an alliance of equals. No one will lose their freedom, but all will grow stronger through unity


    A heavy silence reigned in the hall. Only the creak of a boot or the faint rustle of fabric disturbed the deathly stillness. It seemed as if the room itself held its breath, afraid to disturb the fragile balance. Even the tongues of flame in the torches, flickering in rhythm with invisible currents of air, seemed frozen, subdued by the growing weight of the moment.


    - Unity? - the word echoed, cold and sharp, like a blade ringing in the silence.


    It was uttered by Miroslav, the prince¡¯s advisor, whose posture betrayed an inner struggle between remaining silent and the necessity to act. His voice broke the tension but did not relieve it. On the contrary, each of his words sounded like a challenge - precise and deliberate.


    Miroslav knew that remaining on the sidelines was no longer an option. He could feel how Nikodim¡¯s words, deceptively soft, seeped into hearts like droplets of water corroding stone.


    - This Byzantine isn¡¯t just testing our patience, - flashed through Miroslav¡¯s mind. - He threatens the very stability of Rus. If Alexander yields, the consequences could be irreversible


    Miroslav stepped forward, each of his steps ringing out like a hammer striking iron. The calmness in his movements concealed an inner storm, yet the boyars¡¯ eyes did not waver from him. He knew that in this moment, he represented not only himself but the voice of those boyars who had yet to muster the courage to speak. His stance radiated firmness, and in his cold, piercing gaze lay the tension of a man ready to cut through any web of deceitful words.


    - Interesting, Nikodim, - Miroslav began softly, but his voice carried through the hall like the clash of a sword against a shield, slicing through the thick silence. - A union of equals, you say? But equality, as we know, is not measured in gold or gifts


    Miroslav¡¯s gaze lingered on the chests - massive wooden coffers bound with metal bands. Golden chalices adorned with fine engravings depicted the lives of saints - scenes of gospel miracles rendered with Byzantine refinement.


    On the surface lay scrolls sealed with crimson wax bearing the empire¡¯s crest, and deeper within, silver candelabras could be seen, etched with intricate designs depicting a vanquished serpent - a symbol of strength but also of menace.


    But inevitably, the centerpiece was the cross - a massive encolpion encrusted with sapphires and rubies. Its inscription - ¡°He who bows shall be saved¡± - seemed to burn the air around it.


    - And if relics lie within? - the thought flashed through Miroslav¡¯s mind. Though unspoken, it hung in the air. The encolpion might contain a fragment of a saint or a relic that could become a symbol of authority. Byzantium had a talent for lavish gifts, but behind the gleam of gold and gemstones always lay calculation.


    - Such gifts are rare, - he thought, narrowing his eyes slightly. - But if this cross does indeed contain relics, the price of these gifts isn¡¯t in gold, but in the soul


    He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his gaze fixed intently on Nikodim:


    - Are these gifts the price of trust? Or is this a subtle test? A test of how far we are willing to go to preserve this ¡°equality¡±?


    The question from Miroslav rang out like a challenge hurled directly at the Byzantine envoy¡¯s face. The hall seemed to shudder, as if a sharp gust of wind had swept between its columns. A few boyars exchanged glances - some nodded silently, while others straightened up, as if bracing themselves for something greater. Their eyes filled with unease and tense curiosity, but no one dared to speak.


    Gavriil the Chronicler, seated not far from Miroslav, ran a thin quill across his scroll. His movements were quick and precise, like those of a man accustomed to transforming the chaos of words into clear lines of annals. Gavriil¡¯s gaze darted from one participant to another, as if imprinting each phrase and gesture in memory. Yet to those who knew him well, it was clear that beneath his outward detachment lay someone who not only observed but judged.


    - What a pointless theater, a waste of time, - he thought, watching as several boyars murmured among themselves like schoolchildren during a lesson.


    One of them, fiddling with a massive ring, whispered something to his neighbor, but Gavriil didn¡¯t record it. He merely noted to himself:


    - The boyars of Kievan Rus are too emotional for such negotiations. Words become weapons only when spoken with cold resolve


    On the other side of the hall, Mikhail of Sophia sat immobile, like a stone-carved sentinel. His heavy gaze, as forceful as a hammer striking an anvil, rested on anyone bold enough to speak. Mikhail made no unnecessary movements, but his piercing stare - weighty and sharp - seemed to scan Nikodim, searching for hidden intentions in his words and gestures.


    Mikhail¡¯s mind wandered to the union of Anna Monomakhina and Prince Vsevolod. Byzantium had presented it in 1046 as a symbol of peace and brotherhood, and in its early years, the marriage indeed became a bridge between two worlds. Yet behind the grandeur of wedding ceremonies lay the subtle threads of politics. This union brought Rus new opportunities but also new obligations.


    Anna, raised within the walls of Constantinople, brought with her not only the empire¡¯s culture but also its demands. Rus gained access to Byzantine craftsmen and enhanced its international prestige, but it paid a steep price. Promises of mutual aid gradually turned unequal: Rus¡¯s armies fought in Byzantine conflicts, while Byzantium was slow to reciprocate.


    After Prince Vsevolod¡¯s death in an ambush, the alliance that was meant to be an indestructible bridge lost its value. Anna was left a widow, and Byzantium - without the support it had counted on. To Mikhail, it was clear that the Byzantine envoys were now playing a delicate game in which old promises of brotherhood and equality could be wielded as levers of pressure. Nikodim seemed fully aware of how to turn this alliance to his advantage.


    - He wants Alexander, - the thought flashed through Mikhail¡¯s mind.


    Mikhail understood that the young prince, the last of his lineage, would be the key for Constantinople to regain influence over Kievan Rus. To Nikodim, Alexander was not merely a ruler but a pawn - one that could be used to further Byzantine interests.


    The encolpion, adorned with sapphires and rubies, glimmered like fire in the dark. Its inscription, ¡°He who bows shall be saved,¡± did not sound like a gift - it felt like a challenge thrown in the prince¡¯s face.


    It was not merely a symbol of friendship; within it might lie relics, a sacred weapon capable of swaying the minds and souls of those who accepted it. And now Mikhail pondered: Was Nikodim truly prepared to make such efforts for peace, or was this a subtle maneuver to bind Alexander¡¯s hands and seize control of his fate?


    Miroslav continued:


    - You offer your hand, - his voice grew even firmer, - but remember that Kievan Rus will only extend its own to those willing not only to take but also to give. We ask for no more than we deserve. For us, the price of friendship is not the glitter of gold but loyalty to a cause that strengthens the land, not depletes it


    Nikodim held a deliberate pause, carefully weighing each word. Once, Rus had been fractured among its princes, each relying on their Senior Boyars. But with the death of the other princes, everything had changed. Now, the most influential Senior Boyars - those who commanded armies, resources, and power - had gathered around Alexander. To them, he was either a guarantor of stability or a tool to strengthen their own positions as they vied for control of the throne.


    To the Senior Boyars, Nikodim was a threat - they did not want a third force interfering in their game. Yet, if Alexander gained the backing of Byzantium, he would surpass them all in strength. This would put Kievan Rus at risk of falling under the Empire¡¯s control. Nikodim¡¯s task was simple: bind the prince to Constantinople without provoking the boyars. Every word he spoke needed to be a blow, driving Alexander into a trap with no escape.


    His face remained calm, though an astute observer might have caught the faintest shadow of tension in his eyes. His lips twitched slightly, but he quickly regained his composure.


    - Your words are just, Lord Miroslav, - he replied. His voice was as soft as silk, but a new note had crept into it. - But is it not better when trust is built together, rather than through trials?


    Sophia watched Nikodim, feeling his soft, almost saccharine words seep into hearts, leaving behind a faint taste of unease. A thought flared in her mind:


    - What will happen to me? Will I be a tool or a player in this game?


    Her uncle spoke of the alliance as salvation, but Sophia felt that behind his words lay his own game. To him, she was not a person but an instrument - beautiful, yet still an instrument.


    Her eyes unconsciously drifted to Prince Alexander. His face remained inscrutable, but Sophia could see the struggle in his posture - invisible but powerful, like a whirlwind ready to burst forth.


    - What if he refuses? - she thought. - Will it be my disgrace or their failure?


    Sophia felt Nikodim¡¯s heavy gaze on her. He still stood confidently before the prince, his posture radiating control over the situation.


    - He knows best


    She ran her fingers along the intricate pattern on her fan, trying to calm herself. The elaborate design, carved by a master craftsman from Constantinople, became her anchor in this turbulent sea of stares and words.


    Miroslav straightened slightly, his eyes flashing like a blade honed to a razor¡¯s edge.


    - Trials are the foundation of trust, - he said curtly. His voice took on the sharpness of a sword, every word landing like a strike on an anvil. - We do not fear trials, Nikodim. But we want to know: are you ready for them?


    Those words stretched the atmosphere in the hall to its limit, like a taut string ready to snap. But before Nikodim could respond, a calm, precise voice rang out from the depths of the assembly.


    Senior Boyarina Olga Strumenskaya rose smoothly, like a cat preparing to pounce. Her eyes, sharp as blades, scanned the room, seeking weakness in everyone. She knew her words would be heard, though not by everyone. In this game, her interests were clear: to maintain her leadership among the boyars and prevent Alexander from growing strong enough to threaten her influence.


    Her head tilted slightly, and her cold, cutting gaze swept through the hall, as if trying to pierce everyone with her unshakable resolve.


    - Risk is a tool in the hands of the wise, - she began, her voice so low and steady that even those whispering a moment ago froze in place. - A tool that can yield great benefits¡­ or destroy everything to its foundation


    She paused, her eyes locking first on Nikodim, then on Alexander.


    - Before we reject this alliance, we must understand how it can strengthen Rus. Risk requires measure, my lords. We must know: are we ready not only to accept this risk but to master it?


    Her words sounded both like a challenge and a call for caution. The hall grew still once again, as if attuned to an invisible thread between the two sides.


    - Where did she learn Greek? How could she have mastered it? - Miroslav wondered, glancing briefly at Olga. - Surely not in Kyiv. But whatever it means, she must be watched carefully


    His eyes narrowed, and his hands behind his back clenched tighter. Her words were measured, but he sensed something more - a hint of a hidden game. She had spoken not just to defend the interests of Kievan Rus but perhaps also her own. Her voice was reasonable, but her tone carried a subtle ambiguity.


    Alexander slowly shifted his gaze from Olga to Nikodim. His face betrayed nothing, but within him grew a realization: the game each player in this hall was playing would become part of history.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    - Each of them tries to assert their truth, - he thought. - But who will be proven right in the end? We won¡¯t see it here, but much later


    Nikodim bowed his head in a gesture of respect, but his gaze, like a veiled challenge, remained cold, faltering only for a brief moment under the weight of the words spoken. His movements stayed theatrically smooth, but a discerning eye might have noticed how his attention lingered on Olga for just a fraction too long.


    - Your words are wise, Lady Olga, - he said. His voice sounded like the rustle of fine silk. - You are right: risk without measure is recklessness. The Empire never asks for blind loyalty. We seek an alliance based on mutual understanding and respect. Is that not where true strength lies?


    His words, melodic and captivating, floated in the silence like notes from a delicate harp. Yet the tension in the hall remained unbroken. Olga did not take her eyes off him, her face calm, though her gaze spoke more than her words.


    She inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging his response, though it was unclear whether she agreed with him or merely stepped aside to prepare her next move.


    Stanislav the Great, standing near a column, took a step forward, his massive frame blocking part of the torchlight. That step seemed to divide the hall into two factions: one of icy, calculated Rus¡¯ authority and the other of Byzantine diplomatic brilliance.


    - Enough words, - his deep voice cut through the room like thunder before a storm. - Rus does not bow under the weight of gold. We will not bear a yoke, no matter how glittering it may be


    He paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over the assembly.


    - We can appreciate your gifts, envoy, but remember: here, we choose our path, not submission. Do not think your words are weapons to be turned against us


    His eyes bore into Nikodim, cold and heavy as stone slabs.


    - Our strength lies in our people, envoy. We choose our path and will not allow others to decide for us


    Those words struck the hall like a wave, rousing even those who had sat silently. The boyars straightened, their gazes no longer wandering. Now they were fixed on Nikodim, hard and unyielding, like steel against a whetstone - silent but full of latent threat.


    Nikodim held his pause. He bowed his head lower than usual, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips.


    - You are wise, Lord Stanislav, - he replied in his soft, silken voice. - The Empire does not dictate. It extends a hand. A hand that can raise not only a sword but also a shield. Alliances make nations stronger, but only when their strengths unite for the common good


    Oleg Vyshgorodsky, seated on the far side of the hall, smirked faintly, crossing his arms over his chest. His cold, slightly disdainful gaze slid over Nikodim as if the envoy were a merchant hawking stale wares.


    - To raise a shield? Or to bow beneath it? - he thought, not bothering to hide his skepticism. Leaning toward Rurik, he murmured with a crooked smile:


    - Pretty words. A bit too sweet. Let¡¯s hope we don¡¯t choke on this ¡°common good¡±


    Rurik Pechersky, seated beside him, glanced briefly at Oleg, a faint shadow of a smile crossing his lips.


    - It¡¯s always like this with the Byzantines, - he muttered softly, leaning in closer. - Sweet on the tongue, but bitter in the throat afterward


    At the other end of the hall, Gleb leaned toward Dobrynya.


    - A hand, he says¡­ more like a chain


    Dobrynya kept his eyes on Nikodim.


    - The question is whose neck will end up in that chain


    Gleb smirked.


    - If we¡¯re careless - ours.


    It seemed that each of them was calculating their next move, waiting for the moment to either support the prince or contest his decision. Behind their cold stares lay thoughts of how to turn the situation to their advantage.


    Alexander, standing at the center of this tense assembly, lifted his head slightly higher. He understood that every word he spoke now would not simply be a response to the Byzantine envoy - it would be a choice seen by all.


    The hall was frozen. The boyars, like stone statues, dared not move. The atmosphere thickened, becoming as tangible as a taut rope. Somewhere in the depths of the room, unease flickered in foreign eyes, and from behind the delegation, another silence whispered in reply, deep and haunting.


    Sophia Lakapina, standing behind the Byzantine delegation, adjusted the golden trim of her chiton as the air in the hall seemed to solidify, transforming into invisible lead. Every word, whether spoken or unspoken, became part of its weight.


    Her uncle Nikodim¡¯s remarks and the firm statements of the Kievan boyars echoed in her mind, a resounding hum that filled her thoughts. The silence that followed stretched painfully, as though time itself had stopped.


    The stone walls, adorned with frescoes of saints¡¯ faces, bore scars of weapons and soot, as if they had absorbed the history of bloody battles. Each boyar appeared motionless, like a chess piece waiting to be moved.


    Sophia¡¯s heart pounded so loudly that it seemed everyone could hear it. Her fingers gripped her fan to hide the trembling in her hands, and her gaze darted between the cold Nikodim and the prince, who resembled the edge of a blade.


    Her cousin Clio grasped Sophia¡¯s elbow, as though trying to anchor her in place. Clio¡¯s gaze was icy and sharp, but there was a flicker of unease - barely visible but undeniable.


    She turned away quickly, as if afraid Sophia might catch sight of her vulnerability. Clio knew that Sophia had earned her place in the delegation, but at times, her boldness seemed reckless.


    - You cannot afford to make a mistake, - her clenched fingers seemed to say, cold as steel. - Neither of us can


    And yet, Sophia could not tear her eyes from the young prince. In his tense posture and the firmly clasped fingers on the armrests, she saw something difficult to define - a mixture of strength and doubt. He looked like a man on the verge of leaping into battle, but still undecided.


    Suddenly, she noticed Nikodim¡¯s gaze. He turned, and their eyes met. His look was calm and confident, like a lighthouse in the midst of a storm.


    - You are Sophia Lakapina. You must be strong, - she repeated silently to herself, trying to steady the trembling in her hands.


    Her eyes returned to Alexander. In his gaze, where struggle and uncertainty resided, she caught a faint spark - a glimmer of light breaking through the storm. In that moment, something shifted within her, giving way to courage. Perhaps it was his visible battle - palpable and heavy, like the stone walls around them.


    - If he can endure this, why can¡¯t I?


    Before she realized it, Sophia stepped forward. The sound of her footsteps in the charged silence made the hall freeze.


    - This is madness, - she thought. - But it¡¯s too late to turn back now


    Clio, standing beside her, yanked at her elbow. Her fingers dug into Sophia¡¯s skin like claws.


    - Sophia, stop! - she hissed, barely suppressing the tremor in her voice. Her gaze flickered between Nikodim and the princely council, as though already calculating the consequences. - You¡¯ll ruin us both! You want to challenge Uncle Nikodim?


    Sophia shot her a brief glance. She saw the fear in Clio¡¯s eyes, but behind it was something else - envy. Subtle, but undeniable in that instant.


    - I must, Clio, - Sophia replied quietly, pulling free of her grip. The movement was firm but devoid of force.


    Taking another step forward, Sophia felt her heart pounding so fast that her blood roared in her ears. But retreat was no longer an option.


    - Prince, - her gaze locked onto Alexander¡¯s. His eyes were cold and guarded, but within them she saw the same inner battle she felt within herself. - An alliance is a step. A mistake at the beginning can lead to catastrophe


    The pause that followed was suffocating, the tension almost tangible. Her fan trembled in her hands, but she tightened her grip on it, as though it were her shield.


    - Mistakes are costly, - she continued. Now her voice grew steadier, the tremor gone. - But a road without progress costs even more


    The silence that followed her words was nearly deafening. Vasily Svyatopolkovich narrowed his eyes, his face darkening like that of a man who sensed a hidden threat. Boris Stalnogorsky let out a short snort, glancing quickly at his neighbors as though gauging their reactions. Even Gavriil the Chronicler, who had been diligently recording every word, froze with his quill in midair, as if afraid to disturb the fragile pause.


    - An interesting variable, - he murmured softly.


    Nikodim, standing at the front, turned his head toward Sophia. A faint glimmer of approval flickered in his eyes, quickly replaced by a cold warning. It was the look of a predator sizing up its prey.


    Sophia held his gaze, though fear still churned within her.


    When her eyes returned to Alexander, his face remained inscrutable. But his gaze was different. Not respect, not affection - rather, intrigue.


    - Risk can lead to victory, - he finally said, his voice steady and firm, now addressing everyone. - But only if every step is calculated. On this road, Kievan Rus cannot afford to stumble


    Sophia felt the tension inside her give way to a strange lightness. She suddenly realized that her words had found resonance. They could no longer be ignored.


    Clio stared at her from behind. Anger and fear mixed in her cousin¡¯s expression, but something else flickered in her eyes. Admiration? Envy? Sophia couldn¡¯t tell, but she knew one thing: she had done what Clio would never dare.


    Clio gripped the hem of her chiton, as though trying to keep her fury under control. Her face assumed a cold expression, but the corners of her lips twitched, betraying hidden emotions.


    - She¡¯s risking everything, - Clio thought. - But what if she wins?


    Sophia lifted her gaze to the hall again. Every boyar was watching her, weighing her words, but she no longer felt like a victim. This was her moment of triumph - or her downfall. Yet she did not yet know which it would be.


    Stanislav the Great, who had been standing nearby, shifted his heavy gaze toward Sophia. Until now, he had paid little attention to the girl standing behind the Byzantine delegation, but her words had caught his notice, triggering a sense of unease.


    - So, is she merely pretending to be young and na?ve? - the thought crossed his mind.


    His brows drew together slightly, and his eyes narrowed. He knew Nikodim well enough to understand that the Byzantine diplomat would not include such a figure in his delegation without a purpose.


    Dobrynya Vsevolodich, the prince¡¯s steward, glanced briefly at Sophia before turning his attention back to Nikodim. His face betrayed no emotion, but inside, his thoughts churned.


    - An interesting move, - he mused, clasping his hands in front of him. - Nikodim is playing the long game. Is she a pawn or a hidden piece in this match?


    Miroslav stood in the shadow of a column, his sharp eyes darting between Nikodim and Sophia, as if weighing them like a seasoned merchant assessing goods. Yet he saw more than mere surface interactions. To him, every word from Nikodim was a carefully placed trap, and Sophia - whether knowingly or not - was a figure who could become either a threat or an opportunity. He had long suspected that behind Nikodim¡¯s outward softness lay a deeply calculated strategy.


    - This girl isn¡¯t a coincidence, - he thought. Her appearance, her words, the effect she had on the prince - it all seemed too deliberate.


    Olga Strumenskaya traced her fingers along the edge of a massive ring, as if weighing Sophia¡¯s words in her mind. Her predatory interest was evident, like someone accustomed to exploiting the weaknesses of others. From their first encounter, when Olga had assisted in hosting the delegation, she had noted that this young Byzantine woman was more than just decoration. Her posture, her glances, her behavior - they all revealed a mind unaccustomed to idleness.


    - A bold girl, - Olga thought, smirking inwardly.


    The reactions of the boyars varied. Gleb Turovsky lazily stroked his beard, then chuckled softly, as if he had caught something in Sophia¡¯s words that others had missed.


    Nikodim held Sophia in his gaze for a brief moment, studying her as though she were a piece that could shift the outcome of the entire match. His expression remained calm and cold, but his lips curved into a faint smile - devoid of warmth, carrying only a silent question: Would she withstand the pressure, or would she falter at the first blow?


    - An unusual piece you¡¯ve placed in this game, Nikodim, - Miroslav said, stepping out from the shadow of the column. His voice was steady, but every word carried an undercurrent of guarded tension.


    Nikodim inclined his head with the same polished courtesy that gave no hint of his true thoughts.


    - Sometimes a pawn proves more useful than a rook, - he replied with a slight smile that barely touched his lips. - Especially when it reaches the right square


    His words sent another ripple through the hall. The boyars¡¯ wary and calculating gazes turned to Sophia, as if trying to discern her role in this diplomatic game.


    Under the weight of so many stares, Sophia felt her knees tremble. Everything inside her screamed to flee, but she held her ground.


    Her face remained impassive, but fear raged within her - not for herself, but for the consequences of her actions. She understood that her words might have shaken the fragile balance between the sides, but there was no turning back now. Any sign of weakness would mean defeat.


    Stanislav the Great stepped forward. His heavy gaze lingered on Nikodim before settling on Sophia.


    - A girl who dares to play with fire, - he said, addressing the room more than her. - But in our games, pawns rarely survive to the end, let alone become queens


    The tension in the hall became suffocating, like thick smoke enveloping everyone. Every glance, every word, seemed to tighten invisible chains around the participants. The boyars¡¯ eyes, sharp and guarded, darted between Nikodim and Sophia.


    The envoy noticed the shift in the atmosphere. His fingers moved ever so slightly, as though he were mentally preparing his next move. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Sophia. In that brief pause, a hidden appraisal - almost piercing - flashed through his eyes. He was studying her, trying to determine whether her audacity was spontaneous or a calculated step.


    But Nikodim quickly averted his gaze, as if placing a silent period on the moment. For a fleeting instant, frustration flickered in his eyes - he had underestimated the combative spirit of Miroslav and Stanislav. Yet his face swiftly resumed its customary calm, as though this misstep were simply another part of his plan. A slight tilt of his head, a practiced smile - everything about him signaled an attempt to regain control of the situation.


    - Your principality, as we have already discussed, - Nikodim began in a steady, soft voice, beneath which an unyielding strength could be felt, - we seek allies willing to share the burden of protecting the faith and standing against our enemies. A union between the Empire and Rus would be a pillar for peace and prosperity


    His words pierced the taut silence, but instead of easing the tension, it grew heavier. The boyars exchanged wary glances, their expressions sharpening with suspicion. Stanislav the Great crossed his arms over his chest, his cold eyes gleaming with distrust. Miroslav lifted his chin slightly, clearly calculating the best way to counter this move.


    Nikodim paused, as if allowing his words to sink deeper, then continued:


    - We believe that the alliance of the Empire and Rus will stand as a pillar for peace and the defense of the faith. Together, we are stronger against our enemies


    His words hung in the air like a challenge thrown at the entire hall. Nikodim straightened slightly, his posture and calm demeanor a reminder that he had come to persuade, not to threaten.


    Alexander rose, the cold weight of his chainmail seeming to press deeper against his skin, as if reaching his very soul. It was a chilling reminder:


    - You are the prince, and it is your burden to bear


    The gazes of the boyars, sharp as unsheathed blades, bore into him, ready to strike at the slightest misstep. But in this moment, he could not waver. Even the faintest hint of doubt could ignite a blaze capable of consuming everything.


    - Thank you for your words, envoy, - Alexander said, his voice even but cold, like tempered steel. - But in Rus, we value deeds, not words. We will continue this discussion where fates are decided, not where speeches are made


    His gaze swept across the rows of boyars, sharp and silent, like a blade demanding a response. Ignat Slavyansky gave a slight nod of agreement. Oleg frowned, his eyes clouded with tension and mistrust. Olga Strumenskaya watched the prince intently, as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his words.


    Nikodim, sensing the weight of these stares, bowed his head slightly lower than usual. His smile grew a touch warmer, yet it retained the same cold confidence, as though every word Alexander spoke played into his calculations.


    - The Empire does not dictate, prince, - Nikodim replied, his voice soft, like silk that could turn to steel at any moment. - It extends a hand¡­ but not to everyone. Only to those who understand the cost of a true alliance


    He paused briefly, letting his words settle into the heavy silence.


    - Let this path become ours together, - he added, his gaze locking with Alexander¡¯s, as though issuing a silent challenge.


    Alexander held his gaze for a moment, his face impassive, but his eyes smoldered with a mix of steel and fire.


    - Follow me, - he said quietly, but his words carried such unyielding strength that even the stone walls of the hall seemed to echo in response.


    The sound of Alexander¡¯s footsteps rang out, dull and heavy, like hammer blows against stone. Each step resonated in the hearts of the princely boyars: they followed him, though not all shared his conviction.


    Alexander felt that with every word and every step, he was not merely responding but shaping the destiny of Kievan Rus. The alliance promised protection - but at what cost? He could not allow weakness to define his legacy.


    Nikodim gave a barely perceptible nod, but a flicker of tension passed through his eyes. He understood all too well: the true game was only beginning. All this time, he had been biding his time, watching and evaluating - assessing the prince¡¯s strength, his influence, his allies, and the fragile balance of Rus. Now that all the pieces were in place, he was ready to use his knowledge to tip the scales at the negotiating table.


    Each step Alexander took was deliberate and resonant, like the blows of a hammer on an anvil.


    Stanislav the Great stepped forward behind him. His piercing gaze rested on Nikodim, as though trying to unravel every thread of the envoy¡¯s intentions.


    Miroslav, walking slightly behind, fiddled with the edge of his coat, turning over future arguments in his mind. His focus spoke volumes: he was preparing for a battle where words would be the weapons.


    Oleg, the Grand Steward, moved next, his cold eyes fixed on the Byzantine envoy. For him, negotiations were not merely politics but precise calculation - he knew that every alliance demanded a price.


    Ignat, the supreme voivode, walked beside him. His imposing figure radiated the assurance that if words turned to swords, he would be the first to enter the fray.


    The procession was closed by Metropolitan Illarion. His face remained as still as stone, but a flicker of concern burned in his eyes. To him, this was not just a meeting but a final stand for the soul of Rus.


    He felt his body growing weaker. Time was slipping away - months, perhaps weeks, remained. Illarion stayed silent, conserving his strength, knowing his words would need to carry the weight of finality when the moment came.


    - If I fall, it will be only after I have made my mark, - he thought, clenching his fingers so tightly that his knuckles whitened.


    The murmurs in the hall gradually faded, giving way to a profound silence in which only the creak of boots on stone tiles could be heard.


    The Byzantine delegation moved behind the prince¡¯s boyars, like a shadow silently poised for the decisive move. Nikodim, slightly ahead of his companions, walked with a predatory grace, his gaze sliding over the Rus warriors and boyars as if assessing their strengths and weaknesses.


    Close behind him was Leo Komnenos, upright and silent, a figure carved from granite. His heavy stare served as an unspoken reminder of the power the Empire carried with it. Behind them followed Agaphius Scholasticus, a man whose demeanor spoke of one accustomed to victory through words.


    Agaphius¡¯ sharp eyes drifted to Metropolitan Illarion - the first Slavic metropolitan, a symbol of the independence of the Rus Church. Yet Agaphius knew that this independence was fragile, a temporary illusion. The seat of the metropolitan had already been promised by the Byzantine Senate to his friend Ephraim, a loyal man of Constantinople.


    - We will reclaim control, step by step, - he thought, the corners of his lips twitching in a faint smile.


    At the rear of the group walked Sophia and her cousin Clio. Sophia gripped her fan tightly, striving to maintain a facade of composure, though her thoughts churned like a restless sea. Nikodim had not revealed all his plans, but she knew that decisions about her fate could be made at the negotiation table behind closed doors.


    - There, beyond those doors, everything will be decided, - she thought, her gaze fixed on Alexander, who walked ahead with unshakable confidence.


    Clio, walking beside her, lightly touched Sophia¡¯s hand, as if sensing her internal tension. Sophia shot her cousin a brief glance. In Clio¡¯s eyes, there was something akin to sympathy, but she quickly averted her gaze, as if afraid to reveal more than she intended.


    The heavy doors closed behind the Byzantines with a dull thud, like the fall of a guillotine sealing an unseen fate. The tension hanging in the hall became almost tangible, heavy as a lead slab. The boyars remained silent, but all of them felt it: beyond those doors, a battle would unfold that would determine not only the prince¡¯s future but the destiny of all Kievan Rus.


    Olga Strumenskaya stayed in the hall with the others who were not permitted to attend the negotiations. She watched the Byzantine delegation and the prince¡¯s council disappear through the doors, but her attention quickly returned to Sophia. The girl¡¯s subtle movements - a trembling fan, a breath taken too quickly - did not escape Olga¡¯s sharp gaze.


    Olga narrowed her eyes slightly.


    - Is she a pawn or a queen? - she thought, tilting her head ever so slightly, as though observing someone else¡¯s game from the sidelines.


    Her gaze lingered on Sophia like that of a predator sizing up its prey. A faint gesture - the fan quivering ever so slightly in Sophia¡¯s fingers - could signify fear, but it could also be a mask.


    - Fear or courage? - Olga mused, her fingers idly brushing the cold metal of her massive ring, finding calm in its solidity. - And who whispers in this girl¡¯s ear? Nikodim? Or her own demons?


    A faint smirk touched Olga¡¯s lips.


    - If she¡¯s a pawn, she¡¯s too bold. If she¡¯s a queen, she¡¯s too young to endure our game


    Her thoughts drifted into memory. Olga had seen scenes like this before: seemingly insignificant figures who suddenly flipped the board, becoming the center of a carefully crafted strategy.


    Her fingers glided over the ring again. Her face remained unreadable, but her gaze lingered on Sophia a moment longer than polite curiosity would require. In that gaze lay a predatory, waiting interest, like a cat watching a bird in a cage.


    - Perhaps she¡¯s the one destined to place the final stroke in this game, - the thought flickered through her mind as she turned her eyes from the now-closed doors.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who¡¯s reading!


    This chapter turned out to be quite detailed and extensive because I¡¯m striving to depict events as realistically as possible. You won¡¯t find a situation here where only Alexander, Nikodim, and a couple of advisors engage in dialogue while everyone else simply remains silent, fading into the background or serving as mere extras, without any reaction to what¡¯s happening.


    I hope you¡¯re enjoying this deep dive into the era of Kievan Rus. I¡¯m doing my best to convey its atmosphere as accurately as possible and to maintain historical authenticity, so you can truly feel the spirit of that time.


    A quick note:


    In Rus, epithets such as ¡°The Wise¡± or ¡°The Great¡± were not typically formal titles. They reflected a person¡¯s qualities, merits, or achievements that became part of their reputation through their actions. For example, Miroslav earned the nickname ¡°The Wise¡± for his intellect and diplomatic skills, while Stanislav became known as ¡°The Great¡± thanks to his leadership and influence.


    I¡¯d love to hear your comments and feedback. Every single one of them is incredibly inspiring because they show that people aren¡¯t just casually skimming, but are reading with genuine interest and attention.

 Chapter 19. At the Carved Table of Power

    The massive doors of the main hall closed, and the air became dense, saturated with incense and wax. The torches flared briefly and hesitantly, as if sharing the weariness of the fading evening.


    The silence stretched taut, like an old bow: tremble - and it would either shoot or snap.


    Whispers rose like the rustle of autumn leaves in the wind.


    The senior boyars were in no hurry to leave. Some stared intently into the faces of others, calculating each gesture as if they were cards laid out on the table of fate. Others, in contrast, avoided eye contact, concealing their anxiety behind masks of indifference.


    In the shadows of the columns, the junior boyars crowded together like pawns before the first move - ready to leap, yet unaware of when or where. They watched the senior boyars with cautious anticipation, understanding that any misstep could lead to their downfall.


    Dobrynya clenched the handle of his cane, shaped like a wolf''s head. The bared teeth under his fingers served as a reminder: here, trust was a weakness. The torchlight danced on the metal, and for a moment, the snarl came alive, delivering a silent warning.


    - These people are not my wolves, - the thought flickered in his mind. In this place, even an iron support could break under the invisible weight of others'' intrigues.


    - A pack of wolves can turn on anyone, - he said quietly, addressing the woman beside him.


    Senior boyarina Olga Strumenskaya, the governor of the Volodymyr-Volynsk land, subtly moved closer, adjusting the silver wolf-shaped clasp on her cloak. The gesture seemed casual, yet it carried hidden strength - a symbol of authority that required no words. Her gaze - cold and precise like a dagger strike - swept over the columns and the faces of the boyars.


    - Wolves, you say? - She spoke slowly, as if tasting the words. Stepping slightly forward, Olga moved gracefully but inexorably - her steps exuded a power that left no room for defiance. - Wolves fear only those who can strike faster than they can snap their jaws shut


    Dobrynya smirked slightly, but his eyes remained cold.


    - You know how to keep them in fear, Olga. They look at you as if waiting for your command. Some of them are already poised to lunge forward but hesitate. They fear guessing wrong about who you''ll grant the right to make the first move


    Olga paused and narrowed her eyes, surveying the junior boyars. One of them - too young and overconfident - stepped forward, hoping to attract attention. Her gaze struck him with icy precision. The boyar froze, as if lashed by an invisible whip. His fingers twitched, and the edge of his sleeve brushed a goblet resting on the table''s edge.


    The goblet tumbled to the floor. A dull thud echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, and the torch flames flickered, casting shadows that momentarily animated the frozen faces. No one stirred.


    The young boyar, unable to meet anyone''s gaze, bent to retrieve the goblet. His lowered back exposed a moment of vulnerability - as if a drawn bow awaited the signal to release an arrow. He picked up the goblet carefully, as if holding molten metal. A soft breath behind him sounded louder than the impact of the fallen object.


    - Sound reveals much about a person, - Vasily Svyatopolkich remarked lazily. His voice was quiet but spread like a shadow, permeating every corner. - Some will hold a goblet steady in their hand, while others will let it take flight


    Dobrynya turned a calm, studying gaze on Vasily and inclined his head slightly.


    - For now, only metal is flying, - he responded softly, as if continuing a thought. - But what if next time something greater falls?


    The youth retreated hurriedly, his shoulders trembling from suppressed tension. Olga silently turned to him, her cold gaze lingering on his face. In that moment, he was like small prey caught in a hunter''s sights. Unable to bear it, he lowered his eyes and took a half-step back into the shadows of the columns.


    - No one has howled yet, - Olga said quietly, as if speaking to herself, but her words hung in the air like an ominous forewarning. - Though the howl is already echoing in their minds. They''re waiting... either for a strike or for a mistake


    Dobrynya tightened his grip on the cane, slowly leaning forward, as if shortening the distance to his interlocutor. There was more to this movement than mere fatigue - a cautious pressure, as though he was testing not only his words but also those who were listening.


    - Mistakes are always waiting. The moment one stumbles, the pack will pounce. It doesn''t matter who it is - the prince, you, or me


    Olga gave a cold smile, and something akin to a cunning mockery flickered in her eyes.


    - As long as he holds his ground, - she said quietly, casting a glance at the hall''s closed doors. - But this dance isn''t for the weak. Every movement is a test of survival. Blood is worth more than words. Today, each of them has already decided which side they want to remain on


    Dobrynya ran his finger over the carved wolf head of his cane, as if weighing her words.


    - Deciding isn''t enough, - he replied slowly. - Those who wager on others'' blood often lose their own first


    At the other end of the hall, Senior Boyar Gleb Turovsky, the governor of the Turov-Pinsk lands, was fingering his prayer beads - too quickly, like a man who wanted to appear calm but was actually counting possible outcomes rather than beads.


    - Gifts are bait, - he said softly, but loud enough that the nearest boyars froze, listening. - The question isn''t why they are here. The question is what they already consider theirs


    Around Gleb Turovsky, junior boyars and boyarinas gathered. Lyutobor, his gaze full of inner fire, stared intently at the gifts. Yarina, calm and calculating, seemed to be probing each item for a hidden trap. Vseslav stood slightly apart, his sharp eyes darting across faces as if already calculating the next move.


    Some hoped for profit, others saw a threat in the Byzantine gifts. The tension grew as voices rose from those who could no longer remain silent.


    - What will they call their own? - Lyutobor suddenly blurted out. Tall and broad-shouldered, with prominent cheekbones and a fierce gaze, he came from a family that ruled lands bordering the Polovtsian steppes. His voice was harsh, as if accustomed to shouting over the wind and the whistling of arrows. - Crosses? Chalices? Out on the steppe, those won''t even get you a piece of salted meat! They should''ve sent us ships and weapons instead!


    To his left stood Boyarina Yarina from Chernigov, arms crossed over her chest. Her face remained calm, but her gaze was heavy and probing, like that of an experienced merchant. She stepped forward, throwing a quiet, mocking remark over her shoulder:


    - Always swords. And who will feed the land, Lyutobor? Or do your horses sow grain on their own?


    Lyutobor tensed, but before he could reply, a slender figure stepped forward - Vseslav, the son of a Novgorod boyar. Slight and wiry, with quick movements and a sharp, piercing gaze, he smiled with a cold calculation in his voice.


    - It''s obvious who spent their life behind hills. You think the world is just swords and borders? These gifts are symbols. If you don''t understand their meaning, then you''ve already lost to the Byzantines


    Lyutobor took a step forward, his chest rising like that of a beast before a fight. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.


    - And you think you know what to do with these trinkets? - he asked quietly but menacingly, his gaze heavy like a storm cloud. - You think they''ll give us anything for sweet words? Nothing


    Vseslav, maintaining his composure, raised his head. His voice stretched taut like a string.


    - They''ll give us a chance to negotiate. Or do you want to bury your people every year, fighting for every scrap of steppe?


    - We can trade without them! - Yarina cut in, her voice slicing through the air. - If anyone here doesn''t understand the gift''s meaning, it''s the two of you. Byzantium says one thing and does another. Accept without caution, and you''ll tighten the noose around your neck


    Lyutobor turned to her with fury.


    - So the noose is better than a sword? Better to be a merchant than a warrior?


    The tension spread between them like oil spilled before a fire. The younger boyars, divided into two sides, watched every movement of the disputants with rapt attention. For a moment, the hall became a silent arena. One more instant - and someone would snap, reaching for a weapon.


    Gleb Turovsky muttered softly, as if conversing with himself:


    - Warriors and merchants... One day, and you''re ready to tear each other apart like dogs in a kennel


    The senior boyar''s words spread like a heavy spell. The disputants froze for a moment, though Lyutobor''s eyes still burned with rage. Vseslav''s hand twitched slightly, as if preparing for another verbal strike.


    Then the air shuddered from the sharp knock of a staff.


    Senior Boyar Ryurik Pechersky slowly raised his head, casting a gaze over the disputants that held not a trace of patience.


    - Enough, - his voice was quiet but rang with steel. - Do you not see where your bickering leads?


    Vseslav involuntarily lowered his eyes to the floor. Lyutobor exhaled loudly but found no words to counter. The other junior boyars and boyarinas froze for a second, as if unsure whether the next sign would be silence or another explosion. The oppressive stillness returned, thick and stifling like the aftermath of a sudden gust of wind.


    The flame in a nearby torch flared and hissed, casting shadows onto the distant columns. In that spectral light, the figures of the other boyars seemed to grow in significance.


    The junior boyar standing closest to Boris Stalnogorsky glanced sideways at him, as if hoping to catch his reaction. A couple of others noticed the look but found Boris unmoving. His presence hung in the air like subdued tension, and for a moment, everyone who saw him felt it was better not to attract undue attention.


    Boris ran his fingers through his beard, pausing with his hand on his chin. His gaze grew heavier, as if the particles of incense were settling not on the floor but on thoughts of an impending decision. His eyes, still and thick like stagnant water, rested on the door behind which the prince and the Byzantine delegation had vanished.


    Only his voice broke the silence - low, but so weighty it seemed as though the words seeped through the stone walls:


    - He held on tight... - Boris tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the phrase. - But when the pressure builds, will he crack or endure?


    Next to him, Vasily Svyatopolkich, known for his wit and grace, leaned lazily against a column, as if he were already bored with the proceedings. Yet his eyes roved over the faces of the boyars, searching for hints of weakness.


    His gaze, light and mocking, swept over the junior boyars, who cautiously approached but slowed their steps, sensing the oppressive aura radiating from Stalnogorsky.


    - With that expression, you might as well be carved in stone, Boris, - Vasily chuckled. - Look at them. They already think they''re about to hear their fate. That one in the gray kaftan almost crossed himself when he saw your gaze


    Boris gave a quiet snort without taking his eyes off the door. The junior boyar in gray indeed froze in place. He caught Vasily''s gaze and tried to say something, but, noticing how Boris slowly cracked his knuckles, as if restraining the urge to tear something invisible apart, he quickly changed his mind.


    - Let them think, - Boris said dryly. His fingers closed into a fist with a crunch. - The less they speak, the fewer mistakes they make


    - Or maybe the less they speak, the more mistakes they make, - Vasily mused, casting a short, mocking glance at the junior boyars, as if silently asking: - So, what will you do now?


    They quickly pretended to have more pressing matters in another part of the hall.


    Vasily watched them go and smirked with a lazy nod.


    - Stalnogorsky, you''re like the fortress walls of Chernigov. You stand in silence, and everyone immediately understands: better not to knock unless you want to break your hand


    - Some think walls can be bypassed, - Boris muttered, raising an eyebrow slightly. - But there are always those who build a dead end for themselves


    The junior boyars, having lost all courage to approach, retreated into the shadows of the columns, exchanging glances and whispering under their breath. Vasily lazily surveyed them and chuckled:


    - Such silence... As if they''re already hearing their own requiem


    Across the hall, merchants were conversing quietly, invited as observers.


    - Have you seen those vessels? - Svyatomir Pechersky leaned closer to his companion, as though fearing thieves might overhear his thoughts. - Not a gift, but a trap. They belong on the Novgorod market, but whoever bids first will end up in debt. Envy is the lesser evil here


    Vladimir Mekhovod, an elderly merchant with slender fingers, exhaled slowly and gave Svyatomir a look as if weighing him like gold.


    - You''re thinking too small, - he said quietly, almost insinuatingly. - Those vessels aren''t for trade. If they end up in Novgorod, someone will think we''ve already put Rus'' up for sale. Obedience here isn''t measured in gold - it''s measured in swords


    Svyatomir fell silent, biting his lip.


    - So it''s better to leave them here... - he whispered.


    - Or sink them, - Vladimir added with icy certainty. His gaze grew heavy, like a leaden seal, as if he had already foreseen the consequences of a wrong move.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    At a table where remnants of the feast remained, two maidservants were clearing the dishes, whispering so quietly it seemed every word could summon a storm.


    - Did you see how the prince''s boyar prayed at the icon today? They say that''s how people pray before death, - the first one murmured, carefully placing a goblet on the tray.


    The second maid frowned, raising her eyes.


    - That''s nothing. They burned incense all night. Too much... as if they were warding off something terrible


    - Maybe they weren''t warding it off, but waiting for it? - There was a note of fear in her voice. A pause stretched between them like a dark shadow.


    The second maid froze for a moment, then tilted her head and barely whispered:


    - Waiting is the worst of all


    By the far wall, Mikhail of Sophia knelt with his head bowed, his lips barely moving as if the words he spoke might scorch the air around him. The shadows on the walls trembled like faded icons. Mikhail seemed to be part of the ancient walls - silent and unyielding, like stone holding the secrets of the world.


    Svyatoslav Polovetsky, standing a short distance away, watched him grimly. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather creaking softly in response.


    - Tell me, Boris, what is he praying for? - he said quietly, not taking his eyes off Mikhail. - Salvation? Or judgment upon us all?


    Boris Dneprovsky, heavy and imperturbable, slowly brushed the dust from his cloak.


    - Mikhail fights his own battles, - he replied after a pause. His voice was low but carried the weight of a deep river flowing underground. - And he doesn''t win them with swords. Maybe his weapon is stronger than our blades. If it turns against us, it will be too late to change anything


    Svyatoslav squinted and gave a tense smirk.


    - He''s silent. That means he''s already afraid, - he muttered, more to himself. - And if a monk is afraid, it''s time to prepare for the worst


    Boris didn''t reply, only raised an eyebrow, though his gaze spoke more than words. He looked again at Mikhail, who crossed himself and lifted his head. For a moment, his eyes lingered on an ancient fresco beneath the arch - its outlines came alive in the flickering firelight, like the face of something distant, unseen, but approaching.


    The clanging of heavy doors and the groaning of hinges echoed through the hall, causing everyone to freeze. All eyes turned to the entrance. In the doorway appeared the commanding figure of the prince''s boyar - Chief Treasurer Radomir Serebryany.


    His cloak, embroidered with silver, glided softly along the floor as he entered with a measured column of guards and aides. Two of them carried scrolls and specialized chests for inspecting and cataloging the gifts.


    Their footsteps echoed heavily, as if marking time before the start of something significant. Radomir cast a calm but piercing gaze around the hall. His presence filled the space at once, as though he had come to remind everyone of the importance of what the Byzantines had brought.


    The boyars exchanged tense glances. Someone whispered something, but the words were swallowed by the silence.


    Boris Stalnogorsky watched the Chief Treasurer as one would observe an adversary on a hidden battlefield.


    - Looks like he''s here to claim what he already considers his, - Boris muttered, his simple remark hanging in the air, amplifying the tension.


    The guards halted at the entrance, and Radomir took a few more slow steps forward. A heavy silence fell - as if everyone awaited the next move in an unknown game of power and symbols.


    The corridors of the terem were bathed in the flickering light of torches. Fiery reflections danced on the frescoes, where the austere faces of saints seemed to observe every step of the procession. Alexander moved at the front, his chainmail jingling faintly in rhythm with his steps, though this sound was drowned out by the heavy pounding of his heart.


    The first stage was over. He had endured it all - his authority, his honor - within the hall of the grand reception, under the watchful eyes of the boyars and the cunning Byzantines. Now, the most difficult part remained - negotiations.


    - Nikodim... The Byzantine envoy, weaving words finer than a spider''s web. He spoke at length, but every word was a trap - slippery, ambiguous, leaving a lingering aftertaste of doubt. His speeches hovered in clouds of vagueness and then settled gracefully, like a fabric woven from silk and poison


    - The key is not to get caught in those nets, where meaning shifts like a reflection on water


    The corridor seemed to breathe, contracting and turning the passage into a stone snare. The torches flickered, casting shadows on the walls that resembled intricate patterns - or ghostly hands reaching toward him. The air was cool, but Alexander felt a hot drop of sweat slide down his back, like a warning: there was no turning back.


    - If I waver, they will see it. They will sense weakness, like predators scenting blood. I cannot afford to waver. I am the prince


    Alexander walked ahead, his stride firm and measured. Behind him followed Mstislav and Mirnomir - both composed but focused, carefully observing their surroundings. Their silent presence seemed to heighten the tension.


    Behind them, the prince''s boyars marched in orderly formation - Stanislav, Miroslav, Ignat, Oleg, and Metropolitan Illarion. Their faces were serious, each mentally preparing for the upcoming negotiations.


    Further back, in the shimmering torchlight, appeared the Byzantine delegation. Their steps were softer, but their eyes betrayed a hidden attentiveness to everything around them. They were watched closely - as guests and potential allies, but also as those not fully trusted.


    Bringing up the rear were scribes and chroniclers led by Senior Boyar Gavriil Zlatopisets. He walked with an even posture, holding a scroll and ink pot, his sharp gaze capturing every detail for future records.


    Walking beside him were his assistants: Simeon Porfirovich calmly noting key moments, Illarion Ostrozhsky tracking significant remarks, Lavr of Chernigov meticulously recording details of the surroundings, and Danilo Pechersky carrying documents and supplies, striving not to miss a single lesson from his elders.


    At the entrance to the negotiation hall stood four of the prince''s guards, like statues carved from stone. Their stillness conveyed a hidden readiness. Fur-lined cloaks concealed chainmail, and cold eyes gleamed beneath helmets with nasal guards. On each chest glinted a medallion bearing the prince''s symbol.


    The senior guard, Rodoslav, held a spear with a double-pointed tip. His weathered face remained focused. Beside him, Ostromir, quick and vigilant, kept his gaze locked on the corridor, lightly resting a hand on the shaft of his battle axe. Stanimir, tall and composed, stood as if fused with the heavy sword at his waist. The youngest, Vsevolod, gripped his spear tightly, eyes nervously tracking the older guards.


    The sound of weapons and footsteps echoed through the corridor. The guards tensed, exchanged glances, and readied themselves. A moment later, from the shadows of the archway, Prince Alexander and the others emerged.


    Mstislav and Mirnomir stepped slightly ahead, asserting their presence. No words were spoken, but a single glance from Mirnomir was enough for Rodoslav and his men to understand: the prince stood before them. These were men trusted only with the most crucial matters - Mstislav and Mirnomir were well-known throughout the prince''s retinue.


    The guards at the entrance wasted no time. Rodoslav gave a brief glance to his comrades and nodded. All four simultaneously stepped to the sides, clearing the passage. Their movements were precise and coordinated, as if long rehearsed.


    They bowed their heads in unison as a sign of respect. Rodoslav and Ostromir pushed the heavy doors, and the creak of the hinges pierced the silence like distant thunder. The doors yielded with difficulty, as if the very walls of the hall were reluctant to let new witnesses enter the forthcoming events.


    The stone floor greeted Alexander''s step with a hollow echo that spread beneath the vaulted ceiling, as though an unseen voice whispered:


    The time has come


    Alexander paused at the threshold.


    The hall was darker, deeper than he remembered. The silence here was unique - not empty, but filled with the voices of the past. He felt as if the walls were listening, absorbing the breath of those who entered.


    He held his breath. Another moment - and the air seemed to change. He knew that the moment he took the first step, there would be no turning back.


    A step.


    The dull sound echoed under the arches, as though turning the page of a chronicle.


    The negotiation hall greeted him with profound silence, like an ancient temple where every word carried more weight than gold. Spacious yet austere, devoid of unnecessary opulence, it seemed to test those who entered: were they strong enough to decide the fate of the principality?


    The hall''s walls, built from massive oak beams, were adorned with intricate carvings - ancient symbols of the princely lineage intertwined with Viking and Slavic motifs. Richly woven banners hung along the walls - some bearing crosses, others depictions of saints, and still others with the emblems of the prince''s retainers. Above the entrance, near the ceiling, was a carved canopy adorned with an image of Archangel Michael - the prince''s patron and the protector of his retinue.


    At the center of the hall stood a long table made of aged oak. Its surface, etched with fine grooves from knives and cups, appeared to bear the scars of past negotiations. On the massive tabletop, the torches painted shifting patterns of light and shadow - just as the words spoken here could instantly turn allies into enemies.


    On both sides of the table were benches with high backs, simple yet solidly crafted. Only the prince''s seat stood out - a massive chair, adorned with carved designs, towering over the rest, symbolizing his authority and the weight of his word.


    Light came from numerous splinters placed in iron sconces and from several large lamps suspended on chains beneath the ceiling beams. The fire cast flickering reflections on the weapons displayed along the walls - shields, swords, and spears - not merely decorative but a reminder that words and steel always walked hand in hand.


    The air carried the scents of heated wood, wax, and a faint trace of incense absorbed by the walls over years of prayers and councils. It felt as if an invisible net had stretched across the space - one that could snap with the slightest sound.


    The hall was empty. The guards had been stationed at the entrance to avoid creating unnecessary tension within. Here, there was no need for an overt display of strength - every word and glance would speak for itself.


    Alexander entered first, his steps echoing dully under the vaulted ceiling. His heavy cloak softly trailed across the stone floor, and his chainmail shimmered in the light of the torches and lamps. Stopping at the center of the hall, the prince steadied his breath, as if preparing for battle, and slowly surveyed the room. Behind him stood history and responsibility - the alliance and trust of Rus'' depended on this meeting.


    Mirnomir lingered at the threshold for a moment, assessing the surroundings, then stepped inside after the prince. His boots echoed against the stone. Mstislav made to follow but halted when he heard a quiet yet firm voice from Stanislav:


    - Mstislav, you''ll stay here. Maintain order at the entrance. No one unauthorized must enter


    Mstislav tensed, as if internally preparing for a fight, then gave a curt nod:


    - I''ll do what''s necessary


    Stanislav paused briefly, scrutinizing his subordinate. Satisfied with his resolve, he confidently crossed the threshold of the hall after the prince. His imposing presence filled the space with an air of determination, tinged with a threat toward anyone who might dare disturb the order. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword - a habitual gesture, yet one that retained its significance:


    - I am here to protect the prince. If necessary


    The doors behind him had barely begun to close when the prince''s boyars began entering. They moved at a measured pace, in formation, each maintaining an invisible distance that underscored the gravity of the moment.


    Miroslav the Wise followed Stanislav. His footsteps were softer, nearly silent. He paid no attention to the walls, the weapons, or the banners - only to the people, studying their expressions and smallest movements. His gaze reflected not just focus but also understanding:


    - Today, every word can tip the scales


    Metropolitan Illarion crossed the threshold slowly, restrained but dignified. He held his staff not merely as a symbol of authority but as a weapon of the spirit. His head was slightly bowed, yet his gaze was sharp. For him, this hall was a test of faith, and his presence a reminder:


    - The word is mightier than the sword - but only when spoken at the right moment


    Following protocol, Boyars Oleg Vyshgorodsky and Ignat Slavyansky entered next. Their movements were steady but distinct. Oleg, heavyset and deliberate, carried the shadow of the boyars of Kyiv. Ignat, agile and tense, stood ready for any turn of events, embodying the senior boyar from Pereyaslavl. They took their places on either side of the prince, emphasizing that the power of Kievan Rus'' rested on two pillars: politics and war.


    Once the prince''s boyars had seated themselves, the doors opened again.


    The Byzantine delegation entered after the prince''s court, emphasizing that they were guests, not masters here.


    Nikodim stepped in first. His movements were smooth, each step so light it seemed to leave no trace. His bow was deep and almost flawless in its precision, but his smile... that smile was a weapon. Their eyes met. Alexander saw no fear, no respect - only confidence. Nikodim wasn''t merely observing; he had already calculated every move.


    Behind him entered Leo Komnenos. Unlike the envoy, he wasted no time on ceremony. His firm, purposeful stride spoke for him:


    - I am here not for words, but for strength


    He didn''t glance around the hall, though his gaze briefly rested on the weapons displayed along the walls. Then, on Stanislav and Ignat. Only after that did his eyes meet the prince''s. There was no courtesy in his stare, only a brief, precise evaluation: How many of these blades are sharpened not for show, but for battle?


    Next stepped Sofia Lakapina. Slowly, as if walking along the edge of a knife that could dull with a single misstep. Her back remained straight, not out of pride but necessity. A moment ago, she had breathed freely, but the moment she crossed the threshold, the air seemed to thicken.


    The fan in her hand appeared light but was, in truth, the only thing keeping her grounded. She felt the prince''s gaze on her - cold and scrutinizing, it lingered longer than usual. Her shoulders stiffened; the fan grew heavier in her grasp.


    - He already suspects something. But I won''t let him read my thoughts


    Following her entered Eustathios Kallistratos, the Byzantine secretary and scribe - silent but observant. Everything said here would be recorded with the precision of stone inscriptions. Last came Agapios Scholasticus, the representative of the clergy. His face remained inscrutable, though a faint flicker of dissatisfaction crossed his eyes - perhaps from the chill of the hall, or from the conversation that awaited.


    The Byzantines took their seats across from the prince, their arrangement resembling a battle formation. Each position held meaning; each face bore its role.


    At the center sat Nikodim, composed yet exuding control. His fingers lightly touched the table, as if conducting an unseen rhythm to the negotiations. His sharp, perceptive eyes waited, gauging the slightest shifts in the other side''s demeanor.


    To his right was Leo Komnenos, the embodiment of Byzantine military power. His posture remained rigid, his shoulders straight, and his gaze heavy. He was here not to speak but to remind everyone that behind the Empire stood an army. His hands, resting calmly on the table, spoke louder than words - hands accustomed to wielding a sword.


    To Nikodim''s left was Sofia Lakapina. She sat upright, her face calm, though a guarded tension glimmered in her eyes. Her presence here was both a privilege and a test. Beside her was Eustathios Kallistratos, always slightly in the shadows, yet attuned to every detail. He said nothing but kept his quill ready to capture each word.


    At the far end of the table sat Agapios Scholasticus, clad in dark robes. He showed no emotion; his face was a mask. Yet his presence lent the negotiations a sense of ecclesiastical sanction.


    Together, they formed not just a delegation but a well-structured mechanism, with each component fulfilling its purpose.


    Finally, the scribes and chroniclers entered, the heavy doors swinging open for them. Senior Boyar Gavriil Zlatopisets led the group with dignity. The scroll in his hands was as vital as a weapon in the hands of a warrior. Simeon, Illarion, and the other scribes followed closely, treating each step as part of a history they would soon immortalize.


    They positioned themselves near the far wall. Gavriil spread out his scroll and ink pot on a small table, with Simeon taking a seat beside him. Illarion and Lavr stood slightly apart, observing the hall, while Danilo quietly checked their writing tools.


    When the doors closed, the deep sound reverberated off the walls like the voice of ancient centuries.


    For a moment, silence reigned.


    In that silence, one could hear not just the breath of the gathered people. Here, the very history of Kievan Rus'' and Byzantium seemed to resonate.


    Sofia inhaled deeply. Her gaze drifted over the massive table.


    Here, everything would be decided.


    - A lasting alliance... or a noose to strangle her?


    But she was a Lakapina. And it was her choice to make.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who is reading.


    This chapter might feel drawn out, considering that the events could be summarized in just a few lines: the senior boyars decided whether to stay or leave after the prince''s departure. Alexander and the delegation quickly reached the negotiation hall, entered, discussed everything in a matter of minutes - and that was it.


    But I write as if I''m among these people myself. I try to show everything happening around them: the gifts and boyars don''t vanish from the scene, Alexander walks through the corridors accompanied by guards and advisors, observing etiquette. Here, it''s not just the actions that matter but also the rituals. Tradition dictates that the prince and his personal retinue are the first to cross the threshold of the negotiation hall. The boyars follow, and only after them do the Byzantine envoys enter.


    I also detail the negotiation hall so that everyone can imagine themselves inside - who sits where, who stands, who watches, the faces and gestures flickering in the torchlight. It''s important to me that the reader doesn''t just follow the plot but becomes a participant in the moment, as if they can feel the weight of Nikodim''s gaze or the cold of the carved wood beneath Alexander''s hand.

 Chapter 20. Who is Running the Game?

    The hall plunged into silence. The lamps cast flickering shadows on the walls, like ancient symbols eavesdropping on the proceedings. The princely boyars stood still, like predators lying in wait. The Byzantines appeared relaxed, yet hidden calculation gleamed in their eyes.


    Alexander studied Nikodim, as a commander assesses an enemy before battle. This envoy was not merely a diplomat - his influence extended to marriages and treaties capable of altering the destinies of entire lands. Magister Nikodim Doukas was close to the emperor, making him a formidable adversary.


    Only Miroslav and his delegation, sent to Constantinople by his brother Iziaslav, knew why someone like Nikodim had come to Kyiv. However, Miroslav chose not to share this information, not even with Prince Alexander.


    With the practiced grace of a high-ranking noble, Nikodim inclined his head, signaling respect to the prince, though his gaze remained cold and piercing. The boyars watched the gesture in silence. Alexander returned a brief nod, indicating that formalities were over and it was time to get to business.


    Alexander ran his fingers along the armrest of his throne. The rough wood seemed to hold an ancient power. Today, he had to prove himself worthy of this seat.


    - Envoy Nikodim, we have spoken before. You expressed your support for my reign and confirmed Byzantium''s interest in an alliance with Rus''. Now we are here to clarify the main proposals. What steps is the Empire prepared to take to solidify this alliance?


    The prince''s voice was steady, though caution was evident. He did not want to show weakness, nor did he wish the Byzantines to feel they held the upper hand.


    Nikodim tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the importance of the question. His hands rested calmly on the table - a gesture of composed anticipation.


    - Prince, the Empire, as before, wishes to see Rus'' strong, - his voice was soft, almost muted, but it did not lack firmness. - We offer support, trade privileges, and military cooperation. Kyiv has always been a vital partner for us, and we care about its future


    He paused, letting his words settle into the silence.


    Miroslav, seated beside the prince, scrutinized Nikodim closely, as if trying to catch an invisible thread of deceit. He knew why the Byzantines had come to Kyiv. Prince Iziaslav, who had sent him to Constantinople to strengthen relations, was now gone. Alexander had taken his place, and with him came new, hidden plans - plans Nikodim had not yet revealed.


    Miroslav inclined his head slightly, like a wise judge seeking to discern the balance of truth and falsehood in the envoy''s words.


    - Envoy, before discussing the future, wouldn''t it be better to clarify one matter: what commitments did the Empire take on when sending you to Kyiv? - His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of steel.


    He wasn''t asking; he was demanding an answer.


    Nikodim''s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. His face remained composed, but Miroslav knew the blow had landed.


    - Of course, - Nikodim replied with carefully measured politeness, though a hint of irritation lingered beneath his words. - You are correct: circumstances have changed. We arrived to strengthen our alliance with Prince Iziaslav, but Rus'' has changed, as has its leadership. The agreements previously discussed in Constantinople are now outdated


    Nikodim spread his hands in a gesture that both acknowledged the situation and declared: now the cards were in his hands.


    - This does not negate the essence of our intentions, - he continued after a brief pause, allowing his words to take root in the air. - A weak Rus'' benefits neither us nor you, Prince. And what happens to lands whose strength fades? History knows the answer


    Miroslav maintained a deliberate silence before responding. His voice was steady but cold and sharp, like a blade dropped onto stone:


    - Very well, Envoy. Since, as you say, the previous agreements are outdated, then speak plainly: what exactly does Byzantium want in return?


    A faint note of challenge rang in his words, like a tightly drawn string.


    Nikodim held a brief pause, as if assessing who at the table might become his ally and who would be an obstacle.


    - We offer what has always made our relations strong, - he clasped his hands, as though preparing for a slow but precise strike. - Support for the new administration, trade privileges, and military cooperation. Rus'' stands at a crossroads, Prince, and an alliance with the Empire will provide stability and protection


    - Protection? - Stanislav''s voice rang out like the clash of steel on stone. He left the implication hanging in the air:


    Protection from whom - external enemies, or from Byzantium itself?


    Nikodim did not avert his gaze.


    - Byzantium offers allies, not overseers, - Nikodim said slowly, spreading his hands in a gesture that invited trust. - But tell me, Prince, can an alliance be made with someone who has not yet decided where their loyalty lies?


    Alexander slowly straightened, and his shadow stretched over the Byzantines in the unsteady torchlight. He raised his hand, and the hall fell into complete silence. Now, he dictated the terms.


    - We recognize the Empire''s good intentions, - the prince''s voice was even, though a restrained steel edged his tone. - However, Rus'' has its own laws and traditions. We will consider an alliance if it aligns with our needs and conditions


    Nikodim inclined his head slightly in respect, as if agreeing with the statement. Yet something fleeting flickered in his eyes - whether regret or a hint of calculating amusement was unclear.


    - Of course, Prince, - he responded softly. - The Emperor of Byzantium regards you as an ally, and an alliance is, above all, peace and friendship founded on mutual benefit


    He paused briefly, letting his words sink into the minds of the listeners.


    - Our primary goal is to secure peace between our states. We propose a treaty of non-aggression and mutual support. Rus'' will refrain from aiding enemies of the Empire, and Byzantium, in turn, will not support external or internal adversaries of your land


    Miroslav observed Nikodim with a calm gaze, behind which lay a thought:


    - It''s only the beginning. His first move, but the next will be ours


    Alexander showed no emotion but tilted his head slightly to indicate that he was listening.


    Nikodim continued, reinforcing his offer:


    - Naturally, we understand that trade is the foundation of prosperity for both Rus'' and the Empire. Therefore, Byzantine merchants should be granted the right to trade freely in your cities, especially in Kyiv. In return, the Emperor is prepared to grant Russian merchants privileges in Constantinople: reduced tariffs, access to warehouses, and safe trade routes. We seek to expand trade networks and ensure their security for both sides


    Oleg''s interest stirred slightly; much of his wealth depended on trade, and any opportunity to expand commerce was valuable to him. However, the others remained impassive, waiting for the prince''s reaction.


    Alexander merely gave a brief, cold nod, signaling that the list of benefits had failed to impress him. Nikodim caught the shift in his demeanor and adjusted his tone, making it more personal and trusting.


    - We also understand that Rus'' stands at the crossroads of worlds and faces constant threats. The Emperor is willing to discuss the supply of weapons and military assistance in case of barbarian incursions or other dangers. In turn, we hope that Rus'' will not allow nomadic tribes to use its lands as a path to our borders. If you deem it necessary, we can negotiate further terms of a defensive alliance


    Alexander paused in thought for a moment. This part of the proposal clearly intrigued him, though he wanted to hear more. Sensing this, Nikodim leaned forward slightly and added with a faint smile:


    - Moreover, Prince, the Emperor holds your position and influence in great esteem. In the charter of our alliance, we could include a special honorary title for you - such as "Archon of Rus''" or "Sebastos." This offer symbolizes recognition of your status and role on the international stage


    Nikodim''s words flowed smoothly, like a river, yet his eyes remained alert, gleaming with a cold, hidden steel. He presented his case as if it were an undeniable truth.


    - Such honors open new diplomatic opportunities for a ruler and demonstrate that Rus'' is seen as an important partner by the Empire. You govern a great land, and your achievements deserve proper acknowledgment


    The silence in the hall grew heavier. The boyars exchanged glances. A title, even a Byzantine one, would be a symbol of respect and recognition. Alexander locked eyes with Nikodim, letting the silence stretch for several moments.


    - Titles do not protect the land, - Alexander finally said slowly, as if savoring the words. - But alliances built on respect and strength can fortify it


    Nikodim smiled faintly, pleased that the prince had engaged with his offer.


    - That is precisely the foundation of our intentions, - he added quietly, gesturing toward the boyars. - An alliance between Rus'' and Byzantium could serve as a model for the entire world


    A quiet murmur rippled through the room.


    Oleg glanced at the prince, a spark of interest in his eyes. Miroslav, on the other hand, frowned, as if weighing the cost of the proposal.


    Alexander felt the tension in the hall deepen. Byzantium''s offers sounded too generous, too eager - and that unsettled him. He knew that the Empire never acted without a plan. If they were willing to offer so much, it meant Rus'' was merely a piece on their chessboard, not an equal player.


    - They expect me to be swayed by promises. Titles, trade, protection¡­ But behind every word lies a chain of conditions


    Sophia, seated to Nikodim''s left, observed the exchange closely. Her gaze remained fixed on her uncle''s face, studying every crease on his skin, every glint in his eyes.


    - The alliance between our lands has always been the key to prosperity, - Nikodim continued, his voice warming slightly. - However, after such difficult events, we must strengthen this alliance anew. We have brought with us another proposal that, we hope, can serve as a new foundation for this bond


    Alexander inclined his head slightly, giving Nikodim an expectant look.


    - What proposal do you speak of, Envoy?


    Nikodim shifted his gaze to Sophia for a moment before returning his focus to the prince. His voice grew quieter, almost confidential.


    - We wish to propose a new marital alliance. Kyiv and Byzantium have always been connected not only by trade and politics but also by family ties. Your family was once linked to ours, but fate had other plans. Now, we offer you a new union that can secure our shared peace


    Alexander remained still, though an inner tension gripped his chest. His thoughts briefly turned to Sophia. She did not flinch. Only the faintest flicker in her pupils betrayed her surprise. The mask of calm quickly returned, concealing a storm of thoughts.


    - And who do you propose as a bride? - Alexander asked, keeping his voice firm, though a trace of hidden curiosity lingered beneath the words.


    Nikodim straightened and spread his hands in a smooth gesture, conveying openness.


    - Allow me to present a worthy candidate, Prince. Sophia Lakapina - granddaughter of a magister, a descendant of the ancient Lakapin family, which has served the Empire for centuries. Her lineage has strong ties both within the Church and political circles. Sophia is a woman of intelligence and dignity who can serve as a reliable bridge between our great lands


    The envoy spoke with deliberate respect, yet every word carried the weight of a carefully crafted strategy. He was betting on symbolism: the union of two influential dynasties could elevate Rus'' within the Orthodox world.


    Sophia inclined her head slightly, maintaining a stony composure. Her silence spoke for her. Alexander noted her reaction and concluded that she understood more than she let on.


    - Everything is going according to my uncle''s plan¡­ or is it? What future awaits me in this marriage? I may be a pawn in the emperor''s game, but what strength can I make my own?


    Her silence lent extra gravity to Nikodim''s words, as if she herself affirmed the importance of her lineage and readiness for the alliance.


    The proposal sparked mild excitement among the prince''s boyars. Several exchanged glances. Miroslav allowed himself a faint smirk. He leaned forward and added in a tone laced with restrained irony:


    - So dynastic marriages have become little more than trade deals now? Are Lakapins just walking treaties?


    Miroslav glanced at Alexander, then back at Nikodim. The envoy paused, assessing, searching for a weakness. His gaze locked with Miroslav''s.


    - A marital alliance is an ancient tradition. But we offer more than that: stability and mutually beneficial cooperation


    Alexander silently noted how skillfully Nikodim redirected the conversation.


    Stanislav quietly snorted, casting a skeptical glance at the envoy. He slowly rose from his seat.


    - Alliances aren''t wedding games. Forgive my bluntness, Prince, but rushing into such proposals is dangerous. Matters of honor and land outweigh pretty words


    Ignat Slavyansky nodded with measured calm and added:


    - Hastily made decisions could weaken us. Let us not forget that Byzantium is a master of hidden intentions


    Miroslav looked at Alexander and then back at Nikodim, waiting to see how the envoy would handle the rising pressure.


    Nikodim raised his hands in a gesture of peace.


    - Your concerns are valid, boyars. But you must understand that this marriage is not a mere formality. It could become a pillar of trust and unity. Alongside it, Byzantium is prepared to offer more than just words - expanded trade privileges, military support, and recognition on the world stage


    Alexander gave a subtle nod, masking a cold calculation beneath his composed exterior. Unlike some of the boyars, he saw beyond immediate gains. He understood that Byzantium needed this alliance more than Rus'' did, which gave him room to maneuver.


    Alexander slowly scanned the room, pausing briefly on each face before returning his gaze to Nikodim.


    - The importance of marriage to Rus'' is great, - he said evenly, though there was a hidden firmness in his voice. - But words and recommendations are not enough. If Byzantium truly considers this alliance strategically vital, then what is it prepared to offer as a sign of its serious intentions?


    Nikodim held the pause, understanding that the crucial moment had arrived. Alexander was interested, which meant it was time to reveal his cards - carefully, ensuring each one carried greater weight than the last.


    - Your question is fair, Prince, - Nikodim replied respectfully. - We offer more than just a marital alliance. Byzantium is ready to solidify this agreement in ways that will bring significant advantages to your land and people


    The prince''s boyars tensed in anticipation. Miroslav leaned forward slightly, his gaze cold and suspicious, as though searching for hidden traps.


    - First, - Nikodim raised a conciliatory hand, - the Empire is prepared to recognize a title and status for you befitting a great ruler of Rus''. This is not mere ceremonial flattery. It will strengthen your authority internally and significantly elevate your prestige on the international stage


    Ignat Slavyansky furrowed his brow.


    - A kouropalates or something of the sort? - he muttered under his breath.


    Nikodim inclined his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips.


    - Precisely. The title of kouropalates is one of the oldest and most prestigious in the Empire, Prince. It has been granted to rulers of strategically important allied nations - kings of Armenia, Iberia, Abkhazia. It symbolizes a special trust and high standing in our relations


    He paused, allowing the words to carry their intended weight.


    - Such a title is not just an honor. It is a symbol of your recognition as an equal partner of the Empire


    Miroslav studied Nikodim closely but found no trace of insincerity on his face.


    - If this is backed by real actions, - he said thoughtfully, - then Rus'' may indeed move closer to being seen as an equal power on the international stage


    Alexander remained still, though his eyes briefly gleamed with satisfaction. The boyars remained silent but exchanged glances. For them, these titles held less importance than they did for the prince, who saw the long-term political game unfolding before him.


    The princely boyars remained tensely silent as Nikodim spoke again, after a polite pause:


    - This is only the beginning, Prince Alexander, - his voice glided through the hall like a silk thread, concealing a core of steel. - Our second proposal concerns trade. Our merchants would be granted the right to duty-free trade in your lands - Kyiv, Chernihiv, Novgorod. In return, your merchants would receive the same privileges in Constantinople: secure trade routes, warehouse access, and full exemption from tariffs


    The silence in the hall stretched taut, like a drawn bowstring ready to release. Oleg Vyshgorodsky was the first to break it. He had little interest in supporting Alexander, as his struggle for greater autonomy often clashed with the prince''s goals.


    But now the Byzantines dared to threaten his greatest asset - trade - and that compelled him to intervene. His gaze darkened like a storm cloud, and his voice rang out cold and sharp as steel:


    - Duty-free trade on both sides? - he repeated with skepticism. - And you seriously think this offer is equal? The Empire wants to open its markets? Ridiculous. Your merchants will flood our cities within a few years, and our people won''t even get a foothold in yours


    Alexander watched Oleg closely. The boyar rarely raised his voice, but when he did, his words carried weight.


    - You''re right, Oleg, - Alexander finally spoke, nodding curtly. - Access to Constantinople is just an illusion of equality. It won''t be easy for Rus'' merchants to gain a foothold there. We don''t have fleets like Byzantium''s. And your officials are not eager to let us beyond the warehouses


    Nikodim raised his hand in a gesture reminiscent of a conductor calming an orchestra.


    - Your words are fair, Prince. However, isn''t trust the foundation of strong alliances? Strengthening trade will benefit both sides. Your goods will reach buyers in the Empire''s major cities more quickly


    Oleg chuckled darkly, his eyes flashing with anger.


    - Your merchants want duty-free trade on our lands? With your warehouses, ships, and connections, they''ll quickly dominate the markets in Kyiv and Chernihiv. Meanwhile, our merchants will be stuck queuing before your officials in Constantinople. This isn''t equality, Nikodim. It''s a plan to turn Rus'' into your raw materials supplier


    Miroslav nodded quietly in agreement with Oleg. Illarion frowned but remained silent - matters of commerce concerned him less than spiritual affairs.


    - Exactly, - Alexander added. - Full tariff exemption for your merchants will create an imbalance. We cannot agree to this


    Nikodim narrowed his eyes but showed no sign of irritation. He sensed there was still a way to salvage the situation.


    - Allow me to offer a clarification, - he said evenly. - We could agree to a temporary duty-free arrangement, with a review after three years. That should be enough for both sides to assess the mutual benefits


    - Three years? - Oleg scoffed, shaking his head. - In that time, your merchants will push ours out of our own markets. Even renegotiation won''t change anything if we no longer have a place to trade


    Alexander raised his hand, signaling for Oleg to calm down. He turned to Nikodim and spoke calmly but firmly:


    - Full tariff exemption would create an imbalance, - Alexander repeated firmly. - We are willing to compromise: tariffs for both sides will be set at five percent. This will allow our merchants to strengthen their positions without destabilizing the market


    Nikodim paused, weighing the proposal. The prince''s firmness had caught him off guard, but he understood that these negotiations would be long and difficult.


    - Five percent... - Nikodim echoed, feigning concession. - A reasonable compromise. To further support this alliance, we are prepared to offer your merchants additional privileges in Constantinople: priority access to our warehouses and escorted protection. This will help solidify your market position in the Empire... with minimal delays


    Oleg raised an eyebrow but chose to remain silent this time. Miroslav tilted his head slightly and smirked, a trace of amusement in his eyes.


    - Envoy, you have a talent for negotiation. It seems like equality... but with a touch of Byzantine finesse


    He cast a brief glance at Alexander, as if to say:


    - You see the game, don''t you, Prince?


    Nikodim didn''t flinch and politely inclined his head.


    - Alliances are always built on compromises, Lord Miroslav. The key is that they bring mutual benefit, - his voice was soft, but his tone carried the subtle precision of a move in a chess game


    Alexander let a pause linger, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the boyars, gauging their moods. Then he spoke evenly, with deliberate firmness:


    - The matter of trade is too important for hasty decisions. Kyiv Rus'' will not yield without fair terms. Let that be clear to everyone


    Nikodim froze for a moment, then slowly nodded. His face remained inscrutable, but his eyes sharpened - he understood that the prince would not play by imposed rules.


    - Of course, Prince Alexander. We are ready to discuss all the details in the next stages of negotiations, - he said, striving to conceal the growing tension.


    He fell silent for a moment, and a brief pause settled over the hall, which neither Alexander nor his boyars were in any hurry to break. Nikodim used the time to once again scan the room, but his gaze lingered on Sophia.


    To Byzantium, she was not merely the magister''s relative, but a strategic asset. A marital alliance with Prince Alexander could become the linchpin securing the Empire''s long-term influence over Rus''. Sophia, however, maintained an impenetrable calm. Her fan moved barely perceptibly, and her gaze remained steady and cold.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Alexander caught the silent exchange of looks and continued observing without changing his expression. For him, Nikodim''s game was predictable, but he knew the envoy still held a few proposals in reserve.


    Nikodim returned his focus to the prince and resumed speaking in an even tone, though a hint of tension now crept into his voice:


    - Now, regarding expanded military support, Prince, - Nikodim continued. - The Emperor is prepared to offer your state the assistance needed to protect your borders. The threat of nomads and pirates is a challenge for both of us. We propose coordinated actions, naval support in the Black Sea, and supplies of weapons and equipment


    Stanislav the Great raised his head, his voice striking sharply, like the blow of an axe''s blunt side.


    - A threat to you or to us? - he shot back. - We''ve always fought the nomads on our own. And now you want us to defend your interests?


    Leo Komnenos, who had remained silent until now, fixed Stanislav with a piercing gaze.


    - The Empire acts in its own interests, as does Rus'', - he retorted. - Our enemies are your enemies. If the hordes break through to the Black Sea, your trade routes will suffer too


    Stanislav smirked without flinching.


    - First a fleet, and then, what next - garrisons? How deep do you plan to embed yourselves in our affairs?


    Alexander raised his hand, commanding silence. His voice, though calm, resonated with quiet authority.


    - We will not allow the Byzantine fleet to control our shores. Rus'' defends its lands on its own. But what can you offer on land?


    Nikodim nodded, as if anticipating the question.


    - Military advisors and specialists. Weapons and armor for your retinues. We are ready to help fortify your defenses along the Dnieper and your western borders. In return - coordinated action against common enemies. We both know that the nomads are only part of the threat


    - In other words, - Ignat Slavyansky interjected, - you want us to avoid alliances with the Norse, Hungarians, and others who threaten you


    - Just as we would refrain from supporting your enemies, - Nikodim replied calmly. - It''s a mutual commitment. Your interests will remain under your protection, but coordinated actions will strengthen us both


    Ignat narrowed his eyes, casting a glance at Stanislav.


    - And if we''re asked to send retinues to fight the Empire''s enemies, who will decide - us or your emperor?


    Nikodim maintained his composure.


    - The decision will, of course, rest with Prince Alexander. We do not demand subservience; we offer equal cooperation


    Stanislav snorted softly and muttered to Ignat:


    - "Equality" at first, and then they''ll start telling us where to stand and fight


    Alexander, keeping a close eye on Nikodim, gave a brief nod.


    - We are prepared to defend our trade routes and prevent your enemies from advancing northward. But all decisions about when and where to intervene will be ours. Rus'' is a free state, and for us, an alliance means partnership, not dependence


    Nikodim paused, then smiled faintly.


    - That is precisely what the Emperor intends, Prince. The era of conquests is over. We seek allies, not vassals


    Sophia Lakapina, who had remained silent throughout the negotiations, attentively followed the proceedings. Her eyes glimmered with a hidden interest, though her face remained inscrutable. She did not intervene, allowing events to unfold naturally.


    - Am I a pawn or a queen? - Sophia wondered to herself. Her uncle was counting on this marriage to firmly bind Rus'' to Byzantium, but who said she wouldn''t become something more? Alexander looked at her with cold indifference, yet she caught a spark of understanding in his eyes.


    Alexander contemplated what he had heard. He knew that they were only discussing the basic terms of a potential alliance. It was already late in the evening, and it would be impossible to resolve all the details of trade and military agreements tonight, not to mention the marriage arrangements. Finalizing all the points would take at least two or three weeks under the best circumstances. But Alexander knew whom he could entrust with these tasks.


    His gaze drifted over the rows of boyars. Their expressions reflected a range of emotions - from cautious optimism to hidden suspicion. Each of them sought their own advantage in the alliance. Oleg saw opportunities to expand trade, Miroslav hoped for political prestige and diplomatic support through a new title, and Ignat envisioned bolstering military strength. But Stanislav and Metropolitan Illarion maintained a wary silence.


    Alexander knew that he possessed more information than the others. This alliance might conceal opportunities that the Byzantines had yet to mention. He calmly scanned the hall before focusing on Nikodim once again.


    - Your proposals are worth consideration, - Alexander said evenly, his voice firm with a cold resolve. - However, I have one more question


    - Of course, Prince, - Nikodim responded with polite softness, his voice carrying a readiness to compromise. - What question concerns you? The Empire is interested in strong and equal relations with Rus''. We are prepared to discuss further terms to ensure that this alliance benefits both our states


    Alexander''s gaze fell on Illarion. Alexander remembered his words at a recent meeting about the need to strive for church independence. Now was the moment when those ideas could gain real strength.


    He knew well that in 1051 Illarion had been appointed without Constantinople''s approval, but that had been an exception, not the norm. Now, it was necessary to enshrine this right officially, making Rus'' independent in the selection of its spiritual leaders.


    The schism between Eastern and Western Christianity had not yet reached a critical point, but tensions were rising. Byzantium might be willing to make concessions to maintain its influence over Rus'' and prevent it from drifting toward other allies.


    Alexander sensed that the time was right. If he played this move correctly, he could secure crucial advantages for his land.


    - I am concerned with the spiritual independence of Rus'', - the prince finally said. His voice was calm but carried an unyielding undertone. - Rus'' must have the right to appoint its own metropolitan. We will respect the traditions of Constantinople, but the internal affairs of our Church must remain under our control


    A heavy silence descended on the hall like a dome. The princely boyars exchanged quick glances. No one had expected the prince to raise such a sensitive issue. They had anticipated the usual questions - about dowries, military cooperation, diplomacy. But ecclesiastical independence touched the very foundation of power.


    Nikodim''s expression shifted subtly. His gaze briefly lost its usual confidence, though he quickly regained his composure. He understood that this question went beyond ordinary diplomacy. Slowly, he turned to Agathias Scholastikos, the representative of Constantinople''s clergy. Their eyes met, and Nikodim gave him a slight nod, inviting him to respond.


    Agathias pressed his lips together in visible displeasure. Leaning forward, he placed his hands on the table, his voice sharp and rigid:


    - Such a demand is impossible, Prince. The unity of faith and canon law is the sacred foundation of the entire Christian oikoumene. Any attempt to undermine that unity poses a mortal threat to the Church. Who will be your spiritual guide if not Constantinople? Who will protect your land from schism and heresy? History offers countless examples of nations ruined by arrogance


    Illarion, who had remained silent, straightened slightly in his chair, his eyes burning with inner resolve. He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke softly, though each word seemed to strike at the core of the matter:


    - Christianity has never depended on a single city, even one as great as Constantinople. Faith came to Rus'' not as chains, but as light. And the light we received burns in our souls just as brightly as in yours, Agathias. We are grateful for your guidance, but the time has come for us to chart our own path. We have the right to decide who will shepherd us and how to lead our people in faith


    Agathias frowned, studying Illarion as if trying to discern the source of his confidence. His voice grew colder.


    - Fine words, but words do not protect against heresy. The canons were established to safeguard souls. Do you know how many nations have fallen because of pride? If we allow each to choose its own way, the unity of the Church will crumble, and with it our defense against external threats. The Pechenegs, the Latins... Will you turn to them when you feel abandoned?


    Illarion chuckled, a shadow of contempt flickering across his face.


    - Do you think threats can be averted only through fear of you? True faith thrives where people and shepherds act together. We have proven our resilience. We have stood against nomads and invaders. We have fortified our cities and land. Is it not better to face enemies with a strong, independent Church than with constant reliance on foreign decisions?


    A murmur of approval rippled through the hall. Miroslav nodded slightly, while Stanislav ran a hand slowly along his armrest, silently expressing agreement. Ignat, lost in thought, gave a subtle nod. The scribes bent over their scrolls, hastily recording every word. To them, Illarion''s words reflected a growing desire to free themselves from external control.


    Nikodim listened patiently, allowing the debate to reach its peak. He knew that he could not simply refuse outright. Raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture, he spoke in a voice that was gentle yet commanding:


    - Gentlemen, we are not here to create new divisions. I ask both Illarion and Agathias to return to the heart of our negotiations. We are here for peace and unity, not confrontation


    Agathias and Illarion froze in place. A heavy silence hung in the air. Nikodim allowed the weight of the moment to settle before speaking again:


    - Complete separation is a significant step, too great to decide hastily. This matter requires deep reflection and a wise approach. However, - his tone hardened slightly, - the Empire is willing to make certain concessions to strengthen our alliance


    Alexander raised an eyebrow slightly, signaling that he was ready to listen. Nikodim continued:


    - Kyiv Rus'' will have the right to propose candidates for the metropolitanate, - Nikodim began cautiously. - However, confirmation will remain the prerogative of the Patriarch of Constantinople. Your Church will remain part of the united Orthodox world


    - The Patriarchate won''t impose its own people? - Illarion asked calmly, though tension was evident in his voice.


    - That is out of the question, - Nikodim replied softly, though his gaze grew colder. - But the canons are inviolable. They are not open to negotiation


    Illarion inclined his head, considering the offer. For him, this was a significant step forward. However, Agathias leaned forward, addressing the prince in a cold, firm voice:


    - It is still a dangerous precedent, - he said slowly. - If we agree to this, other lands will demand the same. What guarantees do we have that Kyiv Rus'' will not turn to the Latins once we are weakened?


    Nikodim turned to Agathias, their gazes locking. There was an unspoken struggle between Byzantium''s more rigid and flexible factions. Finally, Nikodim spoke measuredly:


    - The guarantee lies in Kyiv Rus'' remaining an ally, provided we act with respect. No one is suggesting abandoning the canons. But today we are shaping the future of peace for centuries to come. Is it not better to move forward with an ally than to risk losing a nation?


    Alexander observed the exchange, a shadow of satisfaction crossing his face. He sensed how Nikodim carefully balanced the Empire''s interests with Rus'' demands.


    - We will not seek another spiritual patron, - the prince finally said. - But we expect your clergy not to overstep its authority in our land


    Illarion added calmly:


    - We will not turn to Rome. But in return, we require guarantees against interference


    Nikodim made a gesture of assent.


    - We hear you, Prince Alexander, - he said cautiously. - Ceremonies are merely outward symbols. But they are vital for preserving the balance of power. The internal affairs of your Church will remain under your control


    Alexander nodded, concluding the discussion:


    - Kyiv Rus'' maintains spiritual loyalty to Constantinople. But we will chart our own path


    - You are wise, Prince. Is there anything else? - Nikodim asked with polite interest, though beneath the gentle words lay a sense of anticipation and hidden tension. Alexander paused briefly. The boyars watched him intently.


    Nikodim maintained a calm demeanor, though a subtle tension flickered in his gaze. Alexander slowly raised his eyes and, breaking the silence, spoke with firmness in his voice:


    - Yes, there is more. An alliance on these terms will strengthen both sides. However, for the protection of our shared interests and the further development of Rus'', there are still several matters that require agreement


    Nikodim gave a slight nod, allowing himself a faint, almost amused smile.


    - If these truly serve our common interests, we will surely find suitable solutions. Of course, not everything can be settled with a mere stroke of the pen


    Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly, a trace of amusement creeping into his tone.


    - Naturally. But reasonable cooperation is possible where trust exists


    He paused briefly before continuing:


    - Here in Kyiv Rus'', we understand that enemies do not always come with swords alone. Defense requires not only strong walls but also skilled hands to build them. I request that the Emperor send craftsmen and builders to our lands - stonemasons, blacksmiths, and glassmakers. This will not only strengthen our cities but also lay the foundation for future trade and crafts


    Nikodim frowned.


    - Craftsmen are the backbone of our cities. You ask us to part with such a vital resource? How can the Empire be sure that these skills will not one day be turned against it?


    Miroslav tilted his head and chuckled dryly.


    - A matter of trust, Envoy? But isn''t that what your Emperor has been preaching all along? Or does your trust extend only to parchment?


    Nikodim leaned forward slightly and replied in a quiet but resolute tone:


    - Paper holds when a wise agreement is written upon it. Trust is built not on words but on proven actions. The craftsmen can come, but not without clear conditions and limits on the transfer of knowledge


    Alexander met Nikodim''s gaze calmly and said:


    - Then propose your conditions


    For a moment, the envoy''s eyes grew wary, but he eventually spoke:


    - I would suggest the following: the craftsmen may come temporarily - no more than five years. During this time, they will work under joint supervision, and their apprentices must remain loyal to the terms of the agreement. If their knowledge is used in any conflicts, the alliance will be subject to review


    Miroslav leaned forward slightly, as if contemplating a hidden trap.


    - The word "loyalty" can be interpreted in many ways, Magister. Especially in such uncertain times


    Stanislav interrupted with a stern voice:


    - The craftsmen will come and go, but the walls will remain. But who decides where and how these fortifications will be used - the Emperor or us?


    Nikodim shifted his gaze to Stanislav and replied evenly:


    - The fortifications are yours. No one intends to interfere in the affairs of Rus''. Our goal is merely to ensure that neither of our states becomes a threat to the other


    Alexander leaned back in his throne, his fingers tracing slowly along the armrest''s carved wood.


    - That sounds reasonable, - he finally said. - We will consider your terms


    He paused briefly before continuing:


    - Additionally, I ask that you provide experienced military instructors and engineers. They can train our retinues in fortification tactics, strategy, and the use of siege weaponry. We are not asking for your secrets but seek to enhance our forces to defend against nomads and other enemies


    Nikodim frowned slightly, as though weighing the magnitude of the concession.


    - Military knowledge is both a strength and a risk. We can consider this request, but only under the condition of mutual training. Our advisors will not simply instruct your troops but will also share strategies as part of a coordinated defense plan. If Rus'' and Byzantium act in unison, these measures will benefit both sides


    Stanislav gave a cold smirk.


    - So you want us to fight for your interests?


    Nikodim held his gaze.


    - No. But neither will the Empire send its people without assurances of its own security


    Alexander stopped the exchange with a gesture.


    - We are open to cooperation, but the independence of our decisions remains inviolable. Our warriors answer only to their prince


    Nikodim raised his chin slightly.


    - Of course


    Alexander glanced at Illarion, then returned his gaze to Nikodim.


    - We also require knowledge for long-term development. I request that you send monks and translators to help us study Greek works. We seek to improve our lands, and for that, we must learn. Let them assist our scholars


    Agathias, who had remained silent until now, leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on the table.


    - Prince, Greek writings are treasures of our culture. You are asking not just for knowledge but for access to the heritage of millennia. Is that not too great a request?


    Illarion spoke softly but with quiet intensity:


    - Is not faith and knowledge meant to serve the light, not cast shadows?


    Nikodim shook his head slightly.


    - Knowledge is power, and power demands caution


    Alexander interrupted in an even tone:


    - We seek to learn wisdom, not to take it from you. If you truly see us as allies, this should not be in doubt


    Nikodim remained silent for a moment before nodding.


    - Very well. We are willing to discuss an exchange of knowledge on a reciprocal basis


    Alexander made a final point:


    - And lastly, infrastructure. Kyiv Rus'' needs roads and bridges. If the Empire shares its expertise in construction, it will also strengthen our partnership


    Nikodim nodded, this time more confidently.


    - Roads are the arteries of trade and power. We are willing to discuss this cooperation


    After these words, the hall fell into a tense silence for a brief moment.


    Alexander rose slowly, his figure casting a shadow over the hall as silence stretched taut like a drawn bowstring. All eyes were on the prince, waiting for his final word.


    Standing tall, Alexander spoke, his voice striking like the blow of a hammer:


    - Then it is decided. An alliance with Byzantium and my marriage to Sophia will strengthen Kyiv Rus''. I accept this proposal, - he said deliberately, emphasizing each word as if delivering a decree of iron.


    The hall fell into a heavy stillness. The boyars exchanged glances - some measured, others wary. Miroslav pursed his lips and clasped his hands, like a man accustomed to calculating every move in detail. He leaned toward the prince, his voice respectful yet carrying an undertone of caution:


    - We have heard much today, Prince. Nikodim is skilled at setting his terms, but what lies ahead? Such conditions require thorough scrutiny to avoid discovering hidden chains beneath them. Perhaps a council in the morning could provide clarity on some matters


    Stanislav inclined his head slightly, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. His voice was steady and firm:


    - Everything proposed sounds appealing, but the beauty of words is often deceiving. I see no immediate threat, Prince, but much depends on the terms yet to come. Should we not delay final agreement until all the cards are on the table?


    Alexander met their gazes calmly, though his eyes remained as cold as a river frozen beneath layers of ice.


    - No, - he replied curtly, his voice hard as steel. - Time punishes those who hesitate. We have taken what we need. Now we move forward. After the coronation, we will finalize everything


    Stanislav bowed his head, though tension remained in his expression.


    - As you command, Prince. But remember - this is your decision


    Miroslav sighed, gazing thoughtfully at Alexander before reluctantly nodding. Arguing was futile; the decision had already been made.


    Nikodim observed the scene, his expression carefully neutral, though a thread of caution ran beneath his composed exterior.


    - He accepted too quickly... or is this a maneuver to throw us off balance? - the envoy wondered silently.


    Outwardly, however, Nikodim maintained his courteous demeanor:


    - A wise decision, Prince Alexander. The Emperor will appreciate your resolve. I will report your acceptance immediately. After your coronation, we will continue refining the alliance''s details, as well as drafting the marriage contract and dowry arrangements


    Alexander gave a barely perceptible nod and crossed his arms over his chest, surveying the hall with a steady gaze. His voice was firm and flawlessly clear:


    - Indeed, together we will overcome many challenges. We will reconvene tomorrow for further discussions. Good night to all. I will remain here alone - I need time to reflect on everything once more


    For a moment, silence hung heavy in the hall before the boyars, in a gesture of respect, inclined their heads. Their eyes betrayed a mixture of thoughts - some of cautious agreement, others tinged with hidden concern.


    Nikodim rose first, bowing politely to the prince. The Byzantine delegation followed him. The echo of their boots reverberated through the vaulted hall like the final notes of an important performance. Alexander gave a subtle gesture, signaling the boyars to escort the guests out.


    Oleg Vyshgorodsky was one of the first to watch the delegation leave, already calculating the future benefits of the alliance. His thoughts were clear: with Byzantine merchants would come streams of gold, and with that, opportunities to strengthen trade under favorable terms. The priority now was to negotiate tax breaks and new tariffs in detail.


    Ignat Slavyansky was occupied with different considerations. The alliance opened access to Byzantine weaponry and military expertise. He calculated how soon the retinue could be fortified with new armor and siege technology.


    Metropolitan Illarion was perhaps the most satisfied. He understood that complete independence from Constantinople would take time, but even the concessions achieved today were a significant step. Casting a glance at Alexander, Illarion silently thanked him for the opportunity. His years were advancing, but now he could rest assured that Rus'' was on the path to spiritual autonomy.


    Only Stanislav and Miroslav the Wise remained cautious. Stanislav sensed that the prince had been unusually resolute tonight. Something was pushing him to move quickly. For a moment, he locked eyes with Alexander but said nothing. Alexander held his gaze without flinching.


    When the doors closed behind the Byzantine delegation, the silence in the hall regained its weight. Alexander allowed himself a faint smirk and quietly spoke:


    - Let them believe they have us on a hook. They think Byzantium is leading this game. They do not yet realize that with every craftsman and merchant who sets foot in Kyiv Rus'', I am building a new power. By the time they understand... it will already be too late


    Nikodim walked through the dim corridor with his delegation, brooding over what he had heard. Torches cast long shadows on the walls, turning them into silent sentinels. The Byzantines'' footsteps echoed beneath the stone arches. Though the envoy''s face remained impassive, irritation simmered beneath the surface. Alexander had accepted the proposals too quickly.


    Ahead, at a measured distance, two guards in heavy cloaks lined with fur strode confidently. Their figures seemed carved from stone - calm and focused on their task. Oleg Vyshgorodsky followed just behind them, observing the delegation but refraining from interference.


    - It can''t be... that he yielded so easily, - Nikodim muttered, his brow furrowing. - Is he stubborn or a cold strategist? Either way, this could spell disaster for the Empire. If I misjudge him, it could be a fatal mistake. Sophia cannot allow that to happen


    He slowed his pace, moving closer to Sophia. The flickering light of the torches danced across her face, rendering it unreadable. Nikodim studied her eyes, as if trying to see beyond the cold exterior.


    - Remember, Sophia, - he began, lowering his voice. There was a weight to his words, that of a man accustomed not only to command but also to warning. - The Empire always expects loyalty from its daughters. You are to be its face and voice in these lands


    Sophia remained silent longer than necessary. Her gaze was steady, but a storm of thoughts churned within. She understood why her uncle had once again invoked her "duty." Nikodim was skilled with words, yet this moment betrayed his fears: he felt the situation slipping out of control.


    - A daughter of the Empire... - Sophia allowed herself a fleeting, private smirk. Her face remained calm, but her thoughts flashed like steel beneath a veil. - They want to control me? I will be the one who rules this game


    Slowly, she inclined her head in acknowledgment, as decorum required. A barely perceptible trace of a smile flickered on her lips. Nikodim tensed, catching the gesture, though he gave no outward sign.


    - Yes, Uncle, - she said evenly. - The Empire can always rely on me


    Her voice was flawless, yet something in its perfection unsettled Nikodim. He withdrew slightly, frowning but unable to find the right response. Sophia straightened, her posture like a drawn blade.


    - The Empire seeks to bind me with chains I do not need, - she reflected. - But who says I won''t control those chains? Alexander... or someone else will be my instrument, not the other way around


    For a brief moment, a glimmer of cold calculation shone in her eyes, betraying her true thoughts. Nikodim froze, sensing it, and leaned in slightly as if to discern her expression, but her face had already returned to its unreadable calm.


    - We will do everything for the Empire, - he emphasized, though a note of doubt crept into his voice. - This alliance with Rus'' is a chance for decades of peace. Your actions here will shape that future


    Sophia met his gaze, allowing a brief flash of disdain to surface before quickly extinguishing it.


    - Yes, Uncle, - she repeated with the faintest hint of weariness. - For the Empire


    Nikodim held her gaze longer than necessary before giving a curt nod.


    They continued down the corridor, the silence between them now more palpable. Sophia remained quiet, though the shadows on her face seemed to speak on her behalf: in this game, she was no longer a pawn.


    At the far end of the passage, where darkness threatened to swallow the torchlight, Nikodim cast one last glance at his niece. He thought he saw a new, ominous presence in her figure - not that of a child obedient to her elders, but of a woman preparing to make her first decisive moves.


    - If I have miscalculated... - the diplomat thought uneasily, before swiftly pushing the notion aside.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who is reading.


    I know I''ve greatly stretched out the audience and negotiations, but this is the first major delegation whose actions and consequences will influence the entire story moving forward. I''ve developed it to the fullest so that you can feel these negotiations and sense just how much is at stake.


    A note:


    In those times, negotiations could stretch over several days or even weeks. One day, they would discuss a single point; the next, a council would debate whether to accept it, press for changes, or reject it entirely. Then negotiations would resume, followed by more disputes, until a final decision - acceptance or refusal - was reached. Each detail was discussed separately. Afterward, agreements would be drafted in both Greek and Old Slavic for Nikodim and Alexander, with one copy for each side. The scribes would then verify that all four texts (two in Greek and two in Old Slavic) matched exactly. Afterward came discussions regarding the marriage contract and other important conditions.


    I won''t dive into the full details of this lengthy process or describe every single step. In the text, I''ll focus only on the key moments and core terms of the agreement that will impact future events. However, keep in mind that such negotiations could take up to a month.


    About this chapter:


    Some of you may wonder: why didn''t they discuss the entire marriage alliance and other terms right away? Why stretch out the start of negotiations and offer something minor at first instead of presenting everything at once? This has to do with the tactics of Byzantine diplomacy. It may also seem at times that Nikodim is making concessions without much resistance, but this is a strategy known as "soft diplomacy." Its goal is to secure the primary objective - in this case, the marriage - without escalating conflict over secondary matters. Nikodim understood that the marriage agreement was the top priority at this stage. Other proposals were not critical enough to fight over, as doing so might jeopardize the main goal.


    In this chapter, realism has been somewhat compromised because Alexander agreed to the proposal too quickly. Realistically, he would likely have needed time - perhaps until the next day - to consult with his advisors. However, I tried to frame it in a way that wouldn''t seem entirely implausible. To be honest, I didn''t want to prolong this process any further, as I''ve already given plenty of attention to the details. At this point, I''m eager to move on and show what comes next in the events of tomorrow''s chapter. So, it turned out like this.


    I''m trying to convey everything as accurately as possible - how it might have been in their era. I hope you find these extended events interesting, even if they are drawn out. Hopefully, the length helps you better understand this time period - those who lived in it, how they interacted, and the weight of their customs and decisions. I aim to bring each of them to life, not just as letters on a screen.


    With the coronation and the arrival of boyars from various lands, the focus will now shift to diplomacy, church rituals, and court intrigue.


    After this, the prince will begin implementing reforms: starting with the legal system, followed by ecclesiastical, economic, and other changes - all in due order.

 Chapter 21. When the World Resists Change

    A couple of hours after the negotiations, Nikodim sat on a bench in the bathhouse antechamber, leaning against the cold wall. He barely noticed the faint crackling of the stove and the humid warmth slowly filling the room. The scent of resin and a hint of smoke emanated from the wooden walls. The light from oil lamps reflected in damp patches on the floor.


    His thoughts kept returning to the evening negotiations.


    - Why did Alexander agree so quickly? It''s too suspicious... - Nikodim ran a hand over his face. He knew that such agreements always hid traps.


    The door creaked, and Lev Komnin entered the antechamber. His movements were swift and confident, like someone accustomed to command on the battlefield. He rubbed his hands together to ward off the cold and, glancing around the room, remarked curtly:


    - Still brooding over those talks, magister? Or have you decided to test this local "cleansing ritual" after all? - There was a hint of disdain in his voice.


    Nikodim raised his eyes and smirked crookedly.


    - What do you think? When an opponent agrees without a fight, it usually means he''s preparing a trap. It all went too smoothly to be genuine


    Lev chuckled, pulling off his travel cloak.


    - A pup trying to play wolf. The young always take risks until they get their first serious blow. That''s him. Trying to fool us with his calm


    - No, - Nikodim shook his head. - This youth isn''t so simple. His decisiveness and caution are too precisely balanced. He''s playing a long game. We need to understand his strategy before it''s too late


    At that moment, Agafiy Scholastikos, trade representative Sebastian Phokas, and Eustathios Kallistratos, the delegation''s scribe, entered the room. Agafiy immediately noticed the humid air and the scent of wood. He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning as he examined the walls.


    - Still talking about that young prince? - he grumbled disapprovingly. - Barbarians. One ruler replaces another, like the wind sweeping dust across the steppe. Why give him so much attention?


    Nikodim slowly stood and approached the table where a jug of warm water stood.


    - That''s precisely why he''s dangerous, - he said while pouring the water into small cups. - Alexander understands that his land''s strength depends on a fragile balance. He won''t squander alliances lightly. If we aren''t careful, he''ll twist this deal until we''re the ones caught in his grasp


    Agafiy grimaced but said nothing. Lev narrowed his eyes and sat on a bench, speaking in a low voice:


    - He''s no fool. They clearly prepared for these talks. It seems the prince knows our games all too well


    Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who bowed deeply and announced:


    - The bath is ready, gentlemen


    Lev stood, stretching as he began removing his outer clothing. He took off his coat, remaining in a light undershirt.


    - Well, magister, let''s see how strong Rus'' is in this "cleansing procedure."


    Servants brought towels, and the men, stripped down to their shirts and undergarments, entered the steam room. Heat struck them in a dense wave, searing their skin. The walls, soaked with moisture and resin, reflected the light of the lamps. The stones in the stove glowed red-hot, and thick clouds of steam rose to the ceiling. The servants cautiously poured more water onto the stones, making the air even heavier and more stifling.


    Sebastian Phokas wiped his face irritably.


    - Do they really enjoy this heat? No oils, no soft fabrics... just steam and burning stones


    Lev glanced back at him with a smirk.


    - This isn''t a thermae, Phokas. Everything here is simpler, rougher. They believe that both body and spirit are purified through trials


    Agafiy scowled as he sat on a wooden bench.


    - Trials? More like torture. Byzantium wouldn''t understand such customs


    Nikodim calmly took a seat beside him.


    - Don''t be so quick to underestimate their traditions. For Rus'', this is purification not just of the body but of the spirit. They''re used to surviving both cold and heat, in conditions that seem wild to us. That''s their strength


    Steam enveloped the room, but the conversation continued. A servant returned, offering herbal tea to ease the heat. Nikodim silently accepted a cup and took a sip.


    - To us, they''re barbarians, - he thought, glancing at the dissatisfied faces of his companions. - But if we''re not cautious, these very barbarians might place us at the mercy of their terms


    Lev, listening to the silence beyond the walls, remarked briefly:


    - Tomorrow, things will become clearer. But tonight, I''d rather not think about negotiations


    He splashed a bit of water onto the hot stones. The stove hissed sharply, and fresh clouds of steam enveloped the room.


    Nikodim sank back into his thoughts. Beneath Alexander''s calm lay ambition. If he was playing a long game, he hadn''t yet revealed his strongest pieces.


    - We must be prepared, - the magister murmured quietly, almost to himself. - Loyalty in this alliance won''t last long if power tips the scales...


    The hiss of the stove and the sound of labored breathing filled the steam room, as time stretched under the weight of heat and thoughts about the coming day.


    In every guesthouse meant for foreign delegations, there were lighter bathhouses for men and spacious bathing pools for women. These facilities were tailored to the customs of the visitors: warm water, herbal infusions, and the gentle glow of lamps created an atmosphere of peace. Yaroslav the Wise understood that diplomacy required respect for the cultural traditions of allies.


    Byzantine, Polish, and Hungarian noblewomen were accustomed to calm, almost ceremonial baths with fragrant herbal infusions and soft towels. Rus'' bathing traditions - with their suffocating steam and abrupt dousing in icy water - seemed far too harsh to them.


    During Yaroslav''s reign, Kyiv became a hub for diplomatic visits, and these new traditions became a staple of guesthouses. Baths with aromatic herbs for women and milder steam rooms for men became symbols of respect for foreign cultures. Such details strengthened trust and demonstrated that Rus'' sought to be not only a powerful but also a cultured partner.


    While the men discussed politics in the hot steam room, Sofia and Clio were resting in the bathing chamber for women from foreign delegations.


    A haze of steam concealed the arches of the bathing chamber, lazily spreading across the floor. The air was filled with the aromas of mint and thyme, with a faint bitterness of lavender - a scent Sofia associated with the baths of Byzantium, used for cleansing and relaxation. The light from copper lamps trembled on the damp walls, casting intricate shadows resembling ancient ornaments.


    Everything here was designed for the guests'' convenience: warm water, aromatic oils, and a calm atmosphere. Sofia knew that Grand Prince Yaroslav the Wise understood the importance of diplomacy and tried to create conditions where allies would feel almost at home. However, for her, this setting seemed like an illusion, concealing unknown threats.


    Sofia immersed herself in the hot water, her loose hair gently spreading across the surface like shadows of past worries. Her eyes, wandering across the patterns on the walls, caught fleeting silhouettes - the tension did not disappear, as if the space itself preserved its traces.


    Clio, on the other hand, allowed herself to relax. She leaned back against the edge of the pool and closed her eyes, a light smile playing on her lips. The girl was content - this bath reminded her of the tranquility of imperial thermae, with their soft light and quiet atmosphere.


    - We are far from home... - Clio said softly, as if to herself, but her voice echoed gently in the steamy silence. Her voice sounded soft and lazy, as though she were speaking through a light dream. - Do you think they trust us?


    Sofia''s fingers glided through the water, and sprigs of thyme began to slowly swirl in a circle. She pondered but did not allow herself to relax. She had been taught to see danger even where others did not.


    - Trust us? In this world, no one trusts anyone - she answered quietly. - Especially here


    Clio straightened and shook her damp hair, her large eyes curiously focusing on her cousin.


    - Don''t you think they fear us less than we fear them? - she asked with a light smile. - They probably see us as pampered


    Sofia allowed herself a short smirk.


    - Maybe. But don''t be deceived. Everyone here hides their true intentions. No one reveals their real face until the right moment


    Clio relaxed again and leaned back, her fingers trailing over the water''s surface, leaving a gentle ripple behind.


    - Will we really have to play by their rules? - she said thoughtfully, more out of curiosity than fear.


    Sofia exhaled slowly. The lamp light danced across her face in flickering reflections. Clio did not understand the full complexity of the situation. Byzantium was accustomed to intrigues, but Sofia knew that even here, everything was decided behind the scenes. She lowered her gaze and spoke with quiet confidence:


    - No one here expects submission from us, but they will not forgive weakness either. Those who lead the game never show their hand


    Clio frowned slightly, but soon her face softened again. She closed her eyes and smiled as if trying to forget all her worries.


    - It''s nice here - Clio whispered softly, savoring each word. - At least for a while, we can forget about negotiations


    Sofia shook her head slightly and ran her hand across the water. Her gaze once again moved to the shadows on the walls. For her, peace was always an illusion.


    - We are not here to relax - she said quietly. Her voice sounded muted in the warm, humid air.


    Clio slightly opened her eyes and looked at her cousin with gentle reproach.


    - You can''t even let go of your worries here? - she asked softly. - Always on guard. Doesn''t it wear you down?


    Sofia paused for a moment, reflecting. She had been taught that she must always stay one step ahead of others.


    - If you''re not a step ahead, someone will inevitably overtake you - she finally replied. - We are strangers here. And strangers are never trusted


    Clio shrugged lightly and leaned back again against the edge of the pool.


    - Maybe so, but I just want to forget about politics for a little while


    Sofia''s hand moved through the water, and the reflection of the lamps shattered into glimmering fragments. The steam rose slowly, dissolving the outlines of the arches in a misty haze. An almost imperceptible tension lingered in the air - something only she could feel.


    Outside, it was quiet, save for the faint rustle of servant girls'' footsteps echoing through the corridors like a distant summons to reality, temporarily forgotten in the warmth of the bath. Sofia ran her hand through the water once more, watching the shadows from the lamps quiver on the pool''s surface.


    - Let her rest - she thought, glancing at Clio''s relaxed face. - Someone has to stay on guard


    The hot water eased the tension in her body, but it could not dispel the weight of her thoughts. The momentary calm continued as the steam drifted along the walls, and the shadows performed their endless dance.


    The negotiations were behind them, but the game continued. Each participant in that game contemplated their next move on this deep evening. Somewhere beyond the walls of the guesthouse, in the prince''s palace, Alexander was preparing for decisions that would strengthen his power.


    After the tense evening negotiations with the Byzantines, Alexander headed to his chambers. A modest Lenten meal awaited him on the table. The Great Fast dictated its rules, even for the prince.


    Alexander was accustomed to this abstinence, but he knew that soon, on the Annunciation, he would be able to allow himself some fish - only two days remained until the feast and his coronation. However, thoughts of the upcoming ceremonies briefly gave way to another need.


    Alexander set the spoon aside and leaned back against the high backrest of his chair. His gaze wandered around the room, but his thoughts were far beyond its walls. He quietly muttered, as if to himself:


    - Empires don''t fall overnight. They rot from within. Today, they take a step forward, and tomorrow, they might strike from behind... But not this time. They need an alliance with us more than we need their support


    Even without their backing, Alexander could apply all the modern knowledge and technologies available to him to strengthen his state and achieve superiority. He ran his hand over the scar on his side, wincing slightly as he reflected. There was no war, but the struggle for power and reforms was proving no less arduous.


    Alexander slowly rose from the table, his muscles aching in response to the movement. He stretched to relieve the stiffness in his body and ran his hand over the scar on his side, as if testing whether it would remind him of itself once again.


    He was growing impatient for immediate results, which he had expected due to his knowledge. Yet the world demanded patience and the ability to maneuver between the ambitions of boyars and allies. Every step had to be measured precisely to avoid triggering another wave of chaos.


    He remembered how, in the early days of his reign, he had thought:


    - It''s all just a system that lacks proper adjustment. I''ll reorganize the army, implement modern administrative methods, reform laws and the tax system. Problems will disappear one by one. Kyiv will become an economic and military center, and Rus'' will rise to unprecedented heights


    Alexander sighed heavily. He was walking a tightrope, where any misstep could cause a collapse - loss of the boyars'' trust, sabotage of reforms, or a breakdown of authority. Changing the structure without destroying it was proving far more challenging than any military campaign. Yet he had already begun to move forward.


    His initial reforms were gradually being implemented, though they met considerable resistance. Schools attached to monasteries provoked the clergy''s displeasure; fortifications along the borders sparked disputes with the boyars; and even orphanages became a pretext for political intrigue.


    He had heard from Stanislav that Oleg had tried to sabotage his plans for treasury reform. However, the chief treasurer, senior boyar Radomir, remained loyal to the prince''s authority and thwarted Oleg''s efforts. Without supporters in the council and key positions, all of Alexander''s endeavors would have remained mere dreams.


    He ran his hand over the scar again, frowned, and smirked:


    - I thought I could develop Rus'' like a strategy game. Quickly and efficiently - reforms, new technologies, trade. Right... as if. These boyars play by their own rules. Everything here is built on personal ties, suspicions, and struggles for influence. The entire system is riddled with hidden threatsTaken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Alexander leaned heavily on the table.


    - Here, every stone holds its place only because people fear to move it - he muttered under his breath. - Reforms here are like cracks in a cliff. One careless shift of the old order, and everything collapses like an avalanche. One wrong move, and the power will bury me beneath it


    His thoughts shifted to resolve. Everything here had to be earned - trust, authority, time. Alexander lifted his head, regaining his composure, and firmly headed toward the door. The world did not yield to ultimatums or change with a snap of the fingers. Yet despite this, he felt that he had chosen the right path. All he needed was patience.


    His gaze was cold and focused - every aspect of him now reflected the determination to regain full control. Alexander straightened and decisively walked toward the door, not rushing but moving with purpose.


    As he opened the door, Alexander met the watchful gazes of Mstislav and Mirnomir - loyal warriors always alert to danger. Their figures stood clearly outlined in the dim light. Mstislav slightly inclined his head in a sign of respect. Meeting their eyes, Alexander calmly said:


    - Prepare the bath for me. Have the servants take care of it


    - Yes, my prince


    Mstislav gave a short nod and was the first to leave his post, heading toward the senior servant. Mirnomir remained in place, cautiously scanning the shadowed corridor - guarding the prince required constant vigilance.


    News of Alexander''s intent to visit the bathhouse quickly spread through the prince''s residence. In his chambers, Stanislav the Great, reflecting on the details of the negotiations, smirked upon hearing about it from the guards. Marriage and alliance with Byzantium were not matters to be decided in haste. He believed the prince had acted too quickly.


    - He resolves issues of such magnitude too fast - thought Stanislav, running his hand along the hilt of his sword. - Alliances and marriages demand more than just a show of determination. Rush it, and you''ll walk straight into a trap


    Stanislav slowly stood and paced the room. He was troubled not only by the negotiations with the Byzantines. The prince''s decisiveness raised questions - everything had happened too quickly.


    - Inform the prince that I intend to visit him - Stanislav instructed one of the servants, masking his concern with a calm tone.


    As one of the most influential and loyal senior boyars of Rus'', Stanislav could not afford to sit idle. He understood too well the cost of delay in such times. The results of the recent negotiations were kept under strict secrecy, and most of the boyars were not privy to them.


    Stanislav did not fear Byzantium. In the past, through Prince Vsevolod, they had tried to solidify their influence over Rus'', yet they had failed. The Byzantines could act subtly and cunningly, but Rus'' had repeatedly demonstrated its independence. However, Stanislav was more concerned with internal division, which continued to weaken the nation. He knew that internal enemies were always more dangerous than external ones.


    Oleg, closely connected to the autonomists, had likely already reported the outcomes of the negotiations to their leaders. These rumors, if they spread, would become a weapon in the hands of rebellious boyars - an ideal opportunity to accuse the prince of dependence on Byzantium.


    The talk could reach the lesser boyars and common folk. In Novgorod and Polotsk, such rumors could fuel the drive for autonomy. Within a year or two, intrigues and tensions could escalate into a full-blown crisis.


    Stanislav understood that immediate action was needed to prevent this. He planned to discuss not only the consequences of Alexander''s decisions but also measures to strengthen the prince''s position.


    After some time, Stanislav descended into the lower level of the prince''s chambers. The air grew thick and heavy, as if the very walls and beams breathed heat. The darkened oak supports hung low, filling the space with the scents of resin, soot, and hot wood. The creaking floorboards echoed dully, while a distant, lazy hiss from the stove signaled that the prince was already steaming, filling the lower chamber with clouds of vapor.


    Soon, two guards came into view - Mstislav and Mirnomir. They stood before the entrance to the antechamber, upright but without excessive tension. Their faces glistened with sweat, though their vigilant gazes showed they remained fully alert. Upon seeing Stanislav, they simultaneously placed a hand to their chests in greeting.


    - Commander Stanislav, the prince is expecting you, - Mstislav said calmly, his voice muffled in the dense air.


    Stanislav gave a short nod.


    - How long has the prince been here? - he asked Mstislav evenly.


    - About half an hour, - the guard replied. - He is waiting for you, commander


    Mirnomir inclined his head slightly, indicating that the way was clear. Stanislav nodded again and stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the antechamber. The heat intensified. The steam pressed heavily on his chest, and the floorboards creaked faintly beneath his feet.


    Stanislav removed his long linen shirt and hung it on a wooden hook by the wall. He then placed his belt and trousers on the nearby bench. Wrapping a piece of cloth around his waist, he paused for a moment, wiping sweat from his face as droplets trickled down his neck and shoulders.


    Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door to the main steam room. As he entered, warm, dense steam enveloped his body, making each breath an effort. The floor was damp, and wisps of vapor clung to the walls. In the distance, near the stove, glowing stones emitted a faint red light. Streams of steam slowly crawled along the floor, while droplets rolled down the walls.


    Alexander sat on a wide wooden bench, steam wrapping around his body, causing sweat to stream down his shoulders and chest. The floorboards creaked softly underfoot, and a faint haze filled the room. He held a ladle in his hand, his eyes gleaming in the light of the oil lamps. When his gaze met Stanislav''s, it was steady and sharp, like a honed blade.


    Stanislav stepped forward, taking a seat across from the prince, inhaling the humid air with effort. Alexander studied him intently, a flash of cold determination in his eyes. His voice, though quiet, carried an unmistakable firmness:


    - You have doubts. I can see it. Speak plainly. I will try to put your fears to rest


    Stanislav adjusted his posture, wiping his brow and exhaling slowly.


    - I have two concerns. The first is about the Byzantines. Everything is moving too fast. Their concessions seem advantageous: partial spiritual independence, equal terms in trade and military cooperation. Yes, they''ve weakened, but such offers always conceal traps. Byzantium is a master of hidden schemes. It makes me wary


    Alexander listened attentively and then spoke in a calm, measured tone:


    - Byzantium does indeed thrive on intrigue. But right now, their position is precarious. They don''t have time to play elaborate games with us - they''re barely holding onto their power amidst conspiracies and revolts. Frequent changes of emperors, struggles to keep even their allies loyal... They need an alliance with Rus'' more than we need their support


    Stanislav rubbed his chin thoughtfully, nodding as though carefully weighing each word.


    - True enough... but Byzantium rarely fights openly. Their weapons are gold, merchants, and clerics. They''ll weave their web where we least expect it. Over time, their influence could take root in places we don''t anticipate


    Alexander inclined his head slightly, his expression remaining serious:


    - They won''t succeed. The key is that we''ve gained something significant: partial spiritual independence and equal trading conditions. Yes, merchants and boyars have their own interests, but no one will allow Constantinople to dictate terms to us. Right now, their priority is to secure us as allies rather than to control us. Every craftsman or merchant who comes here will be focused on personal gain, operating within our rules. They simply lack the strength to play their game here


    Stanislav smirked slightly but kept his gaze cautious. He exhaled slowly and continued:


    - That makes sense. Still, we must keep a close watch on them. The Byzantines don''t trouble me greatly - we''ve secured what we needed, and we have the upper hand here. But the real threat lies elsewhere. The autonomists


    Alexander''s expression darkened, his brow furrowing. He understood that the autonomists were not just a faction of boyars but a network of regional rulers eager for power and independence. They wouldn''t challenge him openly, preferring to exert pressure through the veche and lesser officials. Their goal was clear - to weaken central authority and gain control over taxes, laws, and the appointment of military governors.


    Fixing his gaze on Stanislav, Alexander quietly asked:


    - How strong is their influence? Which regions particularly support the autonomists?


    Stanislav nodded slightly, approving the prince''s quick grasp of the situation. He could see that Alexander understood - Byzantium posed a lesser threat compared to internal challenges:


    - Primarily Polotsk and Novgorod. Your cousin Vseslav Bryachislavich rules in Polotsk. He''s been acting like an independent ruler for a long time - conducting his own trade with the Baltic lands and managing his domain with little regard for the central authority. The Novgorod veche also clings to its autonomy, balancing between the boyars and the merchant class


    Stanislav ran a hand over his face before continuing:


    - The Galician boyars are similarly inclined toward independence - they''re used to governing their lands without interference from Kyiv. In the Rostov-Suzdal region, actual power lies with the local boyars, even though your nephew Rostislav Vladimirovich holds the title there. He lacks authority, and for now, the boyars are merely using him as a figurehead to cover their own interests


    Alexander fell into thought, his gaze becoming distant. He recalled the history he had studied in his own time. His cousin Vseslav would become known as The Sorcerer - a legendary figure, but also dangerous, with a reputation as a commander and politician who often acted against Kyiv''s interests.


    His nephew Rostislav Vladimirovich, currently ruling in the Rostov-Suzdal lands, would one day become the Prince of Tmutarakan and prove himself to be a capable leader. Rostislav needed the chance to grow and strengthen his position in his principality - he could become a reliable ally in the future. However, dealing with Vseslav was a more complex issue. Alexander didn''t yet know how to handle him.


    Armed with his knowledge of modern management techniques and approaches to internal politics, Alexander began forming a plan. Fighting for every land and imposing power by force would be a mistake - it would only spark another wave of civil war. He pondered the situation carefully:


    - Do I yield some autonomy to Polotsk and Novgorod, or take the risk of imposing my will? If I deny them freedom now, conflicts might escalate too quickly. But time may still be on my side¡­ The question is, how much of it do I have?


    In the end, Alexander decided to focus on developing his key strongholds: Kyiv, Chernihiv, Pereyaslavl, Volhynia, the Turiv-Pinsk lands, Smolensk, and the Rostov-Suzdal region.


    His strategy was straightforward - boost the economy, strengthen centralized power through reforms, and build a powerful army. Once that foundation was secure, the influence of the autonomists would naturally weaken. A policy of initial concessions and pragmatism would give him the time needed to prepare Rus'' for the challenges ahead. He planned to make Kyiv the jewel of the state, develop trade routes, and strengthen alliances with local boyars.


    Turning to Stanislav, Alexander laid out his plan:


    - I believe it would be wiser not to press Polotsk, Novgorod, and the other lands right away. Let them have a degree of freedom for now, while we fortify our position. Kyiv will become the economic center of Rus''. I''ll focus on developing Chernihiv, Pereyaslavl, Volhynia, and other major territories. Once we have a strong economy and military, the autonomists won''t be able to challenge us


    Stanislav frowned and shook his head slowly.


    - There is some logic in that. Development will strengthen your rule, but I wouldn''t draw conclusions too quickly. The autonomists won''t sit idle. Polotsk and Novgorod are key trade hubs. Vseslav has long-established ties with the Baltic lands, while Novgorod''s merchants control the northern routes. As you develop your lands, they''ll also be expanding their influence


    Alexander narrowed his eyes:


    - What would you suggest, then?


    Stanislav ran a hand over his face and spoke in a serious tone. His gaze reflected a deep concern - he understood all too well how years of intrigue and political maneuvering could tear Rus'' apart. A single misstep by the prince could lead to a complete fragmentation of the state.


    - While we develop our lands, they''ll be building alliances and leveraging their local power structures - through governors and veches. They know how to manipulate regional interests. However, if you establish firm control over key trade routes and the military, their options will shrink. We already have a major advantage. The alliance of loyal boyars I lead is nearly twice as strong as the autonomists


    He paused briefly, wiping sweat from his face, and continued:


    - And after the concessions made to Byzantium and the recognition of spiritual autonomy, Illarion will likely stand firmly behind you. He''s dreamed of this for many years. The Church will become your pillar of support. But be warned - this support might be temporary if your decisions ever threaten their authority. Your position is strong now, my prince. But don''t let your guard down - the risks are still there


    Alexander reflected, his gaze darkening with thought.


    - This gives us a solid position, but what risks are you referring to? - he asked with a focused intensity.


    Stanislav let a pause linger for a moment, emphasizing the gravity of his response, before speaking firmly:


    - Neutral boyar alliances. If they switch sides to support the autonomists, the balance could shift against us. In that case, civil war would become inevitable without further concessions


    Alexander nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes:


    - You''re right. Neutral alliances could indeed tip the scales. If they join the autonomists, the situation will become critical


    Stanislav continued, watching the prince''s reaction closely:


    - Precisely. At the moment, several groups are on the sidelines, observing which way the balance will tilt. However, there are two particularly influential factions. Their nominal leaders are Supreme Voivode Ignat and advisor Miroslav


    Stanislav paused briefly, then spoke calmly:


    - Ignat leads the military elite - boyars from frontier regions who prioritize the defense of borders and stability. They need well-equipped forces and consistent attention to military affairs. Miroslav, on the other hand, represents the interests of the trade and artisan nobility. His allies are boyars and merchants who prioritize trade, the development of crafts, and the security of trade routes. Stability and order are more important to them than political struggles


    Alexander regarded Stanislav thoughtfully.


    - I haven''t had the chance to speak seriously with Ignat yet. As for Miroslav, he only recently returned from Byzantium - I don''t fully understand his true goals and interests. How can I bring them to my side?


    Stanislav nodded, elaborating on the details:


    - Ignat is a man of action. He expects results, not promises. If you strengthen the borders and ensure the troops are well-supplied, he''ll gradually become your ally. However, gaining his support will take time and trust. Any sign of weakness, and his allies might turn to the autonomists


    Stanislav paused briefly before continuing:


    - Miroslav, on the other hand, is a more complex case. He and his circle need guarantees of stability. These people are extremely cautious. Any conflict or sudden change could drive them into a defensive stance. You''ll need to demonstrate that your rule can protect their trade and industries. They won''t engage in political games if they see you as a strong protector of their interests


    Alexander pondered, each new decision feeling like a step on a tightrope stretched over an abyss. One misstep, and he would fall along with all of Rus''. He nodded thoughtfully:


    - So, I need to show not only strength but also the ability to govern... But what about those who still remain doubtful?


    Stanislav nodded approvingly:


    - Exactly. Alliances can''t be forced - they must be won through actions. You''ll need to simultaneously develop the economy, demonstrate the benefits to loyal boyars, and negotiate carefully. It''s not a quick process, but if you succeed, their leaders will eventually align with you on their own. Less talk, more action - that''s what it takes. We''re already strong, but with their support, we''ll crush any attempt by the autonomists to undermine your rule


    Alexander reflected on the immense complexity of the task ahead. Political relationships were woven into a dense network that could either strengthen or topple his power. Yet deep down, he was prepared for the struggle.


    - Very well. We''ll start with them. Then we''ll deal with the rest. Do you know who else might play a key role?


    Stanislav nodded:


    - Of course. There are other, less influential groups. They''re currently lying low, waiting to see which way the balance tips after the coronation. If we secure support from the strongest neutral alliances, the others will follow naturally. The key is to act methodically and maintain a steady course toward unification. Panic and hasty decisions will only complicate things


    Alexander wiped his brow, feeling the stifling heat pressing down on his head and mixing with the intensity of his thoughts. Politics in Rus'' reminded him of the steam room: too much heat could ignite a conflict, too little and power would lose its grip.


    He understood that Rus'' was a cauldron requiring constant attention. Every alliance and every boyar was like a burning stone - fail to manage them properly, and they could crush him under their pressure. Power here was always a battle against tension, where one could never relax for a moment.


    Taking a deep breath, Alexander leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The heat and strain left him slowly, like a weary army recovering after a long battle. He quietly murmured to himself:


    - Alright... May the night be peaceful - while it still favors us


    Stanislav nodded, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of caution in his final words:


    - Indeed, prince. Tomorrow will bring a new day, but the world rarely forgives weakness. Even the wisest decision can become a disaster if not upheld with a firm hand


    Alexander exhaled quietly, letting the words settle in the steam-filled silence. They had discussed nearly everything: Byzantium, the autonomists, and the neutral alliances. Every piece on the chessboard of power had been considered - except one.


    The pro-princely alliance of boyars. As their leader, Stanislav had skillfully avoided this topic. He didn''t see the need to rush - the time for a direct conversation had not yet come.


    A wise commander knows that sometimes it''s best to let an enemy or ally feel a false sense of freedom. Only then will a strike be truly decisive. Stanislav, sitting in the gentle haze of steam, watched the prince carefully. Alexander might not realize that his closest ally already held the strings that would soon need to be tightened.


    The steam drifted lazily along the floor, like a symbol of the delicate game they were playing - one wrong move, and everything could collapse. But Stanislav was in no hurry; his time lay ahead.


    - Rest, prince, - he said calmly, rising from the bench. - Tomorrow is a new day. You''ll need to stand strong on it


    Alexander nodded without replying. Politics would indeed wait, but not for long. The silence was filled only by the diminishing hiss of steam.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who reads!


    In this chapter, I aimed to depict how bathing and related traditions were practiced in those times, both in Byzantium and on the lands of Kievan Rus''. I hope I managed to create an atmosphere that immerses readers in the past - so that you, along with Stanislav, could step into the steam room and feel the warmth enveloping you, hear the crackling of coals, and sense the mingling aroma of resin and moisture in the air.


    My goal is not only to reveal the details of daily life but also to show that the world of this story is alive and dynamic. The events taking place don''t revolve solely around Alexander. Every alliance, every agreement, and every careless word triggers a chain of consequences that affect other characters, their fates, and their decisions.


    Working on the historical context has been a challenging task. To keep the narrative from becoming too dense, I had to simplify the political and social landscape of the time significantly. The focus remains on key players in the intrigues, but secondary characters will occasionally step into the spotlight. Their influence will become evident at critical moments, reminding readers that nothing happens in this world without reason.


    One more note - due to upcoming studies and my work schedule, new chapters may be released less frequently - from every 2 - 3 days to every 3 - 5 days. I apologize for this and hope for your understanding.


    Thank you for your support!

 Chapter 22. The Calm before the Storm

    Kyiv was drowning in the evening dusk.


    In Podil, among the narrow streets, stood an immobile mansion with blackened walls, as if hidden in anticipation of something sinister. The chipped shutters stared into emptiness, like eyes watching every step. Once a merchant''s house, it now kept the secrets of its new masters, as though hiding them within its cracked walls.


    Within these walls, important deals had once been sealed, but now conspiracies intertwined. In a spacious hall, saturated with the scents of wax and herbal smoke, five Senior Boyars sat in the shadows, silently waiting for the conversation to begin, like hunters poised before a strike. The trembling torchlight flickered across the walls, casting shadows that resembled silent judges.


    The Senior Boyar Stanislav Mikhailovich was seated by a massive stove. His fingers lazily tapped on the armrest, but his gaze wandered, as if tracking something invisible in the shadows on the walls. The anxiety from recent news nested in the corners of his eyes.


    Senior Boyar Mstislav Belsky stood motionless by the window, opening it just enough to feel the icy draft. The city breathed heavily and uneasily, as though sensing that its fate was being decided here, in this very house. He stood like a sentry on the border between two worlds - the silence of the hall and the restless darkness outside.


    Senior Boyar Svyatoslav Polovetsky positioned himself by the table, leaning against its edge. His face remained still, but his gaze burned with an inner fire. He lazily raised a cup of mead to his lips, as if it were part of a slow calculation.


    Senior Boyar Stanimir Luninetsky paced the hall. His boots struck the floor loudly and steadily, echoing like hammer blows. The rhythm of his steps was tense, as though marking the time left until inevitable events unfolded.


    Senior Boyar Ryurik Pechersky had taken a seat in the shadows, barely distinguishable against the backdrop of a massive chair. Propping his chin on his hand, he silently observed the others. His eyes, sharp and cold, registered every detail - a gesture, a glance, an unguarded movement.


    The torchlight trembled on the columns like an invisible witness, afraid to reveal others'' secrets. To each of them, the light seemed foreign: they preferred to remain in the semi-darkness, where decisions are made away from prying eyes. At night, they could allow themselves to be what they truly were - predators in the shadows of a great city.


    Silence pressed against the walls, as if it could be torn apart by any sound, but each boyar held his thoughts tightly within. Here, a mistake or a hasty word could be too costly.


    The political surface of Kievan Rus'' deceptively appeared calm - beneath it lurked predators ready to tear apart the weakest. Behind the scenes, constant power games were underway. Formally, there was no unified "autonomist alliance" that the prince could easily identify and destroy.


    Each boyar striving for greater independence hid under the guise of other so-called "neutral" boyar unions, disguising their true intentions with demands for tax reform or the protection of local rights.


    The autonomists acted shrewdly. They manipulated the fears and ambitions of minor and mid-level boyars, skillfully sowing discord and making them fear centralization. These allies did not act in unison: each pursued their own interests and sought to strengthen their authority solely within their own domains, not to aid their neighbors. However, all of them undermined the unity of power through legal means - through councils, negotiations, and intrigues.


    Among such "neutral" alliances, the group of five Senior Boyars gathered in this hall represented one of the most influential factions, though they were weaker than others, such as the unions of Polotsk or Novgorod, as well as the neutral coalitions of Miroslav and Ignat.


    Each of those present held a vital role in their lands, reinforcing the position of the autonomists locally while simultaneously playing a complex game against centralized authority.


    Ryurik Pechersky represented the lands around the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra. His ties to the clergy bolstered the autonomists'' influence in the heart of Kievan Rus''. He acted cautiously but ruthlessly, wielding religious and land rights as both shield and sword for his ambitions.


    Stanislav Mikhailovich, an influential boyar of the western lands, was the face of dissatisfied landowners in Volhynia, who saw him as a protector against excessive centralization. His influence extended not only into politics but also into local economic relations, where he skillfully restrained the pressure from princely tax collectors.


    Mstislav Belsky, a native of Galicia, was a link between the inner Rus'' and the western merchant unions. His wealth and power were built on a network of trade connections controlling the exchange of goods with Hungarians and Poles. He maintained a fa?ade of neutrality but secretly directed the actions of major landowners in the region.


    Stanimir Luninetsky represented the Turov-Pinsk land, a strategic region in the southwest of Kievan Rus''. His opposition to the princely governor Gleb of Turov had made him a symbol of the struggle for local self-governance. Controlling key resources in the region, Stanimir maneuvered between various boyar alliances to retain control over his territory.


    Svyatoslav Polovetsky, a diplomat and military leader of the Pereyaslav land, knew all the intricacies of border politics. His ties with nomadic tribes ensured control over the southern frontiers, while his negotiating skills allowed him to forge temporary alliances on favorable terms. Officially, he was listed as an ally of Supreme Voivode Ignat, but in reality, he sought greater autonomy.


    Silence froze in the hall like a deaf night awaiting the first treacherous whisper. Shadows trembled on the columns, like a warning of an impending storm. In the distant corner, the doors yielded to the draft, creaking softly and drawn-out, but not a single boyar was distracted from his thoughts, as if that sound was part of their grim reflections.


    Only Svyatoslav quickly raised his gaze, as if expecting the worst, but immediately returned to his thoughts - their minds were now more dangerous than any open threat. They were waiting for the Grand Steward Oleg, who was supposed to bring news of the negotiations with the Byzantines. Time dragged painfully slow, as though frozen between the coils of smoke and glimmers of light.


    Stanislav Mikhailovich rubbed his temple - his thoughts, heavy and grim, seemed to be stuck in a mire. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse and harsh, as though breaking at the edge of words.


    - In two days, the coronation... Everything is happening too quickly. After that slaughter, no one expected such a turn. We thought we would have at least a month for maneuvering, but the princely council is in a hurry. Apparently, they fear that we will make the first move


    He frowned, his fingers nervously sliding across the rough tabletop. Into the oppressive silence, Mstislav''s short chuckle pierced like a crack across smooth ice.


    - Stanislav the Great knows how to play fast and hard. We underestimated him. First, the victory over the Pechenegs with Grand Prince Yaroslav, now this princely alliance of boyars and the coronation. And the main thing - the people will believe it''s all a coincidence, that the prince, with "divine grace," survived and retained power, - he smirked slightly. - They''ll be satisfied with this tale


    Stanimir quietly snorted, as if signaling the conversation to end. His gaze, heavy and dark, locked onto Mstislav, as though seeing him as the source of all troubles.


    - Common folk love tales. But that''s precisely what makes them dangerous for us. Now everyone will see him as "the boy saved by the gods." We won''t have time for lengthy intrigues. We must act quickly


    - Correct. Therefore, we need to act subtly but decisively, - Svyatoslav Polovetsky spoke softly from the shadows. - If they form an alliance with Byzantium, the prince''s support from the clergy and the druzhina will strengthen. We will have to maneuver between these forces and search for weak points. I hope Oleg has not made any mistakes. If he fails, everything will become much more difficult


    Stanislav Mikhailovich frowned deeper.


    - Do you think we should start acting now? We don''t even know what conditions the Byzantines will demand later. Rushing now will play into the prince''s hands. The negotiations might drag on, and if we hurry, we''ll lose the chance to intervene


    Mstislav abruptly struck the armrest with his fist - the boom echoed off the walls and dissolved into silence. His voice cut through the hanging stillness like a blade:


    - No one is planning to engage in open conflict. But if we stall, the prince will crush us, and our allies will scatter like rats from a sinking ship. The boyars in the west are already beginning to waver. They see that Alexander''s power is consolidating through the support of the church and loyal boyars. If the coronation goes off without a hitch, we''ll find ourselves one step behind


    Stanimir Luninetsky gave a restrained snort and, leaning forward, spoke with evident tension in his voice:


    - The wavering of the western boyars is the result of us losing control over internal politics. It''s not just the prince strengthening his position - his governors are also acting decisively on the ground. For several weeks now, I have been negotiating with Gleb of Turov, trying to secure more advantages for us in the lands of Turov-Pinsk. But he holds firm, plays on his independence, and does not yield an inch. We no longer have time for mistakes


    Rurik Pechersky, thoughtfully stroking his beard, glanced at Stanimir before turning his attention to the others. The firelight drew deep wrinkles from the shadows on his face.


    - Do you think Oleg has already lost influence? Or is he simply acting too cautiously, trying to maintain neutrality? In the worst case, he could be playing both sides - the gap between his words and actions is too great


    Stanislav Mikhailovich, frowning, exhaled heavily:


    - He is still kept on the council only because he is considered moderate, a sort of balance between us and the prince''s supporters. This advantage is temporary. If he returns today without concrete results, we will lose an important link. We won''t have leverage over those who are currently wavering


    Mstislav frowned even more deeply, his massive frame tensing:


    - So what? Wait for him to fail while he bargains away the last scraps of our influence? That''s unacceptable. If he shows weakness again, we''ll have to take the initiative ourselves. It''s time to act decisively and harshly


    From the shadows, Svyatoslav Polovetsky''s voice emerged. He seemed to materialize from the darkness, his eyes flashing in the firelight.


    - Removing him now is too risky. If we start splitting our ranks before the coronation, it will be a gift to Stanislav the Great. We must push Oleg toward decisive actions. If he fails, he will expose himself to everyone. Then the issue of his replacement will be easily resolved without internal discord


    Stanimir squinted thoughtfully and crossed his arms over his chest:


    - Fine, let''s say so. But how much time do we have before the prince begins his offensive against the boyars? The coronation is just a step. What''s next?


    Rurik nodded and replied calmly:


    - Tomorrow he will display his power in the Saint Sophia Cathedral. The Byzantine delegation will see the druzhina, the clergy''s support, and stability. This will be his first move. If we don''t act sooner, he will win their trust and strengthen his control over the boyars


    Mstislav exhaled sharply, clenching his fist:


    - We can use rumors. If the people find out that the prince has formed an alliance on Constantinople''s terms, it will damage his authority. We need to stoke fears, as if decisions are no longer being made in Kyiv but in foreign halls


    Stanislav Mikhailovich ran his hand over his face and exhaled slowly:


    - Rumors are a double-edged blade. One wrong rumor, and we ourselves will end up in the noose we''re trying to tighten around the prince''s neck. People will quickly discern the truth


    Rurik agreed grimly:


    - True. That''s why we need to act differently. Our weapon is the fear of the lesser boyars losing power. Let them tighten the noose on the prince''s neck themselves by demanding guarantees of their rights


    Stanimir paused mid-step, peering into Rurik''s face.


    - Are you sure that will be enough? Or will we once again undermine our position at the most crucial moment?


    Rurik nodded:


    - Yes. My people in Kyiv are already prepared. They know how to work with the boyars and their circles. You need to pressure your allies in the regions. Let them demand reduced tariffs and control. The key is to strike simultaneously from multiple sides


    A heavy silence fell over the hall. Everyone understood that the coming days would be decisive. As if by an invisible command, all eyes turned to the door - they were waiting for Oleg, upon whom much now depended.


    Stanislav Mikhailovich rose and quietly said:


    - We will wait for him. But remember: if anyone slips up prematurely, everything could fall apart


    Rurik slowly scanned the room with a heavy gaze filled with cold warning, as if cautioning that any careless word could turn into a blow.


    - We know the price of mistakes. This time, we will not lose


    The fire in the hearth flickered as if stirred by a sudden gust of wind, its reflections anxiously sliding across the walls. The silence in the hall stretched taut, like the moment before a collapse - the instant when the ground has not yet begun to tremble, but everyone senses the approaching disaster.


    Beyond the mansion¡¯s walls, the night remained oblivious to the decisions being made around the boyars'' massive table. Oleg walked through the nocturnal streets of Kyiv, where the city, like a living entity, lurked within its own shadows and whispers. The dark alleys reminded him of hidden dangers - narrow paths where a single step could be one''s last. The passageways murmured in muffled echoes, as though warning of unseen watchers nearby.


    The night covered the streets with a dense veil. Here, in the realm of shadows, thieves and conspirators felt like masters. Behind thick doors, the houses breathed dully and anxiously - residents hid from what the darkness concealed.


    In a medieval city, night was always a time of dangers and intrigues. There was no lighting - only occasionally did dim candle or torchlight flicker from windows. The darkness became a shield for those who conducted their dirty affairs. No one could feel safe. Even noble townsfolk or merchants dared not venture out without armed guards.


    Night in Kyiv or Constantinople could swallow a person whole, like a bottomless abyss. People disappeared so often that it had become a routine part of life, especially when it came to outsiders.


    Oleg sensed the tension in the night-bound city. Silence enveloped the streets like an invisible hunter, hiding behind the rustling shadows. His companions tensed, listening for distant footsteps.


    Here, among the maze of crooked streets and alleys, a single mistake could cost a life. He was accompanied by two druzhinniks and two Varangians - silent, focused. Their gazes swept over the shadows of corners, catching the slightest movement. Leading them was Yaromir, a sturdy druzhinnik, whose eyes searched for threats with cold, professional confidence.


    The uneven cobblestones bore the traces of those who had vanished forever into the night''s darkness. The Varangians followed behind, casting quick glances at arches and corners - potential ambush spots. These men knew their craft: to guard and survive in places where the law kept silent.


    Here, darkness and fear were allies. Around every corner, death could lurk, as though the night itself concealed its traps. Political clashes between factions - nobles, merchants, clerics - were frequent.


    Influential figures used the night for their affairs, while commoners hurried to lock themselves in their huts and homes. Even in small villages, danger could come in the form of bandits or neighboring enemies. Kyiv, with its narrow streets, was full of those who followed only their own rules.


    Steps echoed faintly underfoot, as if the city itself sought to hide their presence, blending with the quiet, alien rustlings of the night. Yaromir abruptly halted and raised his hand. The silent gesture, filled with expectation, was reflected on the faces of the companions - here, any mistake could be fatal. The Varangians tensed, gripping their sword hilts tighter. Up ahead, a barely audible creak sounded, as though someone was already tracking them in the darkness.


    Somewhere ahead came the creaking of gates and the faint clink of chains. Oleg tensed, but Yaromir, having caught the sound first, slightly turned his head and said curtly:


    - The prince''s druzhina patrol is checking the entrances in Podil


    Oleg listened. Now muted voices reached his ears - the patrolmen exchanged brief phrases, as if afraid to disturb the darkness around them. The voices were sharp and clipped, like commands:


    - All clear here. Moving on


    The prince''s patrol moved in unison, like shadows among shadows, dissolving into the labyrinth of night streets. Their footsteps echoed faintly in the silence, like whispers from another world.


    These men knew Kyiv''s dark alleys and the rules that governed them after sunset. Yet even they dared not linger too long, preferring to leave these dangerous places as soon as their checks were complete.


    Oleg gave a slight nod, but the tension within him remained. He knew that patrols in Podil didn''t always show up. None of them wanted to risk their skins for the troubles of others. Sometimes, it was better to pretend you saw nothing - such was the unspoken wisdom of the guards. Here, in the narrow streets, the power of the law weakened, and the city became the domain of those who operated outside its boundaries.


    They turned a corner where the darkness seemed thicker. Footsteps echoed dully off the walls of the houses, as if the city watched them through invisible eyes. Suddenly, a figure in a cloak emerged from a nearby archway, the oiled edge of the garment catching a glint of light. One quick glance - and the figure disappeared into the depths of the shadow, as though melting into the night.


    One of the Varangians tensed and instinctively reached for the handle of his axe, but Oleg stopped him with a calm voice:


    - Let them go. Everyone hides at this hour


    Oleg paused mid-sentence. From the darkness came a low, drawn-out growl - as if the night itself was warning unwelcome guests. From beneath a wooden arch slipped a dark figure - a lean dog, baring its teeth. The animal''s eyes gleamed in the torchlight.


    A Varangian stepped forward, and the dog, as if frightened by some invisible force, snarled and vanished into the night mist, leaving behind a faint echo of fear.


    Oleg glanced around. The air felt thick, like in the depths of a forest - footsteps and rustling echoed off the walls but quickly faded in the narrow alleys. The next street was framed by dark rows of market stalls.


    The shop gates were locked with massive chains, and shutters were tightly sealed with iron strips, as if the city had deliberately cut itself off from light and life. Yaromir briefly noticed a carved cross on the corner of a house - a merchant''s talisman seeking the church''s protection. Only rare glimmers of lamp flames seeped through the shutters, more like a faint reflection of hope than true light.


    - How much farther? - one of the druzhinniks asked quietly.


    Yaromir silently motioned forward. They soon approached the massive gates of an old merchant''s mansion.


    On the side of the column, ancient carved patterns darkened - symbols of the house''s old alliance with princely power, a silent reminder of long-forgotten agreements. Above the arch, the carved sign of Perun, the protector and patron of the house, was hidden. The etched symbols, like the scars of time, spoke of days when fateful treaties were forged behind these walls.


    Two torches flickered weakly at the entrance, casting shimmering reflections on the walls. Shadows trembled like living beings, as if observing every step of the outsiders. Yaromir gestured with his hand, inviting Oleg to follow him. The stone slabs at the base of the porch gleamed damply, exuding the smell of moisture and soot.


    - Here, - Yaromir said curtly, scanning the nearby corners.


    Oleg paused before the massive gates, inhaling the dense, damp air of the night-bound city. His thoughts drifted to those currently behind the walls of the mansion. They were powerful, cunning, and ready to tear apart anyone who showed weakness.


    These were people who played a game where allies easily turned into enemies - if you dared to stumble. People who did not tolerate weakness and were always waiting for their interlocutor to make a mistake. He had to demonstrate that he was still in control of the situation.


    Yaromir ascended the steps and signaled to a Varangian. The man knocked on the door three times - loud and measured. Moments stretched endlessly. At last, the door creaked open, and a tall man with a short beard appeared on the threshold. His piercing eyes bore into Oleg, as if trying to read his thoughts.


    - Alone, - the man said tersely, paying no attention to the guards.


    - Let my people inside to warm themselves. They are not needed in the hall, but it''s not fitting for them to wait outside, - Oleg said evenly, narrowing his eyes slightly.


    The man nodded silently and gestured to his subordinates. Two guards escorted the druzhinniks and Varangians into a side room. Oleg turned to Yaromir.


    - Stay here. Keep a low profile


    - Understood, - Yaromir replied briefly and disappeared behind the door with the others.


    Oleg walked down the corridor and halted before a massive door leading to the hall. Behind him, the dull footsteps of guards returning to their posts echoed. The silence in the corridor grew increasingly oppressive. The guard at the door fixed his gaze on Oleg, as if weighing him on the scales of some internal criteria. In that look was both a challenge and a test.


    - They are waiting, - the guard said with a subtle, almost mocking tone. A brief, cold smile touched his lips.


    Slowly, almost reluctantly, the guard pulled open the massive door. The creak of the hinges cut through the silence like a warning. Light from the hall burst into the corridor, illuminating Oleg''s figure in the shadows.


    He exhaled slowly and stepped forward without sparing the guard a word or a glance. Beyond that door, five men awaited him, each already mentally casting him as either a victim or a player. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the space seemed to close around him, heavy with the tension of the boyars'' scrutinizing gazes.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Their eyes glinted in the torchlight, sharp and appraising, like blades waiting for the right moment to strike. Here, there were no accidents - every gesture and movement could be a signal.


    He felt the weight of their stares penetrating deeper than he would have liked. Oleg walked slowly, controlling each movement. The torchlight danced on the walls and columns, turning the shadows into chess pieces.


    The massive oak table at the center of the hall resembled an altar of power and intrigue. Five senior boyars sat, while some stood motionless nearby, like predators watching their prey. The fire flickered in the hearth, distorting the shadows on the walls and filling the air with a silence as taut as a drawn string. The light played in the eyes of those gathered, illuminating not their faces but the thoughts hidden behind masks of calm.


    The silence became almost unbearable. Tension hung in the air like a storm about to break. Svyatoslav Polovetsky was the first to disrupt it, nodding toward Oleg:


    - Sit down, Oleg. We''ve been waiting for you


    Oleg gave a slight bow and took the seat offered to him, opposite Stanislav Mikhailovich. The chair creaked under him, as if protesting the weight of the conversation to come. Moments later, the silence once again enveloped the hall.


    Mstislav Belsky folded his hands on the table and, without breaking his heavy gaze on Oleg, spoke:


    - You''re late, Oleg. We''re waiting for an explanation. What about the negotiations? What news do you bring us? - His voice was sharp and coldly demanding, as though he already knew the answer and merely wanted to hear Oleg''s excuses.


    Oleg slowly surveyed those gathered before speaking in a steady but firm voice:


    - The negotiations concluded faster than I expected. Alexander accepted Byzantium''s terms almost immediately. Nikodim proposed a marriage to the grand master''s granddaughter, Sophia Lakapina, along with several concessions - recognition of his title, security of trade routes, military support, and even partial spiritual autonomy. I had expected the prince to stall, to begin discussions and give us time to intervene¡­ but he didn''t wait. He seized the initiative and accepted their offer outright


    Tense silence filled the room. Stanislav Mikhailovich, who had remained silent until now, suddenly leaned forward and struck the table with his fist:


    - Are you telling me he simply agreed? He didn''t even give us a chance to prepare? - His voice trembled with barely contained anger. - This was your task, Oleg! You were supposed to control the situation!


    Oleg paused for a moment, then continued calmly:


    - He didn''t agree in the way you think. He forced Byzantium to make concessions. Nikodim didn''t expect Alexander to start dictating his own terms. He demanded equal rights for our merchants and access to Greek military knowledge. The Byzantines gave in to avoid losing the marriage alliance


    Mstislav''s frown deepened as he crossed his arms:


    - Clever move¡­ But now that''s a problem for us. If he strengthens his power through this alliance and marriage, it will be much harder to undermine his authority


    Rurik slowly set his goblet down on the table, a poisonous smile curving his lips:


    - I don''t see how that justifies your inaction. The negotiations with Byzantium are only the tip of the iceberg. What about the treasury reform? The new schools and orphanages under the monasteries? Or do you consider those unimportant?


    - Exactly, - Mstislav interjected sharply. - If the prince continues at this pace, the next step will be tightening control over our lands. The merchants fear new taxes, inspections, and trade restrictions. You couldn''t even stop the first initiatives. How can we trust you to handle it when he moves on to tariffs and levies?


    Oleg sighed wearily and looked Mstislav directly in the eye:


    - If it were possible, I would have done it. But Stanislav the Great has complete control over access to Alexander. I can''t influence decisions when even the servants aren''t allowed into his private chambers without permission. The princely tower and Detinets are under constant surveillance by his men


    Stanimir Luninetsky leaned back in his chair, quietly drumming his fingers on the armrest:


    - So what can you do, Oleg? Since the prince''s reign began, you haven''t advanced any of our interests. Everyone around him is allied with Stanislav. And we''re supposed to believe you still have leverage?


    Rurik chuckled coldly and added:


    - Or did you never have a plan?


    - Do you think it''s easy to operate in an environment where every move is monitored? - Oleg retorted sharply. - You demand the impossible. If I had access to the prince, the situation would have changed long ago


    Svyatoslav Polovetsky turned slowly from the window and fixed his gaze on Oleg. His voice was calm but carried a veiled threat:


    - Limitations? Difficulties? You''re making excuses too easily. You knew you would be our representative on the council. You knew you would face obstacles. If you can''t work under these conditions, why do we need you?


    Oleg remained silent as the tension in the room thickened. Mstislav was simmering with anger:


    - If this man can''t even block the simplest initiatives, how will we retain our influence in the future? Tomorrow, he''ll fail to handle the taxes. The Galician lands are losing ground with every one of his failures


    Rurik, meanwhile, assessed the situation with a more calculated approach:


    - The more Oleg fails, the easier it will be for me to push forward my candidate from the church circles. Let them stall - his mistakes will corner him on their own


    Sensing the rising tension, Stanimir intervened with cold determination:


    - Enough. We can''t afford internal strife right now. If we start fighting over the position of representative, Alexander will exploit it. We need to find a way to support Oleg and regain our influence


    Mstislav snorted, unable to hold back:


    - Support him? And how will that help us? He''s already missed too much. While we sit here discussing his support, Alexander is probably already selecting a new governor for the Galician lands. And it will be one of Stanislav the Great''s men - of that, we can be certain. Once he takes control, our merchants will be under his heel


    Svyatoslav Polovetsky, standing by the window, did not turn but responded to Mstislav''s words:


    - You think a replacement will solve the problem? All we''ll do is weaken our position. If we replace our representative now, a new power struggle will begin, and Alexander will take advantage of it. This will give him another excuse to consolidate his influence


    Rurik disagreed:


    - And what? We''ll just keep tolerating it? Oleg has already proven his inability to act. He''s the weak link


    - No, Rurik. You want to see him as weak, - Stanimir replied quietly but firmly, leaning toward the table. - You''re playing your own games. You expect that replacing Oleg will give you the opportunity to push forward your own candidate


    Rurik chuckled coldly:


    - And you''re defending him not because you believe in his success. You''re just afraid of losing your influence. Everyone around this table has their own interests, so don''t pretend we''re here for a common cause


    The tension in the hall thickened. Mstislav, not waiting for the argument to continue, slammed his fist on the armrest:


    - Enough! Let''s be direct. Who here supports replacing Oleg? Or are we going to keep wasting time?


    Rurik folded his hands and gave Stanimir a piercing stare:


    - Agreed. Difficult doesn''t mean impossible. We don''t need excuses - we need results. If Oleg can''t deliver, he should be replaced


    Mstislav''s head jerked up, his eyes burning with impatience. He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the table:


    - I support it. We need a new man. Time is short, and actions are even fewer


    All eyes turned to Svyatoslav Polovetsky, who had remained silent in the shadows. Slowly, he lifted a cup to his lips, took a deliberate sip, and finally spoke:


    - Replace Oleg? - His tone was calm but carried a hint of sarcasm. - Sure, someone can be replaced. But in that case, I want to know who. Will the new representative serve the interests of your lands or mine? If I see that this change leads to chaos and losses in the south, it won''t benefit me. Do we agree on that?


    Svyatoslav paused, then lifted his gaze to Rurik:


    - I vote against replacing him. Oleg stays


    Rurik scowled but remained silent. All eyes then shifted to Stanimir Luninetsky.


    - I''m against it too, - Stanimir said with icy calm. - Svyatoslav is right. Replacing Oleg now will weaken our position and undermine our allies'' trust


    Rurik and Mstislav tensed, realizing the situation was slipping from their control. The final word now rested with Stanislav Mikhailovich. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the armrest, his gaze cold and focused.


    - I''ll abstain, - he finally said in an even tone. - It doesn''t matter to me right now. Decide among yourselves


    Mstislav exhaled in frustration and leaned forward, slapping his hand flat on the table:


    - Two votes for replacement, two against. Oleg stays. But this is your last chance. If there are no results next time, I don''t think anyone will defend you again


    The tension in the room thickened like fog before a storm. The senior boyars watched Oleg in silence, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness.


    Oleg drew a deep breath, as if pulling a cold mantle of calm over himself to contain the storm within. Even his fingers, gripping the armrest, remained motionless. He leaned back slightly and inclined his head, projecting an air of composure, though inside he was seething.


    - Rurik and Mstislav want to see me fall... but it''s too soon for them to celebrate


    Oleg''s voice was steady but carried a faint undertone of defiance:


    - Very well. I accept your decision. I will take it into account and draw conclusions. But let me remind you - we still have common goals: the preservation of our lands and the interests of the boyar class. I will continue to work for the common good, as before


    Mstislav smirked, tilting his head, and slowly drawled:


    - The common good? Or your own position? We''ve all seen your ''results.'' If you let things slip again, you''d be better off stepping aside for someone who can handle it


    Oleg held his gaze without flinching. A dangerous spark flashed in his eyes, but he maintained his composure. Sensing the escalating tension, Stanimir intervened:


    - That''s enough, Mstislav. The decision has been made. Oleg stays, but he does need to take more initiative. Time is on the prince''s side - he won''t wait for us to deliberate. If we''re divided, Stanislav the Great will crush us


    Rurik, fingers intertwined on the table, gave Oleg a sharp, calculating stare - cold and precise, like a scalpel''s edge:


    - Remember this, Oleg. Mistakes here come at a high price. One misstep is enough to push you out of this game. That''s not a warning. It''s a fact


    Oleg met the gaze calmly and nodded, his voice firm:


    - I understand. But I trust you understand as well: success depends not only on me. If Stanislav the Great senses our divisions, that''s where he''ll strike. We''ll need to act together


    His words were deliberately diplomatic, yet the underlying firmness made the boyars pause in thought.


    Svyatoslav Polovetsky, still standing by the window, finally spoke:


    - You''re right. But don''t play games - neither with the prince nor with us. Too many factions are watching every move we make. Mistakes will not be forgiven


    The hall fell into tense silence once more. Mstislav, frowning, tapped nervously on the armrest. Stanimir squinted, as though trying to decipher Oleg''s hidden intentions. Their stares bore down on him like cold steel.


    Oleg rose and slowly scanned the room. His face remained impassive, but his voice carried a subtle edge:


    - Thank you for your trust and your patience. We all understand the cost of mistakes. Now, it''s my task to prove that I still hold this position for a reason


    With these words, he gave a slight nod - a gesture of respect, but not submission. It was a move that allowed each boyar to see him as both a diplomat and a player who had not lost his dignity.


    Oleg held his gaze on each of them for a few moments longer, as if testing their resolve through their eyes. Only then did he smoothly turn and stride confidently toward the exit. The guard by the door stepped aside without a word, his brow furrowing slightly as he swung the heavy door open. The corridor greeted Oleg with a chill and the soft glow of oil lamps.


    The moment the massive door closed behind him, the guard at the mansion''s entrance gave a short signal to his men. Quiet footsteps echoed as Yaromir, another druzhinnik, and two Varangians emerged from the side room where they had been waiting. They approached Oleg silently, their faces calm but alert.


    - Is everything in order, my lord? - Yaromir asked quietly, his eyes scanning Oleg''s face, pausing on the tense line of his lips.


    Oleg gave a brief nod:


    - Everything is as it should be. We''re leaving


    The guard at the entrance slowly pulled open the outer doors, his cold gaze sweeping over the departing group, a silent farewell question lingering in his eyes - one no one intended to answer.


    A sudden rush of night air surged into the corridor, biting at their faces like icy needles. Yaromir shifted his shoulders slightly, shaking off the chill, while the Varangians exchanged a glance without a word, prepared for the road ahead. Oleg was the first to step outside, followed closely by the others.


    The doors groaned shut behind them, the heavy echo rolling down the empty alleyway like a final warning from the night.


    Oleg paused at the top of the steps, the cold air wrapping around his face like an icy glove, sharpening his thoughts. His hands gripped the railings tightly, releasing the last remnants of tension. Rurik''s words no longer haunted him - they faded like whispers on the wind, giving way to unyielding determination.


    - They think they''ve won... Well then, let them become prisoners of their own illusion. I''ll simply push them toward the abyss they''ve dug themselves. The real game begins when the enemy feels safe


    He exhaled slowly, releasing an invisible spring of tension through clenched teeth. Let them believe he''s cornered - fear of an illusion of power is always stronger than the fear of truly losing it. Their struggle for control would become their own noose, and he would only have to nudge Alexander when the time was right.


    - Alexander will become a mirror of their fears. Let them see in him the threat they forged with their own intrigues and greed


    For a moment, Oleg stood still, gazing down the winding alley. Darkness concealed the network of his future moves. The night would be his ally - its silence made it easier to weave the patterns of fate. The frost chilled his lungs, clearing a path for his thoughts. Now all that remained was to wait and observe their every step.


    - Forward, - he said softly to Yaromir.


    Yaromir nodded without a question.


    The footsteps of Oleg and his men faded into the night. Silence wrapped around the streets like a dense fog, concealing those who had begun their dangerous game in the shadows of the great city. The night, like a silent guardian, stretched across all of Kyiv, embracing both its majestic cathedrals and quiet sanctuaries.


    In one such place - the cell of Metropolitan Illarion - a faint lamplight flickered. The dim glow danced across the stone walls, as if a shadow from the past had come to life, watching his every move.


    Hilarion knelt before an icon, his fingers tracing the cold frame, as if hoping to find answers to his troubling thoughts within its intricate patterns. The rustling pages of scripture whispered under his hand, but the words seemed to drown in the fog of his reflections on the recent negotiations.


    Gradually, a deep sense of peace enveloped him, like the long-awaited dawn after an endless night. He could not recall the last time his heart had beat so calmly.


    Alexander, the new young prince, had displayed a maturity and foresight that surprised the Metropolitan. The issue of the church''s autonomy, which Hilarion had previously raised during the council, had not escaped the prince''s attention.


    During negotiations with Byzantium, Alexander not only secured concessions but also strengthened the position of Kyivan Rus'', transforming spiritual principles into a weapon of political strategy. Hilarion saw that the words spoken in council had manifested in the prince''s actions.


    The Metropolitan softly whispered a prayer of gratitude:


    - Lord, You have granted us a ruler who can understand and uphold the faith. May his power be strengthened by Your grace and the righteousness of his deeds


    He exhaled deeply and rose to his feet. Only recently, his heart had been gripped by doubts.


    - Will the young prince withstand not only the cunning intrigues of Constantinople but also the pressure from his own boyars, for whom faith is nothing more than a tool of power?


    But now Hilarion saw that Alexander had not only held his ground but had compelled the Byzantines to dance to his tune. The external church''s influence was no longer a threat. God had shown the path, and the prince had stepped onto it with confidence.


    - I do not have long left in this world, - Hilarion thought, gazing into the lamp''s flame. - But I am at peace. My work will not perish. Alexander will lead Kyivan Rus'' forward, a worthy heir to the true faith


    The silence of the cell was broken by the muffled sound of footsteps. Hilarion slowly turned to see Luka of Chernihiv standing in the doorway, as if he had just emerged from the depths of eternity. Tall, with sharp features and a penetrating gaze, he stood motionless, like a sentinel guarding the border of an invisible world.


    His modest but well-crafted cassock reflected faintly in the dim light. Luka was more than just a bishop - he was a guardian of faith along the eastern frontiers. Chernihiv, a crucial city constantly threatened by raids and dangers, had long been under his stewardship. His calm demeanor and skill at mediating disputes with the boyars had earned him respect not only among the clergy but also among the common people.


    Hilarion studied him closely, recognizing in him a man upon whom he could rely in the future.


    - Luka, - the Metropolitan began quietly, each word imbued with a sense of blessing, - you have long overseen the church''s affairs in lands where faith is tested daily. Where every new day may bring fresh threats, you have preserved order and steadfastness of spirit. I have often reflected on who should succeed me. And now I believe the Lord has already made that choice


    Luka inclined his head slightly. His voice, calm yet firm, echoed in the stillness:


    - Chernihiv stands on the border between peace and war. Every week, raiders from the east test our strength. If that strength falters even for a moment, chaos will engulf us. There, on the frontier, sword and prayer are one and the same. My task is simple: to hold that land as firmly as one grips a sword


    Hilarion smiled faintly, though a reflection of resolute light shone in his eyes, like a distant, unchanging beacon.


    - That is why I see you as my successor. You understand that faith is not only about prayer but also about the art of governance. You have maintained peace where each day could bring new danger. Over the years, you have strengthened ties with the boyars and established effective administration and tax collection. If the church is to endure in these challenging times, it needs leaders like you


    Luka''s gaze remained fixed on the Metropolitan''s face, filled with both respect and a silent question - was he ready to accept the burden being offered? After a few moments, he quietly spoke:


    - If this is your choice, my lord, I am prepared to take on this responsibility. But we both know that this path will not be easy. Prince Alexander will face many trials, as will we alongside him. He will be tested not only by external enemies but also by internal struggles within Kyivan Rus''


    Hilarion nodded, his expression becoming pensive.


    - You are right. These are turbulent times. But that is precisely why I believe Alexander can endure the journey ahead. He has already proven he is not afraid to make decisions. He has given us a chance for spiritual freedom. We must respond not just with words of support but with actions - through our prayers, our lands, and our readiness to fight


    They stood in silence as the lamplight trembled, and shadows, like harbingers of change, spread across the stone walls like threads of an unresolved fate. Illarion''s gaze lingered on the flame for a moment, as if trying to peer into the future. History was preparing to make its move ¨C and their wisdom would determine whether it would be written in golden or bloody letters.


    That same night, in the cell of the Saint Irene Monastery, Senior Monk Boris leaned over a massive oak table. The light of an oil lamp quietly flickered on the yellowed parchments, as if lost among the hardened drops of wax. In the adjoining rooms, orphaned children slept peacefully. The entire monastery was steeped in tranquility, but Boris''s mind was a storm of anxious thoughts.


    The monastery had finally become a true home for the orphans, and for the first time in a long while, Boris felt a sense of relief. The plan to build shelters had received the prince''s support and was on the verge of becoming reality - transforming from mere words into stone and wood. Many difficulties lay ahead, but now the path to realization was open.


    The chief treasurer, Radomir Serebryany, a pragmatic and steadfast man, had endorsed the initiative, and the young prince confirmed its funding. Yet Boris knew that stability was a fleeting thing.


    Power in Kyivan Rus'' was like an unsecured bridge hanging over a raging river - one wrong move could plunge it into a chasm of conflict. The strong foundations laid by Yaroslav the Wise remained intact, but cracks of intrigue and rivalry were beginning to show.


    A single misstep could ignite a long period of strife and fragmentation, as powerful regions and ambitious boyars vied for influence, slowly undermining the unity of the state.


    On the table lay a letter - a report from Danilo Pechersky, one of the few scribes Boris trusted in these uncertain times. Danilo had been present among the attendants at the hall where negotiations between the Byzantine delegation and Prince Alexander had taken place. Boris carefully read each line, knowing the importance of every word.


    - Negotiations concluded swiftly. The prince displayed decisiveness and firmness, - Danilo had written. - The Byzantines, represented by the envoy Nikodim, agreed to several concessions, including partial spiritual independence for Rus''. However, the prince also quickly accepted an alliance and marriage with Princess Sophia, giving no time for further preparation


    Boris slowly set the letter down, gazing thoughtfully toward the window. Questions crowded his mind:


    - What lay behind the prince''s swift decision? Was it youthful impulsiveness or a calculated move?


    He knew that in Kyiv, rumors spread faster than the spring floods, surging through homes and streets with an unstoppable whisper. Clasping his hands on his chest, Boris leaned back in his chair and murmured softly, as though testing his thoughts aloud.


    - Too fast¡­ Does he understand the game he''s begun? Or has he already calculated every step?


    He recalled Alexander''s expression during their last meeting. The prince was young, but in his eyes gleamed a predator''s caution - the look of someone who trusted no one.


    Perhaps this was not mere impulse, but a premeditated strategy. Or... perhaps the prince was being influenced by those who held him under their control. Boris''s gaze sharpened as he returned to the letter.


    The speed of the marriage arrangement gave Alexander''s enemies a potent weapon for intrigue. Boris could already see how the boyars who opposed central authority would exploit this. First would come the rumors - that the prince was now under Constantinople''s sway, a puppet whose critical decisions were made across the sea. Those whispers could spread throughout Kyivan Rus'', eroding trust.


    - Rumors, - the word echoed in his thoughts. - You can''t catch them by the tail. They scatter like rats through alleyways, and everyone believes their own version of the whisper


    He stood abruptly, breaking the chain of heavy reflections, and strode to the window, letting the cold night air fill his lungs. Boris gazed at the dark outlines of the cathedral''s domes. By tomorrow - or perhaps during the coronation - the struggle for influence would begin.


    The autonomy-minded boyars would stir fears of centralization, whispering that the prince had betrayed their interests for an alliance with Byzantium. The people would murmur that Alexander had sold out his power for a foreign marriage.


    Boris exhaled heavily, sensing the approach of the inevitable. He could see the future as though reflected in dark waters: intrigues, revolts, war. A year or two of scheming would lead regions to assert their autonomy. Then would come the struggle for control over territories, and finally, a full-blown civil war. Boris had witnessed this pattern in other principalities before. He understood that once the sword triumphed over reason, all resources would be consumed by conflict. In such a situation, no one would care for orphans or monasteries.


    His fingers gripped the window frame as though trying to keep the encroaching darkness outside the cell. Boris could not allow this to happen. His network - subtle and unseen - was always ready. The few people he trusted knew their roles and awaited his signal. They could intercept rumors, gather intelligence, and prevent plots. But now, they needed clear orders.


    Stopping before the icon in the corner, Boris fixed his gaze on the saint''s face, as if seeking answers in its silent presence. The lamp''s light flickered on the image of Saint Irene, making the frozen features seem almost alive. The monk bowed his head in prayer:


    - Grant me wisdom and strength to protect them, Lord. You know - it is not for me


    Slowly, he straightened and turned back to the letter.


    - Too much is at stake. I will not allow what we''ve started to be destroyed


    Boris dipped his quill into the inkwell and hesitated for a moment. His hand hovered over the parchment, as though weighing each future word. His mind was already arranging moves like pieces on a chessboard, where every step could lead to a fatal outcome.


    - We can''t let the enemy make the first move... - the thought flashed in his mind. The quill glided smoothly across the paper, leaving confident black lines.


    Rumors were like molten iron - dangerous to handle. One careless act could leave a lasting scar. A single mistake, and their own web of intrigue could turn into a trap snapping around their necks.


    It was time to act with precision and without delay. Boris bore a dual responsibility - protecting the orphans and monasteries from looming danger while also maintaining the prince''s grip on power as enemies lurked in the shadows, ready to strike.


    His hand wrote steadily, but his thoughts raced feverishly.


    - What if this is a trap? - the question surged. Perhaps Alexander had sealed the agreement so swiftly to provoke his enemies into rash action. Or... had he himself fallen into a trap set by the Byzantines?


    - A trap or youthful zeal, - Boris murmured, thoughtfully stroking his beard. - Perhaps both


    The letter was finished. Boris folded it and left a discreet mark in the corner - a sign known only to his trusted agents. By tomorrow, the letter would reach the right hands, and its origin would remain a secret. Tonight, however, he would pray and strategize, anticipating every possible move his adversaries might make.


    He knew he would have to act swiftly and decisively, as he had in those turbulent times when he served Yaroslav the Wise, helping the great prince maintain unity across Rus''. Back then, his choices determined the outcomes of secret negotiations, thwarted conspiracies, and strengthened authority during an era when each day brought new threats.


    Now, once again, he was stepping into the game where every move could lead to ruin and every stake was a fight for survival and power.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who''s reading my story!


    I hope you found it interesting to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of those times and feel just how dangerous it was to go outside at night. In a world of intrigue and conspiracies, a single careless word could cost you your life. The struggle for power took place not only on battlefields but also in the shadows of palaces and fortresses.


    I also want to clarify that the storyline involving the death of Metropolitan Ilarion is based on historical facts. It is known that he lived until 1054 or 1055. Since the events in my book take place at the beginning of 1054, I believe this aligns with historical reality. However, his death in the story is still ahead, so you don''t need to worry - he will continue to play a role in the upcoming events.

 Chapter 23. The Eve of Changes and Trials

    The next morning, Alexander awoke at dawn. Outside the windows, a faint light slowly glided across the carved shutters, giving way to the start of a new day. The room was still shrouded in twilight, but waking had become as inevitable as the rising sun.


    The previous evening and night had been consumed by thoughts - deliberating over Stanislav''s words regarding the autonomy-minded boyars and his own plans for state reforms.


    Reforms were a delicate balancing act. The boyars disliked change. They were unlikely to openly oppose it but would prefer to stall, cautiously searching for ways to circumvent or delay any new policies. Direct confrontation would be a last resort for them. Alexander understood that to push through his reforms, he had to not only demonstrate their benefits but also instill confidence that these changes would not upend the established order.


    - The key is to show them the advantage. The changes must become their cause, not just mine, - Alexander reflected. This thought had hovered over him throughout the evening and into the night, filling his mind with relentless questions.


    His task was both complex and promising: the vast territories of Kyivan Rus'' presented both a challenge and an opportunity. The state stretched from the Baltic to the Black Sea, from the Carpathians to the Volga.


    In terms of scale, it rivaled the greatest powers of the time - such as the Holy Roman Empire to the west, Byzantium to the south, and the fragmented Caliphate to the east.


    Managing such vast lands was no easier than governing the Byzantine Empire, with its countless regions and local laws, or the Holy Roman Empire, where princes and dukes constantly challenged central authority.


    It was both a challenge and an opportunity. Unlike the fragmented feudal West, where kings depended heavily on the whims of their vassals, Kyivan Rus'' offered greater flexibility. True, the veche and boyar councils could interfere in politics, especially in cities like Novgorod and Polotsk. However, this very flexibility could become Alexander''s greatest weapon - if he could find the right balance.


    - The advantage is that reforms can be implemented across all lands at once, - he thought. - If I show the boyars that these changes will strengthen their power as well, resistance can turn into support


    This idea became his guiding star. He needed to move carefully, navigating between the interests of various factions. But if everything went according to plan, the reforms would not only solidify his control but also unlock new potential for the growth of Kyivan Rus''.


    Alexander knew that what was at stake was not merely his own power - it was the fate of the entire state and his legacy.


    The prince rose from his bed. The cool stone floor beneath his feet brought him fully back to the reality of a new day. Stretching, Alexander shook off the lingering remnants of sleep.


    By custom, servants would typically enter at this hour to assist the ruler of such a vast state in dressing. But they did not appear - nor did Alexander expect them. Stanislav the Great had given strict orders that no one was to disturb the prince except for his trusted druzhinniks.


    In these past days, Alexander had grown accustomed to the solitude and the deep silence of his chambers. Now that his health was improving, he saw little reason for anyone to attend to minor tasks like dressing.


    In contrast, Byzantine emperors or Western monarchs in a similar situation would have been surrounded by dozens of courtiers - chamberlains entering from one side, advisors from another, while servants rushed about fulfilling trivial duties. Every morning would have been orchestrated down to the smallest detail of ceremony.


    But such traditions did not exist in Kyivan Rus''. Despite the state''s scale and strength, its rulers led simpler lives. There were no elaborate court rituals like those of Byzantium. Instead of being encircled by countless nobles and attendants, the prince relied on his druzhina, a few close boyars, and his steward to manage the affairs of the court.


    For Alexander, who valued practicality and self-reliance, this simplicity was a relief. Two sides of his nature intertwined within him: the prince of the past, trained in his youth to be self-sufficient, and the Alexander of the future - a man accustomed to depending solely on himself in a world of technology and structured systems. In his modern life, he had lived by the principle that the less commotion around him, the greater his freedom to act.


    In his youth, Prince Alexander''s mentor, Boyar Vysheslav, had instilled in him discipline and a simple truth: a ruler must be capable of facing life''s hardships on his own.


    - Remember, Prince, power is not the grandeur of a throne but the ability to endure the storm yourself. When your father, Yaroslav, was overcome with doubt, who sustained him? Only his own strength and loyalty to his word, - Vysheslav would remind him. - No one will grant you more authority than what you create through your actions


    These lessons stayed with Alexander throughout his life, reinforced by new trials. In the future world he had once lived in, there was no one to provide daily comfort and security.


    He had learned to care for himself - from maintaining his gear to preparing his own meals. The pomp and bustle of servants, seen in this world as symbols of greatness, were, to him, nothing but an annoying hindrance.


    Alexander pulled on a tunic embroidered with the pattern of a grapevine - an ancient symbol of power and prosperity, a protective emblem on his path. He tightened a leather belt with a heavy buckle engraved with the Rurikid emblem. The buckle seemed to carry the weight of time itself, merging the past and future, a reminder of the burden of rule.


    As he smoothed the sleeves of his tunic, three firm, deliberate knocks echoed through the door, as if saying: I know you''ll hear me.


    - Prince, it''s me, - came the deep, steady voice of Stanislav from beyond the door. He always spoke with a tone that left no room for doubt.


    Alexander paused briefly, letting the calmness of Stanislav''s presence settle his thoughts, then answered evenly:


    - Come in


    The door creaked open, revealing the imposing figure of Stanislav the Great. His broad frame filled the doorway for a moment. His face, resolute and ready for action, was immediately focused on Alexander.


    Stanislav''s eyes carefully examined the prince, assessing his condition. A flicker of approval crossed his gaze - Alexander had nearly fully recovered and now appeared prepared for the challenges ahead.


    - Good morning, Prince, - Stanislav said with restrained respect. Stepping forward, he continued in a firm, steady tone: - Today is the Eve of the Annunciation and the final day before your coronation. Everyone will be watching your every move - boyars, clergymen, and the Byzantines


    Alexander nodded thoughtfully, digesting the words. The room fell into a brief but palpable silence. Stanislav stood motionless, like a stone wall, while the prince swayed slightly on his feet, deep in contemplation of the events to come.


    He knew that earning the trust of the boyars had not even begun. They saw him more as a rival than a leader. Now, each of his actions would need to demonstrate that he was not only strong but also worthy of rule. This was a game where mistakes were not an option.


    - Where do we begin? - Alexander asked calmly, with a faint note of curiosity in his voice.


    He understood that everyone expected him to fulfill the rituals and duties of a ruler. Yet memories of his previous life whispered otherwise: princely ceremonies had always seemed tiresome and unnecessary to him.


    Even his former self had placed little value on such customs, preferring to train with the druzhina in the practice yard. Rituals, councils, negotiations - none of these had seemed vital to a man accustomed to relying on swift and decisive action.


    Stanislav, as always, remained composed and steady.


    - First, the chapel, - he said in an unyielding tone that did not require repetition. - You must offer the morning prayer before the icon of Christ Pantocrator. A monk sent by the Metropolitan will meet you there to bestow a blessing and guidance for the day ahead. It''s an important part of your responsibilities


    Alexander nodded, understanding that the ceremony was more than a mere formality. On the eve of such a significant day, with many already arriving for the celebrations, every tradition held heightened importance.


    - After that, breakfast and the pressing matters of state, - Stanislav added. - Are you ready?


    Alexander silently lifted his head. His gaze was clear and steady, like the cold gleam of steel in sunlight. His mind was focused solely on the upcoming trial, which felt akin to battle: this would require not strength but endurance and sharp wit.


    - Ready. Lead on, - he replied curtly.


    Stanislav''s eyes swept over the prince, gauging his resolve. Satisfied, he nodded approvingly - the young prince was beginning to walk the path he needed to take to become a true ruler.


    They wasted no time. Together, they made their way toward the doors, leaving behind the stillness of the night-shrouded chambers. Outside, the day was already gathering strength, promising to be long, full of trials, and laden with new decisions.


    They stepped out of the prince''s chambers, followed silently by Mstislav and Mirnomir - loyal members of Alexander''s druzhina. Their steps were soft, nearly inaudible, yet their presence felt like a solid wall of protection behind him.


    Stanislav gave them a brief nod, confirming their role as escorts to the chapel. Meanwhile, other druzhinniks replaced them at the post by the chamber doors, ensuring constant vigilance over the prince''s quarters.


    The palace slumbered in the pre-dawn stillness. Torchlight flickered across the walls, casting restless shadows over icons and ancient carved columns. Stanislav led with a steady stride, occasionally glancing back at Alexander. Mstislav and Mirnomir followed a few paces behind, their eyes scanning the surroundings with quiet vigilance.


    - We''re almost there, - Stanislav said calmly as the massive doors of the chapel came into view. His voice was even, but there was an air of gravity in his words.


    - In light of the great feast, the morning prayer is mandatory. The Metropolitan has sent one of his men to deliver your blessing, - Stanislav continued, pausing briefly. A faint smile touched his lips. - But it''s not just any monk. It''s Bishop Luka of Chernihiv, one of Metropolitan Hilarion''s most trusted advisors


    Alexander raised an eyebrow slightly.


    - And what is he supposed to do?


    - The blessing ritual. He''ll recite a prayer before the icon, sprinkle you with holy water, and offer a brief address. These things carry great importance on major feast days, Prince. The people expect to see you not only as their ruler but also as a protector of the Christian faith


    Alexander reflected for a moment. The Church had always played a central role in the life of the principality, and this meeting was no coincidence. Luka was likely not only representing ecclesiastical authority but also evaluating the future grand prince as a potential ally.


    - Seems everything is carefully planned, - Alexander murmured, his voice calm with newfound understanding.


    - Exactly, Prince. Traditions and symbols are a vital part of your reign, especially on days like this, - Stanislav affirmed with a nod.


    Before long, they halted before an intricately carved door made of dark oak, adorned with grapevine motifs and a cross. Stanislav opened it and bowed slightly, inviting Alexander to enter. In the center of the chapel, softly lit by flickering lamps, a man in long ecclesiastical robes stood waiting. He bowed his head in a gesture of respect.


    - Peace be with you, Prince Alexander, - Bishop Luka greeted him. His deep, soothing voice resonated through the sacred space. - I have come to pray with you and bestow a blessing


    Alexander responded with quiet respect:


    - And peace to you, Bishop, - he said, inclining his head slightly. He stepped forward and stood before the icon of Christ Pantocrator. The lamps in the chapel cast a gentle, golden glow, and shadows crept along the walls like living scripture.


    Luka gestured for him to stand beside him, then knelt before the icon, beginning a quiet introductory prayer.


    - Lord Almighty, Ruler of heaven and earth, strengthen this ruler, Your servant Alexander. Grant him wisdom to govern his people for Your glory and for the prosperity of his lands. Clear his path of obstacles and endow him with grace to rule justly


    Alexander crossed himself and bowed his head. The bishop''s voice, deep and steady, seemed to fill every crack in the ancient stone walls. Luka then lifted his gaze to the icon of the Holy Theotokos, positioned in a dedicated corner of the chapel.


    - Most Holy Theotokos, our defender and protector, strengthen the spirit of this ruler and shield his people from both visible and invisible enemies. Grant peace and prosperity to this land


    For a moment, the chapel was filled with profound silence. Alexander felt the tension within him begin to ease, replaced by focus and a firm sense of purpose.


    The bishop took a step forward, opening a liturgical book and beginning to recite a psalm:


    - The Lord is my light and my salvation - whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life - of whom shall I be afraid?


    Alexander listened intently, absorbing each word. The verses spoke not only of protection but also of duty - the need to bear responsibility for the fate of his people. The chapel seemed to breathe with the power of those words. The lamps flickered gently, their wax dripping slowly, as the scent of incense filled the air.


    When Luka finished the reading, he approached the prince with a silver vessel of consecrated water. He sprinkled Alexander three times, intoning:


    - May the Lord''s blessing be upon you, Prince Alexander. May the heavenly power guide you in your reign and in all your deeds. May every act of yours bring peace and justice to these lands


    Alexander crossed himself again and stood tall. He met the bishop''s gaze and gave a respectful nod.


    - Thank you, Father, - he said quietly. - This is important not only for me but for the entire principality


    Luka smiled gently and stepped back, bowing slightly to signify the conclusion of the rite. The lamps continued their soft crackling, while the warm, enveloping scent of incense lingered in the air. The silence became almost palpable.


    Alexander turned slowly and walked toward the door. His footsteps echoed faintly on the stone floor, breaking the stillness. Outside, Stanislav and the druzhinniks waited for the prayer to conclude. As soon as Alexander stepped through the doorway, Stanislav advanced, his eyes carefully scanning the prince.


    - How did it go, Prince? - he asked evenly, though there was a trace of concern in his voice.


    Alexander nodded slightly, his gaze steady and composed.


    - Peaceful. Luka gave me his blessing and words of counsel. We can move forward


    Stanislav watched Alexander for a few moments, as if assessing the firmness behind his words. Then, he allowed a slight smile to touch the corner of his lips.


    - Good. It''s going to be a full day, so we should eat. Kukhmistr, Svaromir, has already prepared breakfast, - he remarked, his tone shifting to something more casual. - It might be worth making regular morning meals with loyal boyars a tradition. Starting the day by discussing matters at the table is a wise practice


    Alexander paused briefly in thought, then nodded firmly as ideas began to take shape in his mind.


    - Good point. We''ll give it some thought. Lead the way, - he replied shortly.


    Stanislav gestured ahead, and they moved down the long corridor illuminated by the glow of wall-mounted torches. As Alexander walked, his thoughts lingered on the name "Svaromir."


    - Kukhmistr... That''s like a head chef in the 21st century, isn''t it?


    He chuckled inwardly. At first glance, yes - a man responsible for preparing meals. But as more memories from the prince''s life surfaced, he realized that things were far more complex here.


    In modern times, a head chef was more of an artist in the kitchen. Menus, flavor pairings, and elegant presentation defined their world. Their team worked with precision, everything followed a set schedule, and supplies and sanitation were handled by reliable systems.


    Here, however, things were entirely different.


    A kukhmistr managed not only the kitchen but also the entire storehouse of the princely palace. He coordinated the work of cooks and servants, monitored the storage of provisions, and organized feasts.


    If something spoiled in the cellars or if there was a shortage of spices, it became his responsibility. He also ensured that food was not only flavorful but safe - a crucial task in medieval Kyivan Rus'', where poisoning or disease could wreak havoc on a ruler''s household.


    Alexander''s thoughts deepened. Considering the logistical challenges and everyday life of this era, the kukhmistr resembled a skilled administrator more than a mere cook. He oversaw everything - from supply chains to food distribution during events. If he failed, the entire court would feel the impact.


    - I''ll need to visit the kitchen this evening, - Alexander mused. - Check how the food is stored, which spices are available, what''s typically prepared, and how they handle cleanliness and other essentials


    He pondered the broader implications of such a visit. The kitchen could serve as the starting point for reforms. It wasn''t just a place for cooking - it was crucial to the health and readiness of everyone living and working in the palace.


    - The future stability and health of the entire principality, - he murmured quietly to himself.


    In the modern world, people had long recognized the importance of such things. Cleanliness in the kitchen, proper food storage, and infection control were taken for granted. Here, however, neglecting these practices could quickly lead to illness and weakened morale.


    - We''ll start small, - Alexander concluded internally. - Inspect the kitchen, suggest improvements. If handled properly, we can significantly enhance nutrition and overall efficiency


    Ideas for potential changes swirled in his mind: improving storage conditions, introducing better food preparation methods, and experimenting with new dishes and rare spices. The key was that these changes wouldn''t face much resistance. People always noticed - and appreciated - improvements they could taste.


    - Food is the perfect entry point for early reforms, - he allowed himself a brief smile. - No debates or arguments here. The results will speak for themselves


    As thoughts of future changes continued to spin in his mind, he and Stanislav walked down the long corridor. The princely commander observed Alexander carefully but remained silent, allowing the young ruler to continue his reflections. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the columns, their outlines distorted on the uneven stone surfaces.


    The corridor led them into a spacious hall - the Trapezna.


    Soft light slid across copper pitchers and lamps, filling the room with a warm golden glow. Carved patterns of intertwining vines and stylized birds - symbols of the princely lineage - decorated the walls. Heavy embroidered fabrics adorned the corners of the hall. The wooden floor creaked faintly underfoot, and the air carried the comforting aroma of freshly prepared food.


    At the center stood a massive oak table draped with a simple linen cloth. A lamp hung above it, casting a gentle, golden light over the room. The hall breathed an ancient calm and steady strength.


    Dobrynya Vsevolodich, the Ognyshanin, awaited them by the table. Hearing their footsteps, he rose smoothly and bowed to Alexander and Stanislav. His posture and composed expression reflected the presence of a man accustomed to maintaining order and security within the princely estate. Before him sat an empty wooden bowl - he had, of course, not begun the meal without them.


    - Good morning, Prince Alexander, Stanislav the Great, - he greeted them calmly.


    - Good morning, Dobrynya, - Alexander replied curtly as he approached the table.


    Stanislav offered a brief nod of acknowledgment before taking his seat.


    - Everything is proceeding as planned, - Dobrynya continued. - The boyars are steadily arriving, and the Byzantine delegation is finishing their breakfast in their chambers. They''ve kept to themselves for now, but I expect that Magister Nikodemos will make his presence known later


    - Good, - Alexander replied simply as he took his seat. Stanislav sat to his left, while Dobrynya, maintaining his composed focus, resumed his place across from the prince.


    Alexander''s gaze shifted to the table.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    The oak surface held several dishes, each in its own vessel. A steaming bowl of millet porridge with honey and nuts emitted a comforting warmth. On a wide platter lay freshly baked bread with a golden crust, untouched by a knife.


    A flat dish bore smoked fish with a faint aroma of damp oakwood, while another bowl contained boiled root vegetables. Within easy reach stood two pitchers - one filled with cool kvass and the other with diluted wine.


    Stanislav and Dobrynya had similar portions before them. The meal was modest yet balanced, embodying the harmony of a traditional Lenten breakfast - a reminder of the importance of both temperance and abundance without excess.


    The meal began in silence. Alexander took a few measured sips of kvass, feeling the tension from the morning prayer gradually ease. The cool drink soothed his dry throat, while the warmth of the food spread slowly through his body.


    It was Stanislav who finally broke the silence. His voice, as always, was steady and confident:


    - Prince, let''s begin with a matter of urgency. It concerns the attack on you and your brothers. This was carefully orchestrated, and mercenaries were not acting alone. According to my information, certain boyars either turned a blind eye to the passage of these attackers through their lands or quietly aided them. Without their tacit approval, foreign elites would not have been able to get so close and launch an assault on you and the other princes


    Stanislav paused, watching Alexander closely before continuing firmly:


    - I am already conducting an investigation. You will be the first to hear the results as soon as they are confirmed


    Alexander set down his kvass and met the commander''s gaze.


    - Good. If they managed it once, they might try again


    Stanislav nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching with a brief, faint smile.


    - Exactly, Prince. The most peculiar part of this is that the attack targeted only you and your late brothers. All other relatives remained unharmed. I hesitate to jump to conclusions, but in our world, such coincidences are rarely accidental


    Alexander''s expression tightened briefly before returning to its usual focused calm.


    - I understand, Stanislav. I trust you to uncover the truth. How is security being handled today and for the coronation? What measures have been implemented? - he asked in a composed yet probing tone.


    Stanislav straightened slightly, as though Alexander''s words had strengthened his resolve.


    - Security for the coronation will be of the highest level, Prince. The Cathedral of Saint Sophia is already surrounded by our men. Druzhinniks will take positions at all entrances and key points within the citadel. After the ceremony, we will ensure protection during the feast and at the palace


    Alexander nodded thoughtfully, letting the words settle. His gaze lingered briefly on the softly flickering lamps above the table.


    - Good, - he said quietly, as if concluding the matter. He took another sip of kvass, then relaxed slightly and added with a light smile:


    - So, what''s next after breakfast?


    Stanislav, noticing that the prince had become calmer, leaned forward slightly. His gaze softened, and his voice took on a mentoring tone.


    - After breakfast, Prince, I''ll introduce you to those who can become your strongest support. These aren''t mere servants or subjects. They are loyal boyars and influential figures who back the pro-princely alliance. If they see strength, wisdom, and justice in you, they will serve you as faithfully as they once served your father, Yaroslav the Wise


    Alexander listened intently, feeling the weight of responsibility grow heavier on his shoulders. His father''s name, revered as the Wise, always loomed as an example to emulate. Achieving that level of power and respect was a goal he had yet to earn.


    - Those who support princely authority... - he murmured, turning over Stanislav''s words in his mind. - And what do they want in return? Support is rarely without conditions


    Stanislav nodded in agreement.


    - Of course. Everyone has their interests. The boyars seek to strengthen their positions in the provinces, while the clergy want a greater say in key decisions. But above all, they want to see a strong ruler. If they are convinced that you can protect and lead the state forward, they''ll stand by you. Especially now, when times are uncertain


    He paused, allowing Alexander to absorb the information, then continued:


    - The Byzantine delegation is watching closely as well. They''re observing how you govern and how your boyars receive you. If you can demonstrate your capability, your authority will grow - not only within Kyivan Rus'' but beyond its borders


    Alexander leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand.


    - So, today isn''t just a meeting - it''s a test, - he stated calmly.


    - Exactly, - Stanislav confirmed. - We''ll begin with those who are most loyal to the pro-princely alliance. They were the first to express their support. If you make a strong impression, it will set a positive precedent. From there, we''ll see how things progress


    Alexander nodded, feeling a growing sense of resolve. He would need to pass these trials if he wanted not just to occupy the throne but to truly rule over a great state. He raised his eyes from his plate and fixed his gaze on Stanislav.


    - Who are these people? - he asked with interest, pushing aside the empty bowl of porridge.


    Stanislav took a moment, sipping from his cup of kvass, as though carefully deciding where to begin. Finally, he nodded toward Dobrynya. The ognyshanin sat upright, showing no signs of tension or haste, as if calmly awaiting his cue.


    - Let''s start with Dobrynya Vsevolodich. He is the Ognyshanin - the steward responsible for order in the palace and across the entire princely estate, - Stanislav explained.


    Dobrynya slowly rose and gave a respectful bow.


    - Prince Alexander, I am Dobrynya Vsevolodich, - he introduced himself. His voice was steady, with the confident intonation of a man who knew his domain. - My duty is to maintain order in your household and its surroundings. Whether it concerns estate management, guest receptions, security, or other internal matters, I am at your service. There is not a door in the terem behind which I do not know what occurs


    He straightened, raising an eyebrow slightly as if inviting any questions or instructions from the prince.


    Alexander narrowed his eyes in thought. In Kyivan Rus'', the Ognyshanin held far greater significance than a mere steward. He wielded extensive authority within the palace and even beyond its walls, overseeing everything from security to diplomatic receptions.


    In practice, such a figure could be second only to the prince in the day-to-day running of the state. His influence depended not just on formal powers but also on his access to the prince, knowledge of court secrets, and connections with key boyars.


    In Byzantium, a comparable figure would be the logothete of the drome or a parakoimomenos - officials responsible for imperial administration and direct access to the emperor''s private quarters. Such individuals could shape the fate of entire provinces with a single decision.


    In the Holy Roman Empire, their counterparts were high-ranking court officials such as grand hofmeisters or chancellors, who managed court organization, finances, and political affairs. Their influence often extended far beyond the palace walls, enabling them to covertly manipulate dukes, advisors, and generals.


    Alexander recognized that Dobrynya already possessed significant leverage. If he chose to exploit his position for personal gain, the consequences could be catastrophic. However, if he remained within the circle of trusted advisors, he could become an invaluable pillar of support for governance and administration. It was a fine balance that Alexander would need to carefully maintain.


    His thoughts briefly returned to the kitchen and the kukhmistr.


    Improving the quality, safety, and efficiency of food preparation was not merely a personal concern. It was part of a broader strategy.


    If Alexander personally oversaw reforms in the kitchen and made them visible, it would send a powerful message to his court - particularly to those who still saw him as an inexperienced heir.


    Dobrynya, as one of the key allies, would witness how Alexander brought order and attention to detail where others might see trivial matters. Such actions would demonstrate his readiness to think several steps ahead, identify problems at their roots, and resolve them decisively.


    - Start small and prove yourself through results - that''s the best way to establish authority, - Alexander reflected.


    Emerging from his thoughts, he nodded to Dobrynya in acknowledgment.


    - Good. We have a lot of work ahead of us together. I believe we can start taking action today, - he said firmly, leaning forward slightly. His voice carried steady conviction.


    Dobrynya carefully looked at Alexander, raising an eyebrow slightly.


    - What do you mean, Prince? - he asked, with a hint of curiosity and caution.


    Alexander clasped his fingers in front of him and spoke calmly but firmly:


    - I''m interested in the kitchen and everything related to food. I want to inspect where and how provisions are stored, which dishes are prepared, and how sanitation and food handling are organized. I need to understand how it all works


    For a moment, Dobrynya''s gaze lingered on the prince, subtle surprise in his eyes. He clearly hadn''t expected this kind of interest from a ruler.


    - Hm... the kitchen? - he repeated quietly, frowning slightly. A faint trace of skepticism flickered across his face, but he quickly nodded. - Of course, Prince. I can show you everything and introduce you to the kukhmistr Svaromir. He manages all matters concerning the kitchen and is responsible for feeding both the palace and the entire princely druzhina


    - Good, - Alexander continued, maintaining his calm but serious tone. - We''ll go before the evening feast. Let''s make sure Svaromir doesn''t know about our visit. I want to see how things are truly run, not how they look when people know a check is coming and cover up the flaws beforehand


    Dobrynya pondered this for a moment. He understood that sudden inspections often caused anxiety among servants, but the prince''s reasoning made sense. If Alexander wanted to restore order, he needed to see the real picture.


    - Understood, Prince. I''ll handle everything and make sure the kukhmistr has no idea. - He gave a slight bow, though thoughts continued to swirl in his mind:


    - What is he planning? What ideas does the prince have regarding the kitchen? - But he kept these questions to himself. The most important thing was to fulfill the order.


    Dobrynya returned to his seat, crossing his arms over his lap. Stanislav observed the exchange with a faint smile.


    - You''ll be working side by side with Dobrynya often, - Stanislav noted, leaning back in his chair. - He knows every corner of the palace. But this is just the beginning, Prince. The next people you''ll face will be more difficult. Some will take a long time to convince


    Alexander raised an eyebrow, catching a subtle hint of something more significant in Stanislav''s tone.


    - Who''s next? - he asked with feigned nonchalance, trying to grasp the hidden meaning.


    Stanislav paused briefly, as if searching for the right words, before answering with noticeable seriousness:


    - Olga Strumenskaya, the provincial governor of the Volhynian lands. She is wealthy, influential, and backed by most of the local boyars. Her control over the region is solid. Gaining her support is crucial


    Alexander squinted, mentally drawing comparisons.


    In Byzantium, a woman in her position might be a kephale - a provincial governor accountable directly to the emperor. In Western lands, she might hold the status of a duchess or marchioness, wielding both military and political authority over a vital region. For Kyivan Rus'', this was remarkable. Women rarely achieved such influence, let alone maintained it while keeping local nobility under control.


    - A woman governs an entire region? - he asked with mild surprise, leaning back thoughtfully. - And with such support? It''s rare for boyars to unanimously recognize a woman''s authority


    He didn''t view this as a weakness; rather, he was intrigued by how Olga had managed to secure her position in a society where tradition often favored male leadership. His thoughts wandered to the great women rulers of other nations - Byzantine regents who governed during crises or European ladies who strengthened their houses through diplomacy and strategic marriages.


    Stanislav chuckled softly, shaking his head.


    - Don''t underestimate her, Prince. Her husband was one of your father''s finest commanders. When he fell during a campaign, Yaroslav appointed her as a temporary governor. But that ''temporary'' position became permanent. Olga quickly proved herself to be as capable as any senior boyar. The nobility accepted her because they saw in her a strong administrator and a shrewd politician


    Alexander nodded slowly. Stanislav''s words left no doubt - Olga''s success was hard-won and backed by a fierce struggle for power.


    - So, she respects Kyiv''s authority largely due to my father''s legacy. But I need her respect and support not for past achievements, but for the sake of my own reign, - Alexander said quietly, fixing his gaze on Stanislav. - How do I earn that?


    He knew that the influence of his father, Yaroslav the Wise, still held sway in many parts of Kyivan Rus''. Yet that wasn''t enough. Alexander had to prove that he was a capable ruler in his own right - one who inspired loyalty through conviction, not inertia.


    Stanislav narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.


    - Earning her support won''t be easy, - he finally said. - She already has everything one could desire: power, vast lands, wealth, and influence among the boyars. But the fact that she''s a woman presents us with an opportunity


    Alexander frowned slightly, his gaze skeptical.


    - An opportunity? Explain


    Stanislav paused briefly, gathering his thoughts, then continued:


    - She is not only a ruler, but also a loving mother. After her husband''s death, her world centered around her children. They are both her greatest pride and her greatest vulnerability. That attachment could be the key to securing her support if handled properly


    The voivode leaned forward slightly, his voice firm:


    - She has three children - two sons and a daughter. The eldest, Ratibor Strumensky, serves as a sotnik in your druzhina. He''s capable and ambitious, aspiring to follow in his father''s footsteps and become a great commander. I brought him into your service some time ago and have been monitoring his progress. This already places Olga partially on our side - her eldest son serves under your banner


    Alexander stroked his chin thoughtfully, weighing the information.


    - So, we can act through him, - he said slowly. - Gaining the son''s loyalty will strengthen her trust in me. If I give him a chance to prove himself, she''ll support me not out of respect for Yaroslav''s memory, but for the future of her family


    Stanislav nodded in affirmation.


    - Exactly. Ratibor has already earned a reputation in service. If he rises in rank and becomes a respected commander, it will bring honor to the entire Strumensky lineage. And Olga won''t leave her son without protection


    Alexander pondered for a moment, then asked:


    - What about her other son and daughter? What roles do they play?


    Stanislav''s eyes sharpened, as if testing Alexander''s readiness for more complex information.


    - Her daughter hasn''t distinguished herself much yet. Best not to focus on her. But her second son, Vladimir Strumensky, is another matter entirely. He takes after his mother - intelligent, calculating, and skilled in administration. Together, they control the entire governance system of Volhynia. The local boyars respect him for his competence and pragmatic approach to power


    Stanislav paused briefly before continuing:


    - He''ll likely arrive in Kyiv today with a delegation of senior boyars to pay you formal respects. But his presence is more than just a formality. He''ll be closely observing you, assessing what kind of ruler you''ll be


    - You think he''ll look for weaknesses? - Alexander asked quietly, tilting his head slightly.


    Stanislav nodded subtly.


    - Possibly. He''s naturally cautious and relies on careful calculation. In the future, he or his brother Ratibor could take over Volhynia after their mother. However, which of them will emerge victorious in that unspoken rivalry is still unclear. Their differences are already growing


    Alexander narrowed his eyes, considering the implications. A conflict between the brothers could become either a significant problem or a strategic opportunity.


    - You believe they''re already at odds? - he asked calmly, resting his hands on the table.


    Stanislav exhaled, his gaze steady and contemplative.


    - Yes. They''ve chosen different paths. Ratibor seeks military glory and dreams of becoming a great commander, while Vladimir envisions a future rooted in governance and political influence. Their ambitions intersect, and sooner or later, it will lead to conflict. If you support one, the other may feel marginalized and turn to the autonomists or neutral boyars. Maintaining balance between them won''t be easy


    Alexander frowned, the complexity of the situation becoming clearer.


    - So, I''ll have to carefully balance between them, - he concluded, lifting his gaze to Stanislav. - Supporting both could either strengthen my rule or undermine it if I fail to account for their ambitions


    Stanislav gave a satisfied nod.


    - You''ve got it right. Both are ambitious and dangerous in their own ways. But if you can find a way to align their interests and show them that they can achieve their goals under your leadership, they''ll stay close to the throne


    Alexander slowly nodded, his mind beginning to form a potential strategy.


    - I need to understand their goals and ambitions. Whoever I meet first - I''ll start with them. It''s crucial to learn what drives them. If I can find common ground, I can keep both near without provoking conflict, - he mused aloud.


    Stanislav nodded approvingly.


    - That''s exactly right, Prince. People with great ambitions are eager to follow a leader who can help them realize their dreams. If they believe they can achieve success under your rule, they''ll remain loyal


    Alexander felt his thoughts coalescing into a cohesive plan. It was a promising path but one that would require careful execution.


    Stanislav took a small sip of kvass and resumed, his tone serious but calm:


    - There''s one more person you need to know about - Mikhail Podolsky. The wealthiest senior boyar in Kyiv. He controls most of the city''s markets and holds significant influence over the merchant class. Many leading traders, like Lazar Torgovich, have long been his allies. On top of that, many boyars owe him large sums of money. That''s one of the ways he maintains his power and authority


    Alexander''s expression grew tense, his gaze sharpening. He had heard of Mikhail Podolsky before but hadn''t fully understood the scope of his influence until now. Power in Kyiv, as in other great nations, was no longer solely built on land and swords. Trade, debts, and resources could serve as weapons just as potent as armies.


    In Byzantium, men like Mikhail often hid behind the fa?ade of merchants or court advisors, strengthening their position by controlling supplies and markets.


    In the Holy Roman Empire, powerful trade guilds and financiers could sway electors and princes by regulating access to money and goods. Mikhail wielded similar levers of influence: his wealth and grip on Kyiv''s markets made him a force that even the prince could not ignore.


    - And why should I concern myself with him? - Alexander asked, keeping his voice level but tinged with a subtle wariness. - Mikhail is dangerous, but how can he be useful?


    Stanislav gave a brief chuckle, recognizing the perceptiveness in the question.


    - Mikhail is part of the pro-prince alliance and already helps me maintain stability in Kyiv. His influence over merchants and trade routes is crucial. But that''s not enough. If you offer him more opportunities - profitable ventures, lucrative trade deals, expanded security - he will become an even more reliable pillar of your reign


    Stanislav paused for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, speaking with measured firmness:


    - He only cares about four things: profit, stability, protection, and goods. But understand this, Prince: Mikhail is not a man of loyalty. He values advantage. If your rule secures his income and safety, he will support you. If not¡­ - Stanislav trailed off, leaving Alexander to fill in the rest himself.


    Alexander frowned, contemplating the implications. Mikhail could become a key player in his economic reforms. His control over trade and markets opened up vast possibilities for strengthening the principality''s economy. Yet Alexander knew that men like Mikhail required constant vigilance. He was a valuable ally but also an unpredictable and potentially dangerous rival.


    Merchants often said one thing but did another. Their loyalty always lay with whoever could offer the most. Mikhail would be no exception - his allegiance would rest solely on a precarious balance of benefits and risks.


    In Alexander''s mind, the image of a bustling Kyiv market unfolded: beneath covered galleries, stalls and booths pressed close together. Traders haggled and argued over prices and goods, their voices blending with the rich scents of exotic spices. Caravans came and went, and rumors spread at lightning speed. Alexander knew that if Mikhail sensed weakness or instability in his rule, the boyar would not hesitate to find a new benefactor.


    - Can Mikhail truly be trusted? How often does he play a double game? - Alexander asked, his tone calm but his gaze sharp and probing.


    Stanislav hesitated momentarily, then nodded slowly.


    - He rarely breaks promises outright, but profit always comes first for him. There have been instances where Mikhail operated from the shadows. In a neighboring principality, he used trade routes to manipulate the boyars. He posed as a mere intermediary but, in truth, controlled the situation and forced them into unfavorable deals


    Alexander frowned, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the table.


    - So, if given too much freedom, he could twist things to his advantage. With allies like him, you have to stay vigilant, - he said quietly, almost to himself.


    Indeed, Mikhail could be invaluable: his control over markets could pave the way for reforms - building roads, establishing new markets, workshops, warehouses, and ports. However, Alexander also understood that merchants rarely played by the rules.


    Delays in shipments, price manipulations, orchestrating crises - such tactics could sabotage any initiative. Mikhail, a master of long-term schemes, could subtly pressure the prince into concessions and quietly claim a significant share of the profits.


    Alexander froze, narrowing his eyes. He needed leverage over this man - a mechanism that would allow not just cooperation but control. His instincts told him that without a system of checks and balances, Mikhail might change course at any moment to suit his own interests.


    - I need to find a way to make him dependent on central authority, - Alexander said thoughtfully. - Perhaps through taxes on the goods he controls or by offering privileges that can be revoked. If his influence hinges on these conditions, the risk of sabotage could be significantly reduced


    Stanislav pondered this for a moment before replying cautiously:


    - That might work, but remember, Prince, Mikhail isn''t the kind to be easily constrained. He''ll look for loopholes. It''s crucial not only to limit his opportunities but also to make it clear that his stability and profits rely entirely on you. If he senses that everything is under your control, his desire to test your resolve will diminish


    Alexander narrowed his eyes further.


    - So I need to show both strength and opportunity, - he concluded.


    Stanislav nodded gravely.


    - Exactly. Mikhail respects those who are calculated and capable in negotiations. If he sees that your words are backed by real authority and control, he''ll tread carefully. At the meeting, he''ll be watching your every move, assessing whether you can keep the upper hand


    Alexander slowly nodded, piecing together a strategy in his mind. Mikhail posed a dual threat - he could either accelerate reforms or act as a covert saboteur. Everything would depend on who seized the initiative first.


    - This meeting will be the beginning of a long game, - Alexander thought, feeling the tension mount before the upcoming encounter.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who is reading!


    In this chapter, I described the typical morning routine of the prince in Kievan Rus''. In future chapters, I won''t dwell on these details of daily life each time. I included them here so you''d understand what Alexander''s usual mornings are like.


    Later chapters (not sure exactly when) will cover aspects of hygiene and sanitation in greater detail. I plan to show how Alexander washes up, what substitutes he uses instead of brushing his teeth, how he washes his hands, where people relieve themselves, and what sanitation infrastructure (if any) existed at the time. We''ll also explore issues like water access, common diseases, and the lack of proper hygiene. These will become focal points for the reforms Alexander will implement.


    For this chapter, I deliberately left out such details to avoid slowing down the narrative. However, rest assured - these aspects will be explored as the story progresses. I understand that readers might feel as though Alexander got up and immediately began governing without tending to personal matters. But this will be addressed over time, revealing the challenges he faces in his daily routine.


    I''ve also added comparisons to other notable titles and governmental structures around the world. Some readers might not fully grasp the scale and importance of Kievan Rus'' in 1054. Although it had fewer court officials than other major empires of the time, those who did hold such positions wielded significant power and influence.


    Through these comparisons, I aim to highlight the unique system of governance in Rus'' and the critical role of those close to the prince. Every boyar, voivode, and counselor was not just a figurehead but a decision-maker capable of influencing entire regions and the fate of the principality.


    In previous chapters, I detailed the meetings of the autonomists and other political factions. Moving forward, I won''t focus on them as much because the story isn''t about them. However, it was important to show their actions so readers understand the far-reaching consequences of each decision Alexander makes.


    From now on, I''ll briefly mention such events in a few paragraphs, summarizing how various boyars respond and act, while focusing more on the results of their actions.


    That said, if the plot involves a major conspiracy or a serious attempt to sabotage Alexander''s reforms, I''ll provide a detailed account. This will help convey the gravity of the situation, the resources and strategies behind each plot, who participated, and how the events unfold.


    For example, one such large-scale plot in the future will be the Spark - a coordinated sabotage plan devised by Rurik Pechersky and Stanislav Mikhailovich.

 Chapter 24. Loop Above the Ground

    Stanislav fell silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. A steady hum filled the dining hall - the rustling of clothes, the quiet voices of servants, the soft clink of wooden spoons against clay bowls.


    Beyond the massive windows, the morning fog had not yet fully dissipated, blurring the outlines of the walls. Stanislav ran his finger along the rim of his cup and, leaning forward slightly, spoke with caution:


    - There is one more person, my prince. Gleb of Turov. The governor of the Turov-Pinsk land... - Stanislav tilted his head slightly, and a note of caution crept into his voice. - If he takes your side, it will strengthen your power. But if not... then we will have another problem


    Alexander frowned with interest, folding his hands on the table. Morning candlelight flickered across the polished wood. In the distance, one of the servants coughed softly, covering his mouth with his palm, but the sound only emphasized the silence that hung between them.


    - The Turov-Pinsk land... Why is it so important? - he asked, trying to read between the lines of what Stanislav was leaving unsaid.


    The voivode leaned forward slightly, his voice lower but firmer.


    - The Turov-Pinsk land is a crossroads. A key strategic region, my prince. Along the Pripyat and its tributaries, merchants carry furs and wax, along the swamp trails - salt and iron. Caravans from the Polish Kingdom, the Czech Principality, and Hungary pass through it. And most importantly - its rivers lead directly to Novgorod. Whoever holds this land controls the gateway to the north and west


    Alexander nodded thoughtfully. He could already see the advantage, but there was something wary in Stanislav''s expression. The voivode continued, lowering his voice slightly:


    - Gleb''s support could open these routes for you. But it''s not that simple. There are powerful people who do not want his power to grow


    Alexander smirked, mentally noting: of course, how could there be no intrigue? The windows let in a chill - the morning wind crept through the gaps in the frames, whispering in the corners, playing with the candle flames in the candelabras. He exhaled slowly and asked:


    - A local power struggle?


    - Exactly. Gleb is not just a princely governor but also a Senior Boyar. That means he has enemies. One of them is Senior Boyar Stanimir of Lunynets


    Stanislav paused briefly, then continued:


    - He holds an important position in the region, controls part of the resources, and has the most influential boyars at his side. Outwardly, he acts within the law, citing the interests of the landowners. But that''s just a cover. There is a careful game in his manner


    Alexander watched the voivode closely.


    - Is he connected to the autonomists?


    - There''s no direct proof yet. - Stanislav leaned forward slightly. - But he supports neither the autonomists nor the pro-princely alliance. Instead, he maneuvers between them, waiting to see whom it will be more beneficial to pledge allegiance to


    Alexander raised an eyebrow slightly.


    - Do you think he could become a threat?


    Stanislav leaned forward, pausing for a moment, choosing his words.


    - Stanimir is not an enemy, but he is not an ally either, - he said slowly. - He doesn''t shout about independence, but every decision he makes is carefully calculated. As if testing how far he can go before someone stops him


    The voivode paused briefly, then continued:


    - Some say he is simply protecting local interests. Others - that he is waiting for the right moment to take the most advantageous side. He doesn''t make rash moves, doesn''t reveal his intentions, but that''s exactly what makes him concerning


    Alexander ran his finger along the edge of the table, feeling the smoothness of the polished wood. Traces of past feasts remained on the surface - dark rings from hot cups, occasional scratches. This table had witnessed many decisions that shaped the fate of these lands. He looked up:


    - He is cautious. But if he senses an opportunity, he won''t hesitate to act?


    Stanislav nodded, but not immediately - first, he ran his tongue over his teeth, as if savoring a thought. Something flickered in his eyes, somewhere between amusement and quiet wariness, as if he already foresaw the possible consequences.


    - Perhaps, for now, he doesn''t want open confrontation. But in the future?.. - The voivode smirked. - In the future, he could end up anywhere


    Alexander clenched his fingers, but not in the air - against the wood of the table. His knuckles whitened slightly, his nails scratched the smooth surface. When he spoke, there was a new depth in his voice - not just interest, but calculation.


    - So, he plays his own game. And his goal is to maintain influence over the Turov-Pinsk land


    - Exactly. If you strengthen Gleb, it will weaken his position. Stanimir will not tolerate anyone cutting off his resources and connections. It''s important to act carefully: not to provoke him into hostility, but also not to let him sense weakness


    Alexander froze for a moment, processing the situation. Politics was becoming ever more complex, demanding a meticulous approach to every ally and rival.


    - So I need not only to gain Gleb''s support but also to neutralize Stanimir''s influence, - the prince said slowly.


    His gaze darkened for a moment. Things were not as simple as they had seemed at first glance. One wrong move - and the balance could collapse.


    Stanimir, with his cunning, was surely already looking for ways to strengthen his position, possibly conducting secret negotiations with other boyars. And Gleb¡­ would he truly be a loyal ally, or would he try to play both sides at the first opportunity?


    Responsibility pressed against his chest like a chainmail that one never takes off, even in sleep. Power was not a sword to be raised over an enemy. It was a knot tightened around his neck - and the moment he loosened his grip, someone else would pull it tighter.


    He stood on the edge of change but understood that without control over politics, all his plans would remain mere dreams.


    A few mistakes - and discontent would begin to grow like weeds, taking root in the minds of the boyars. Whispers would turn into conspiracies, conspiracies into secret alliances. And then, when he weakened, they would strike. It had always been this way.


    Under such conditions, reforms would be out of the question, as all efforts would go toward quelling uprisings and maintaining order. Even if he managed to bring his ideas to life, civil wars could undo them. Everything he achieved could crumble like dust under the hooves of cavalry if he failed to maintain the balance of power.


    Every word, every step - a trap or a victory. Mistakes are not corrected; they are remembered. And if he stumbled, they would not let him forget it.


    History had already seen rulers who rushed toward change, only for their reforms to perish in the flames of rebellion, leaving behind only the ruins of unfulfilled hopes. Alexander did not intend to become one of them.


    Power does not belong to the one who clenches it in his fist, but to the one who forces others to fight for it by his rules.


    He could not afford to be just a prince. He had to become the shadow that outruns the conspirators and the fire that burns those who would rise in rebellion. Only then would he hold Kievan Rus.


    He was not merely destined to rule - he had to maneuver between ambitions, intrigues, and threats, turning every opportunity into a weapon and every danger into a step toward victory.


    Stanislav nodded in affirmation.


    - Exactly. You can use this conflict to your advantage. Gleb is an ambitious man. He seeks to develop the land, strengthen his power among the boyars, and control trade. If you show him the prospect of expanding his influence through infrastructure development, he will become your ally. But he will expect concrete actions from you. Words alone will not be convincing enough for such a man.


    Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly, mentally weighing the risks.


    - And Stanimir? If I strengthen Gleb, he certainly won''t stay on the sidelines.


    - Stanimir is a cunning fox, - Stanislav smirked, but his gaze remained serious. - He will try to negotiate with other boyars or even with your enemies. Maintaining control over resources is crucial for him. If you don''t show him respect and offer at least some concessions, he will begin working against you from the shadows


    Alexander sank even deeper into thought. This was a complex chess game where every mistake could turn into a prolonged confrontation. Various options surfaced in his mind, from negotiating with both men to playing on their mutual rivalry.


    - It''s a delicate balance, - he murmured. - Gleb''s support will give me control over trade routes and leverage against the autonomists in Novgorod and Polotsk. But I don''t want this to escalate into open conflict with Stanimir and the other boyars


    Stanislav studied the prince intently.


    - You''re right. It''s a complicated game. But remember: both of these men understand the language of power and profit. If you speak to them openly, show respect, but remain firm - they will start seeing you as a leader, not a young prince who stumbled into a throne by chance


    Alexander smirked slightly.


    - If they can''t work together, then their interests must be separated. Gleb will get power, Stanimir - influence. One will be grateful, the other - dependent. The key is to ensure that neither gains too much strength


    Stanislav nodded approvingly.


    - That could work. For example, give Stanimir control over the trade courts while granting Gleb the infrastructure and Kyiv''s support. That way, their paths won''t cross, and both will have a reason to stay loyal to you


    Alexander felt a surge of confidence. Now he had a plan, but he understood that every meeting with these men would require caution and precise decisions.


    - Good. We''ll start with Gleb, then deal with Stanimir


    Stanislav straightened with satisfaction.


    - If you play this right, the Turov-Pinsk land will become your stronghold, - he said. - But if you make a mistake...


    He didn''t finish. He didn''t need to. Alexander already knew the answer - and the price of failure.


    For a while, silence hung in the dining hall, broken only by the creaking of chairs and the quiet crackling of the fire in the hearth. Alexander slowly ran his finger across the table, contemplating what had been said. The Turov-Pinsk land was just one piece on this board, but how many more were there? In a state like Kievan Rus, solving one issue only led to three new ones arising.


    He nodded and shifted his gaze to Stanislav, focusing on his face.


    - Is there anyone else I should pay attention to? - he asked, trying to catch any hints of unspoken thoughts in the voivode''s voice.


    Stanislav smirked slightly and shook his head.


    - There are many such people, my prince. In time, you will come to know all those who will play a key role in your rule. But for now, you should focus on those we''ve already discussed. You will meet the rest later and find the right approach as needed. Rushing into this is dangerous


    Alexander nodded. He understood that it was impossible to grasp everything at once - too many intrigues, connections, and ambitions lay hidden behind masks of respect. Mistakes could cost him dearly.


    Dobrynya Vsevolodich, who had remained silent until now, leaned forward slightly, resting his hand on the edge of the table. His knuckles whitened slightly - a sign of a man used to restraining impatience. His eyes were fixed on the prince, and his voice grew firmer - he was not merely advising; he was warning.


    - My prince, there is another important matter that cannot be postponed, - he began, keeping his tone calm, though a note of steel rang in his voice. - Only a few days have passed since your brothers'' deaths. Of course, you have just ascended the throne, and no one expects immediate decisions


    He paused briefly, then continued in a lower voice:


    - But lands left without rulers cannot remain uncontrolled for long. The local boyars are likely already holding discussions. And some may even be making their own plans. The longer the power vacuum lasts, the greater the temptation for them to fill it in their own way. If you delay, disputes will arise... and soon after, an open struggle for influence


    Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice turning harder.


    - You mean Pereyaslavl, Chernigov, Smolensk, and Galich, correct?


    Dobrynya gave a barely noticeable nod, but at the last name, his expression shifted slightly. He frowned a little, holding his gaze on the prince.


    - My prince... Perhaps you meant the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands?


    There was no doubt in his voice, but a subtle caution could be felt. It was as if he was testing whether Alexander fully understood what he was saying.


    Alexander instantly realized his mistake. A tight knot formed in his chest - even the slightest carelessness could make someone wonder why the prince was confusing the names of his own lands. A chill ran down his spine.


    At this time, the territories of Galich were known as the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands - important border holdings contested by local boyars, the Polish Kingdom, and the Kingdom of Hungary. Dobrynya watched him carefully, not interrupting, but for a fleeting moment, a shadow of doubt crossed his eyes. Alexander noticed it.


    - Yes, of course. The Peremyshl and Terebovl lands, - he corrected himself without hesitation.


    Dobrynya did not dwell on the mistake, only nodding slightly. His expression remained calm, but deep within his gaze, something resembling a testing curiosity flickered.


    - Good. All these lands need new governors. Order is still holding there for now, but they won''t last long without leadership. The boyars are already whispering, and if we don''t appoint reliable men, soon enough, everyone will start pulling in their own direction


    Alexander clenched his fist, processing the words. While Kyiv and Chernigov remained strongholds of princely power, Pereyaslavl guarded the south, and Smolensk held the northern borders, the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands were the most vulnerable. These lands were not the backbone of the state, but leaving them without strong governors would mean exposing the entire western frontier of Kievan Rus to risk.


    The Polish and Hungarian kings watched these territories with open interest. Within the regions themselves, the boyars had long grown accustomed to acting at their own discretion, and now an opportunity was unfolding before them.


    - We need to choose men who will not only maintain order but also ensure these lands do not become mere bargaining chips in foreign hands. Men who can be trusted


    Alexander pondered the situation. The coronation had gathered many senior boyars in Kyiv, giving him a rare chance to appoint future princely governors all at once. But there was one problem - he knew too little about them.


    In truth, even among the boyars of the Kyiv lands, he could truly rely only on Stanislav the Great, Oleg Vyshgorodsky, Dobrynya Vsevolodich, and Miroslav the Wise. The rest he knew only from rumors.


    He needed to expand his circle of trusted people. Right now, he could rely only on Stanislav''s and Dobrynya''s experience in selecting governors. Later, when his power solidified, he would decide for himself whether to replace them or keep them. After all, if they did their job well, there might be no need.


    Alexander straightened, his gaze growing firmer. Now, while many boyars were still in Kyiv, he had the chance to make his decision. If he missed this moment, he would have to deal with a fait accompli. The boyars would not wait. They would make agreements among themselves, place their own people, strengthen their ties - and by the time the prince wanted to change something, all that would be left for him to do was sign off on their decisions.


    - While all the boyars are here, the matter of governors must be settled. If I delay, they will place their own people, and then I''ll have to deal not with appointments, but with intrigues


    Dobrynya leaned forward slightly, his voice steady but carrying a note of warning.


    - Exactly. Right now, you have a rare opportunity to appoint governors with the support of influential boyars. This will not only establish order - it will show that you are not waiting, but acting


    He paused briefly, then added with a clear note of caution:


    - But remember: no one will miss the chance to push their own candidates. Governorship means power, influence, and in the long run, even hereditary rights. You will have to listen to proposals, but the final word must remain yours. Stanislav and I have prepared a list of potential candidates - people who could be useful to you. But the choice is yours


    Dobrynya was speaking about Governors, but Alexander understood that their role extended far beyond local administration. Authority in the regions was always a complex structure. In Kievan Rus, the prince''s governors acted as rulers of individual lands, overseeing justice, tax collection, and military affairs. They were not fully independent princes, but they could accumulate influence and become dangerous.


    In Byzantium, their equivalent would be the strategoi - military governors who wielded power in the provinces, formally under the emperor but sometimes becoming the centers of revolts.


    In the Holy Roman Empire, a similar role belonged to dukes and margraves - those who held frontier and key lands, often with considerable autonomy. In England, they would be called earls, in France - counts, but the essence remained the same: strong men in the provinces could become either a pillar of support or a threat to central authority.


    Alexander nodded slowly. The tension was rising - this was his first serious step in shaping his rule. If he appointed men who were too weak, they would be crushed. If he gave too much power to the strong, he risked losing control.


    Every name he chose would either strengthen his realm or create a new threat.


    He did not just need governors. He needed loyal men.


    - Good, - he said quietly and clearly. - Let''s discuss the candidates. I need to know everything about those who might take these positions


    Stanislav looked at him intently, then slightly shifted his tone - his speech became more businesslike, precise, without unnecessary words.


    - Let''s start with the Pereyaslav land, my prince. The strongest and most influential man there is Supreme Voivode Ignat, but he is not a suitable candidate since he is already on your council and will not leave his position. However, his authority among the boyars there is exceptionally strong. If you want Pereyaslavl to remain under your control, you must give Ignat the opportunity to choose a candidate himself - or at least suggest one


    Alexander remained silent for a few moments, weighing every word Stanislav had said. The measured tapping of his fingers on the wood was steady, as if he were calculating his next move.


    - So¡­ - he raised a sharp, wary gaze to the voivode. - Allow Ignat to save face and show that I value his opinion¡­ But at the same time, make sure he doesn''t impose a puppet on me?


    Stanislav let his gaze slide across the prince''s face and smirked - briefly, approvingly, as if he appreciated the firmness in Alexander''s voice.


    - Exactly. Let him put forward one or two candidates. If they prove reliable, you approve one of them. But if Ignat tries to propose someone overly loyal to himself, you reject that figure under a plausible pretext - and suggest a "compromise" from among others


    The prince pulled his hand away from the table, leaned back, and ran his palm over his face. Ignat was not one for conspiracies or hidden schemes. He was a soldier, not a courtier. In his world, things were simple: honor was worth more than profit, a word was stronger than an oath, and a prince was someone who led from the front, not hid behind parchment.


    But that world was dying. Now, power was no longer the sword and honor, but the golden seal on a charter.


    Yet straightforward nature was not always a virtue. People accustomed to speaking openly often broke under intrigue. And if they didn''t break - they were simply removed. Ignat held his position only because all of Pereyaslavl stood behind him. If Alexander tried to bypass him, it wouldn''t just be a mistake - it would be a challenge to the entire region.


    - He is not the kind of man who plots conspiracies, is he? - Alexander asked, lowering the roughness in his voice to make it sound steadier. - More likely, he''d tell me outright if he disapproved. Or he''d simply refuse to cooperate. If he sees that I can''t keep my word, he won''t be my enemy or my friend - he''ll remain on the sidelines, and such a ''ally'' is of little use


    - Exactly, - Stanislav inclined his head slightly. - It is important for him to feel that princely authority is not an empty sound, but also not an iron vise. The people of Pereyaslavl are proud, and Ignat is their face. If he convinces them that they can deal with you, they will follow him - and that means they will follow you


    Alexander turned his gaze to the massive doors, behind which the muffled noise of the corridor could be heard.


    - I don''t like trickery either, - the prince said evenly, shifting his eyes back to Stanislav. - I prefer to speak plainly and act justly. But if I have to give orders, - his voice grew firmer, - then I won''t hesitate


    Stanislav nodded, his shoulders hunching slightly, as if acknowledging the inevitability of harsh measures. There was cautious support in that gesture, but also an understanding that these were dangerous times, and ruling would require a firm hand.


    - Then we can start with this, my prince, - the voivode said calmly, holding Alexander''s gaze. - Let Ignat name his candidate, but don''t miss the chance to make it clear that the final decision is yours


    Silence thickened in the hall, like the air before a storm. The oil lamps flickered, casting uneven shadows on the walls. Alexander ran his tongue over his dry lips and crossed his arms over his chest - as if seeking additional confidence in the motion.


    - Good, - he finally said, lifting his gaze to Stanislav, and there was no hesitation in his eyes now. - Let''s do it. This is where we begin


    Alexander ran his palm over the table, brushing aside scattered thoughts. Ignat and his men were only the first step. But the further he went, the more dangerous it would become. Today, he was appointing governors - soon, he would have to answer for their actions.


    And what if someone betrayed him? If they decided they could play their own game?


    These thoughts were beginning to irritate him. In games, for example, everything was simple: you hovered over a character, and a loyalty bar appeared. 8 out of 10 - reliable. 7 - starting to doubt. 5 - expect trouble. Do something good - the bar rises. Give them reason for discontent - it drops. Managing people this way was easy.


    But in real life, there were no bars, no indicators. Here, men could smile, beat their chests, swear loyalty - and then sell their soul for an extra scrap of land.


    Appointing a man was easy. Keeping his loyalty - that was the real challenge.


    Alexander clenched his fingers, pushing aside the doubts. Now was not the time to drown in uncertainty - decisions had to be made quickly.


    - What about the Chernihiv lands? - he finally asked, straightening.


    Stanislav leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a barely noticeable moment of relaxation.


    - This one is simpler. You''ve already met Boris Stalnogorsky - at the reception, during the audience. He is a senior boyar who swore loyalty to your father, just as I did, along with Dobrynya and the others. Boris knows the lands of Chernihiv better than anyone and knows how to keep the local clans in check. He has strong ties among the merchants, which means we will have control not only over the land but also over its revenues


    Alexander remembered Boris. He had seen him only once, but that was enough to understand - this was a man respected even by his enemies. Tall, broad-shouldered, he looked as if he could break a spear with one hand, but he used his strength differently.


    His true weapon was silence, forcing his opponents to speak first, and a gaze, heavy like a leaden seal, offering no kindness to those who tried to deceive him.


    Such men did not waste words. If Boris had sworn an oath, could he be trusted to keep it?


    Alexander knew that after his father''s death, Yaroslav the Wise, many senior boyars - Olga Strumenskaya, Stanislav the Great, and others - had remained faithful to the oath they had given. But not to him. They served the dynasty. If his elder brothers were still alive, neither Olga nor Stanislav would have placed him above the rightful heirs.


    But an oath by itself meant nothing. History had seen too many examples where loyalty lasted only as long as the prince remained strong.


    What if tomorrow Boris, Olga, or Stanislav were offered greater power? What if those around them started pushing them toward another choice?


    Of all the lessons history had to offer, one was the simplest and most terrifying: An oath was just sound. True loyalty rested not on words but on self-interest - and the fear of betrayal''s price.


    If he wanted to rule, the boyars had to understand: betraying him would cost more than serving him.


    And yet, despite this, he knew that in Kievan Rus, an oath meant more than just a promise. Loyalty sworn to a prince remained even after his death because it was not given to a person but to the dynasty, to the state, and to God himself.


    Once a boyar swore fealty, he became a pillar of princely power. To break that word was not just betrayal - it was to disgrace oneself, to stain one''s honor, and to bring shame upon one''s entire lineage.


    This was difficult for Alexander to accept. He was used to seeing power as a matter of calculation. An oath? One was given today, another tomorrow. Promises meant nothing unless they came with a price. In his world, the future he had come from, words had ceased to be stronger than iron.


    What did an oath mean there, in the 21st century? A meaningless formality. People signed contracts only to search for loopholes to break them. They made promises and forgot them the next day. Loyalty had become a transaction, and honor a bargaining chip.


    But here, in Kievan Rus, things were different. Here, honor was worth more than life. Warriors died with their prince''s name on their lips, boyars kept their word even in the face of death, and cities fought to the last to avoid staining their oaths with treachery.


    Kozelsk, which the Mongols called the "Evil City," had held for seven weeks before falling along with all its defenders. The warriors of Yuri Vsevolodovich died at the Battle of the Sit, but they did not lay down their arms. Even in the ruined Kyiv, the last druzhinniki fought in the debris of the Church of the Tithes, choosing death over surrender.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    As long as such men existed, he still had a chance.


    - Then everything is decided with Chernigov, - concluded Alexander.


    Whether he liked it or not, he had no choice. Boris was as solid as stone. But a stone was not always a foundation. Sometimes, it was an immovable weight that could not be shifted.


    As long as Boris remained loyal, he was an asset. But what if tomorrow he decided he didn''t need a prince? That he could rule Chernihiv on his own terms?


    No, doubting now was unwise. But keeping an eye on Boris was necessary. Until he strengthened his rule, until he fully understood the balance of power, he would have to rely on his father''s trusted men.


    All that remained was to hope that Boris was truly the man Stanislav described - that his oath was not just words, but an unbroken bond with the previous ruler, now passed to him as the rightful heir.


    Stanislav nodded slowly, but there was tension in his gaze.


    - Chernihiv will be under reliable protection. But the Smolensk, Peremyshl, and Terebovl lands - that''s a different matter entirely. You have few allies there, and the situation is far more complicated than it seems


    Alexander frowned.


    The Peremyshl and Terebovl lands had never truly obeyed Kyiv''s orders. They looked toward the capital but did not see it as their ruler. The boyars there did not serve - they bargained, weighing whom it was most profitable to swear allegiance to. Today, they were silent. Tomorrow, they would demand privileges. And the day after that, they would start looking for a patron beyond the western border.


    They were not rebels. Not yet. But if left unchecked, they would become so.


    Smolensk, however, was a challenge of a different kind. Rich, deeply connected to Novgorod through trade routes, it was growing more accustomed to independence. The Smolensk boyars did not see themselves as vassals but as masters of their own land. If a weak governor was sent there, the city would easily break away. If one too strict was appointed, the boyars would see it as an attack on their power.


    This required not just a man of the prince, but someone the locals would accept as well. Stanislav''s words only confirmed his concerns.


    - What are the main difficulties? - Alexander asked, already knowing the answer.


    Stanislav smirked, but without a trace of amusement.


    - Let''s start with the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands. There is no single ruling power there, only many influential boyars. Each one sees himself as the master of his domain. They recognize Kyiv - but only as long as it doesn''t interfere with their ambitions. Some are waiting to see who comes out on top, others are eyeing Hungary, and a few are looking for ways to gain full independence


    He leaned forward slightly.


    - If you show weakness, they will start looking beyond the borders. If you try to take them by force, they will move toward a foreign king


    Alexander ran his finger thoughtfully along the edge of the table.


    - So if I send a governor there without their approval, they will either reject him or turn to a foreign crown


    Stanislav chuckled.


    - Exactly. If they don''t like your choice, they will refuse to accept him. If they fear him, they will try to get rid of him. Open rebellion or assassination would be a last resort - they''d only go that far if they believed you were too weak to respond. More likely, they would simply force the governor out or create conditions so unbearable that he couldn''t rule effectively


    Alexander''s frown deepened.


    - And if that happens?


    Stanislav leaned forward slowly, his eyes darkening like water before a storm.


    - Then it''s no longer just discontent. It''s an open revolt. They will start sabotaging orders, cutting off supplies, and secretly reaching out to neighbors. The Poles will give them weapons, the Hungarians - gold. And their own boyars? Betrayal


    He fell silent, but the silence brought no relief. In the distance, something struck the wall with a dull thud - a gust of wind or a step behind the door.


    - And then, my prince¡­ - Stanislav straightened, his shadow stretching along the wall, as if foreshadowing the approaching storm. - More blood will be spilled than in any conquest. Because a war for land is fought with swords. But a war for power? That''s a slaughter where every blow comes from behind


    He stopped speaking, but the question in his eyes was clear: - how far are you willing to go to prevent this?


    Stanislav''s words hung in the air, like the distant roll of thunder before a storm.


    Alexander stared at him, unblinking. Rebellion. Sabotage. Polish weapons. Hungarian gold. Treachery.


    How many times in history had it begun like this? A few weak steps - and a prince turned into a pawn, ready to be knocked from the board.


    The dull thud against the wall broke the silence. Alexander flinched but quickly regained control.


    He could not afford to be afraid.


    He inhaled slowly, exhaled, and clenched his fingers.


    - What is the move? Extinguish the fire before it spreads? Strike first? Or weave them into my net?


    His gaze darkened.


    - The real question is who can rule them without war, - Alexander said. His voice was steady, but deep inside, the cold of doubt still lingered. He turned his eyes to Dobrynya. - Do we have a candidate?


    Dobrynya hesitated. Not from uncertainty - he was simply choosing his words. Finally, he answered evenly, almost emotionlessly:


    - Senior Boyar Mstislav of Galich. He already holds part of the lands. But that does not make him your man


    Alexander narrowed his eyes.


    - How reliable is he?


    Dobrynya cast a brief glance at Stanislav. The latter smirked, but without amusement.


    - Mstislav is not the kind of man who goes against the wind. He negotiates. Today with you, tomorrow with those who might become your enemies. He is not a sword but a scale. As long as the side with your name outweighs the other, he is on your side


    - I don''t need a toy that the Polish Kingdom can buy with a few promises, - Alexander said coldly.


    Stanislav shook his head.


    - He is no fool. Kyiv is his shield. His stronghold. If you show that you will not yield to either the Hungarians or the Poles, he will have no reason to seek another protector


    Alexander ran a hand over his face. He remembered how his father, Yaroslav the Wise, had kept control over the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands - winning over some boyars with gifts, negotiating with others, and subduing the most rebellious with his druzhina. Now, that fragile balance of peace depended on him.


    He didn''t yet know what kind of man Mstislav of Galich truly was, but if he already wielded influence, perhaps he could be worked with.


    These lands could not be handled recklessly. They required a careful approach. The best option would be to meet with Mstislav of Galich and the other senior boyars of the region after the coronation to discuss the matter of governance.


    Alexander understood that appointing a local ruler meant that man would already have power and support among the boyars - but keeping control over such a governor would be difficult. Too easily could he begin to believe that power belonged to him alone. A foreign appointee, on the other hand, would depend solely on the prince but would never be accepted by the locals, who would sabotage orders or even revolt outright.


    In the early years of his reign, he could not afford to provoke conflicts. Too much control would spark rebellions, too little would allow the boyars to entrench themselves. He needed time to secure his power, to embed himself into the system, to make sure that princely authority became inevitable.


    For now, he had to maneuver - choosing those who would be accepted without rebellion but who would not yet be able to take root deeper than the prince allowed. Letting the boyars believe they still held influence. And when his rule became unshakable - then the policy could change. Then he could rule without looking over his shoulder.


    Alexander exhaled, as if sealing his decision.


    - Then send a letter to Mstislav and the other senior boyars of the land. I think it''s best to settle this matter together with them


    Dobrynya answered immediately, his tone calm:


    - My prince, there is no need. They will come to Kyiv after the coronation, just like all the other boyars


    Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly. For a second, a thought flared in his mind: Why? But the answer was too obvious.


    Everyone understood that the coronation had been announced suddenly, and many boyars physically could not have arrived in time. But they could not ignore the event entirely, either.


    For all boyars, a journey to Kyiv was not just a courtesy visit - it was a political necessity. They needed to reaffirm their loyalty, strengthen their alliances, and determine whom they should now negotiate with.


    - Then we will wait for them in Kyiv, - Alexander concluded, crossing his arms over his chest. - That''s when we''ll decide who will rule these lands


    He ran his palm thoughtfully over the table. In the distance, a bell rang dully, counting the passing time.


    - But right now, the west is not my only concern


    He lifted his gaze to Stanislav and spoke quietly but clearly:


    - Smolensk


    Stanislav smirked crookedly - as if he already knew how this would end.


    - Smolensk is not just a city; it''s a noose around the throat of power. Here, a prince cannot simply give orders - he is either bowed to, or the knot tightens further


    He paused, then continued:


    - The boyars there are used to handling their affairs independently, but for now, they do not challenge Kyiv''s authority. If the governor is weak, they will trample over him. If he is too strict, he will make enemies. What is needed here is someone who can strengthen your power without shattering local traditions


    Alexander knew that Smolensk still obeyed Kyiv, but over time, it would start pulling away, exploiting the rulers'' weaknesses. His task was not to reconquer the city but to reinforce control before the local nobility began seeing themselves as its true masters.


    - We need someone strong enough to keep them in check and flexible enough to coexist with them. Most importantly, I need a man who will not betray me


    Stanislav tilted his head slightly; his voice remained steady, but there was caution in his tone:


    - I know someone from there. Senior Boyar Radomir of Smolensk. A military man, but no brute - he knows how to negotiate when there''s something in it for him. Influential, composed, with a large druzhina. His men trust him. If he sees an alliance with you as beneficial, he will hold the region firmly. If not...


    He left the thought unfinished, but the meaning was clear: if Radomir did not want to submit, he would not. Alexander raised an eyebrow slightly. He had heard of Radomir of Smolensk - he was a capable voivode - but knew little about his true potential.


    - Who else? - the prince asked, shifting his gaze from Stanislav to Dobrynya. - Are there no other options?


    Dobrynya shrugged slightly.


    - Some among the Smolensk nobility might support you instead of Radomir, but their influence is weaker. That would mean a long struggle for power, and time is not on our side. But the choice is yours


    Alexander''s thoughts flickered like flames in the wind. Smolensk was a fortress-city, but what good were walls if an enemy settled within them? If a governor decided that power belonged to him and not to Kyiv, that fortress would become a trap.


    - So¡­ - he murmured, lifting his gaze.


    Stanislav sat still, his face calm, but the tightness of his lips made it clear that he understood how risky it was to rely on Radomir. Alexander sighed - if even Stanislav, so sure of his control, was uneasy, then the situation was indeed precarious.


    In Kyiv, Chernihiv, and Pereyaslavl, Stanislav''s name carried the weight of law. But beyond those lands, his power faded like frost beneath the sun. Kievan Rus was vast, and only the prince could hold it together - not a Senior Boyar, no matter how strong.


    - In any case, we need a man who will not only maintain power but also remember who sits on the throne, - Stanislav added, his tone softening. - And the sooner he is appointed, the less time there will be for intrigue


    Alexander knew that every delay was a gift to those who wished to weaken his rule.


    - We need to find out how willing Radomir of Smolensk is to accept my authority, - he said thoughtfully. - First, we will deal with Chernihiv and Pereyaslavl. After the coronation, when the senior boyars from Smolensk, Peremyshl, and Terebovl arrive, we will decide on their governors


    Stanislav smirked slightly, a flicker of approval in his eyes.


    - Of course. That''s the best approach. Now that breakfast is over and our discussions are settled, it''s time to meet with Olga Strumenskaya, Gleb of Turov, Boris Stalnogorsky, and the other loyal boyars of your father. They are waiting for us in the prince''s small council chamber


    He paused briefly, as if letting the weight of his words sink in.


    - That is the place where your father met with his most trusted men to decide the fate of these lands. Now, it is your turn


    Alexander set his goblet down - not harshly, but firmly, as if placing the final mark on their conversation. The taste of honeyed mead still lingered on his tongue, but now it felt foreign. The true taste of the day was different - bitter, like power, and sharp, like the mistakes for which princes were only forgiven after death. He ran his palm over the heavy oak table, hesitated for a moment, then rose to his feet.


    - Then let''s not waste time. Lead the way


    Stanislav gave a short nod, and Dobrynya rose to his feet. At Alexander''s signal, the servants swiftly and silently began clearing the table. Mstislav and Mirnomir immediately followed them.


    As soon as they stepped out of the dining hall, a servant appeared beside Dobrynya almost soundlessly. The young man was dressed in a dark tunic and leather boots without metal buckles to avoid making noise on the stone floor. At first, he slipped into the shadow of a column, as if checking that he wouldn''t be interrupted, then stepped forward. His voice was quiet but confident:


    - My lord, ships carrying the Novgorod and Chernihiv boyars have begun unloading at the port. They have brought gifts and goods


    Dobrynya responded immediately, wasting no time:


    - How many Senior Boyars?


    - Two from Novgorod, one from Chernihiv, - the servant nodded, avoiding eye contact with the prince and Stanislav, but showing no fear.


    Dobrynya tilted his head slightly, running his fingertips along his belt, as if weighing whether to say more. Something heavy flickered in his eyes - concern? Or anticipation?


    - So they made it in time for the coronation, - he murmured, then turned to Alexander. - My prince, I need to leave to meet them. These are not mere envoys, but men who influence the decisions of the veche and could play a key role in strengthening our hold on Chernihiv and securing agreements with Novgorod


    Alexander paused for a moment under the carved vault, considering his words, then gave a short nod.


    - Very well. Go. Tell them I will receive everyone at the evening feast. If necessary, arrange accommodations in the guest chambers


    Without another word, Dobrynya bowed his head slightly and stepped aside, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. The stone floor echoed under his steps, the sound quickly swallowed by the distant murmur of voices - as if palace intrigues were already pulling him in.


    Stanislav, standing slightly apart, crossed his arms, watching Dobrynya leave. Only when the footsteps faded did the corner of his mouth twitch - a smirk of a man already calculating his next move.


    - There are more guests in Kyiv today than at a wedding, - Stanislav murmured. - The evening feast will be lively¡­ and who knows if everyone will wish you a long reign


    Alexander nodded. This feast was not just a meal - it was part of the game. A coronation meant nothing if it wasn''t recognized by those who held real power. The boyars and delegations had not come out of courtesy; they were waiting for a sign that the new prince acknowledged them as allies.


    Even in mourning, such meetings were never canceled - only held more reservedly, without celebration, music, or excessive drinking. The Great Lent imposed restrictions on the table, but a rich Lenten feast was no less grand than a festive one.


    Alexander exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face, wiping away the remnants of drowsiness as if brushing dust from armor. The day had only begun, yet he already felt its weight.


    They moved through the corridor of the princely terem, their footsteps echoing dully beneath the stone arches. The air carried a sharp scent of wax and smoke, mingled with the aroma of old scrolls and ancient wood. This scent had seeped into the very walls, soaking into the stone - the scent of power, one that did not fade even with time.


    Striding toward them with quick but measured steps was Radomir Serebryany, the prince''s chief treasurer. In his hands, he held a scroll and a tally board marked with notches for swift calculations. Noticing the prince and Stanislav, he bowed but did not waste time on ceremony.


    - My prince. Stanislav the Great


    Alexander gave a slight nod, not slowing his pace.


    - How is the treasury''s work progressing?


    Radomir adjusted his grip on the scroll and stepped closer.


    - It''s too early to speak of results, - he replied. - Only three days have passed since the order. But the work has begun


    Alexander ran his finger along the edge of the nearest column, feeling the roughness of the stone. Cold - just like the boyars who were draining the treasury. He lingered for a moment, as if testing how deep the crack ran.


    - Too early? Or are they simply stalling, hoping to keep the truth hidden until the last moment?


    His gaze lifted to Radomir.


    - What has been done so far?


    - Lists of tax collectors are being compiled in Kyiv and Pereyaslavl. Men have been sent to other lands, but we must wait for their return. The first discrepancies have already been found - some places have been paying less into the treasury than they should. It could be a miscalculation, but if we dig deeper¡­


    Alexander exhaled, his voice carrying a steely edge.


    - So they''ve already begun siphoning off the treasury. And the tolls?


    Radomir ran his fingers along the scroll as if weighing his answer. A shadow flickered in his eyes - a mix of irritation and caution. He knew this was more than just a question of numbers. It concerned men who had grown fat at the prince''s expense.


    - That is more complicated. Merchants who pay the prince''s toll collectors follow the law. But the trading courts have their own people, and they pay not into the treasury, but to whomever benefits them most. We are checking the records, but it will take time


    Alexander turned his gaze to Stanislav - slowly, deliberately, as if assessing him. There was no question in his eyes, only the expectation of an answer.


    - Have your men uncovered anything at the river crossings and markets?


    Stanislav stepped closer, his movement heavy, as if driving prey into a corner. His voice was calm, but there was something in its steadiness - he had already chosen his target.


    - We have leads. Along the Dnipro, a few collectors have grown rich too quickly, and in Chernihiv, one boyar is taking more than he should. Pereyaslavl is in better shape, but we had to apply pressure in certain places


    Radomir scratched something onto his tally board with a sharp stroke, then hesitated for a moment, staring at the marks as if he had found something more than just numbers. Alexander frowned.


    - Name them


    Stanislav narrowed his eyes slightly, his fingers gliding along his belt, brushing the hilt of his sword - not a threat, just the habit of a man accustomed to hunting.


    - Some names are already circulating, but for now, they''re just suspicions. - His voice dropped, becoming heavier. - If we strike too soon, they''ll go to ground, and we''ll catch no one. We need at least two or three months to gather reports from all regions, verify them through the scribes and men in the druzhina


    Alexander ran his thumb along the edge of his sleeve, his gaze tracing the intricate embroidery. Everything was held together by threads. Pull one too soon, and the entire pattern unraveled.


    - If they are undermining the treasury, this isn''t just theft. It''s an attack on power. Find the proof. Without it, we cannot strike


    Stanislav leaned forward slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a brief, predatory smirk - not one of amusement, but the expression of a man who had already caught the scent of his prey.


    - We are working, my prince. Checking reports, tracking expenses. Money doesn''t disappear into thin air - every coin has a path. And sooner or later, that path will lead us to the right people. I''d say within three or four months, we''ll have solid evidence against the boyars. The tax collectors can be exposed sooner - within a month, maybe two at most


    Alexander slowed his step slightly, weighing every word of the voivode. His eyes narrowed - not in anger, but in anticipation.


    - Then we wait. But we do not remain idle. Let them think we suspect nothing. When the time comes, we will strike with precision


    Stanislav inclined his head slightly - not as a subordinate, but as a man ready to carry out the order.


    - I believe one or two public punishments will be enough to make the others understand. The collectors can be seized immediately - their greed betrays them. But the boyars¡­ They don''t steal openly. They build systems where theft looks like a privilege. Their mistakes must not only be exposed but turned into weapons against them


    Alexander slowly ran his fingers over his wrist, as if checking his pulse - steady, unwavering.


    - Then let them tighten the noose themselves. The key is not to let them realize that we already hold the rope. And when the time comes, we will pull it tight - so tight that they will have no escape


    Stanislav gave a slight nod, but there was no submission in the gesture - only silent agreement with the inevitable.


    - It will be done, my prince


    Alexander shifted his gaze to Radomir, holding it a moment longer than necessary. Long enough for him to understand: everyone would be checked.


    - Work without haste, but precisely. I need real numbers, not guesses


    Radomir nodded, but his fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted his grip on the scroll. The movement was barely noticeable, but Alexander caught it. He gave no reaction - only narrowed his eyes slightly, marking the detail in his mind.


    The treasurer quickly regained his composure and bowed his head.


    - It will be done, my prince


    Alexander knew nothing could be rebuilt in a few days. The treasury, which had followed the same rules for years, could not be changed by a single decree. Any reform was not just parchment with a seal - it was living people who needed to be retrained and convinced that the new order was better than the old.


    He was about to move on but slowed his step, as if remembering something.


    - What about the other initiatives? The plans for border fortifications, the construction of schools at monasteries, and shelters for orphans?


    Radomir gave a brief nod, but there was tension in his voice.


    - The coronation distracted everyone, but Senior Monk Boris had already prepared the calculations. If needed, we can begin the first projects immediately. For now, only the shelter plans are ready. The rest will start after the coronation.


    Alexander nodded, mentally calculating the timelines. He could already see that each endeavor would take not weeks, but years. This was not like a game or a book, where a single command changed everything overnight. People would not abandon familiar ways instantly, even if the "new" was for their own benefit.


    Compiling a full register of taxes and tolls would take at least a year, and restructuring the collection system even longer - several years at best. Tightening control over trade duties would require at least a year, and that was if he acted harshly.


    Building schools at monasteries, shelters, and fortifications along the borders - this was not the work of a single decree but a plan that would stretch across years.


    Alexander suddenly recalled the Byzantine gifts. He had enough hryvnias in the treasury, but the more, the better - gold was never in excess for a prince.


    - Right, Radomir, - he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. - Yesterday, after the audience, you took the Byzantine gifts. Have you counted them? How much do they amount to?


    The treasurer adjusted his grip on the scroll again.


    - Yes, my prince. While you were in negotiations, I collected the gifts from the ceremonial hall with the treasury officials. Everything was recorded, cross-checked with the original inventory, and delivered to the treasury


    He paused briefly, as if recalling details.


    - Two dozen large pearls, an enkolpion cross, several silver vessels with engravings, a gilded censer, and frankincense from Jerusalem. Everything was delivered intact and accounted for


    Alexander ran his finger along the edge of a column, feeling the roughness of the stone. Cold, like the tone in Radomir''s voice. He slowly shifted his gaze to the treasurer, as if testing whether he could endure the silence.


    - And how much is it worth?


    Radomir hesitated for a moment, then ran his finger along the edge of the tally board, as if verifying his calculations.


    - If we count only its monetary value - 400 hryvnias. But some items cannot be sold, my prince. The enkolpion, for example, is a relic - it cannot be melted down for silver


    - I know, - Alexander nodded. - Such things are not sold, but they can be used in other ways


    Alexander pondered. The Byzantines had not simply brought gifts - they had embedded them with symbolism. Money was important, but even more crucial was how these treasures could be used in the game of influence.


    Radomir, seeing that Alexander had fallen silent, leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like a conspirator - but without losing his firmness. His fingers froze over the parchment for a moment, as if testing whether he should speak further.


    - My prince, there is one more thing. Some tax collectors have already arrived. The rest will make it after the coronation. If you allow it, we could gather them all so that you can meet them personally


    Alexander glanced at him - lazily, yet attentively, with a shadow of amusement. There was no reproach in that look, no trust either - just a silent reminder of who decided how far one could go. The new system had barely taken its first steps, but it was already unsettling those who had lived too long under the old ways.


    - Good. Let everyone come to me after the coronation. And you and the scribes from the treasury too


    Radomir lifted his head ever so slightly. The difference between Alexander three days ago and now was striking. Back then, he had stood before a young prince - cautious, attentive to the words of his elders. But now, this man was no longer waiting for advice - he was dictating terms.


    The treasurer ran his fingers over the scroll - not to adjust it, but simply to occupy his hands.


    - Of course, my prince, - his voice remained even, but a flicker of tense thought still glowed in his eyes.


    Alexander leaned forward slightly, not raising his voice, yet making each word sound like a warning.


    - After the coronation, we won''t just review the reports. We will decide who is truly needed in this system - and who is not


    Radomir nodded slowly, not rushing to respond. He was used to firm rulers, but he was also used to the idea that every one of them could be reasoned with. This prince, however, was not offering to talk - he was offering to listen.


    Alexander ran a hand over his chin, feeling the rough stubble beneath his fingers. The first steps had been taken, but that was not enough. Fixing past mistakes was like patching an old tunic when the armor beneath it was already pierced.


    There was no time to mend - he needed a new blade, sharp and ruthless. If he didn''t seize control now, power would slip through his fingers like sand in the wind.


    He didn''t just need to announce reforms - he needed to make everyone understand: The old system was dying. And anyone who tried to cling to it would be crushed alongside it.


    Alexander traced a finger along the cold stone wall. Power was like this - hard, unyielding. But loosen your grip, and time would wear it away, like rain eroding carvings in stone.


    The treasury would be his first major step toward real authority.


    Create a Unified Center of Financial Management - the Treasury of the Grand Prince.


    Silver was the lifeblood of the state. And as long as the veins of Kievan Rus flowed in all directions, the realm was too weak. But if he gathered those streams into a single current - then all power would be in his hands.


    Yet reforms did not live on scrolls - they lived in those who enforced them. As long as these men were loyal to the old ways, the new order would remain just words. If he wanted to change Rus, he had to change them first.


    But trying to reform the entire land at once would only get him crushed. He had to start with Kyiv. Here, his power was strongest. Here were his druzhina, his people, his laws. If the reform succeeded here, the other lands would follow.


    Alexander understood: establishing order in the treasury was one thing - making everyone accept the new rules was another. The merchants were used to their own people, the boyars - to their own profits. They couldn¡¯t simply be erased from the system. But if the first step was control over taxes, the next would be control over the lands, and then - over the entire state.


    First - the flow of silver into the treasury.


    No more governors keeping half the collections for themselves. No more merchants paying whomever they pleased. Now, the entire tax system answered to one man - the Princely Treasurer. From now on, all collectors reported not to the boyars but directly to Kyiv.


    A tax registry - a knot tightening around the throat of Rus. Some would pull it tighter, others would try to loosen it. But only the prince would decide who would breathe freely - and who would choke.


    No more Poludye as the foundation of power. Taxes would no longer be paid through the prince''s yearly tour - they would be written in a book. But the people were used to paying the sword, not parchment. They would have to learn. No more furs, honey, or cloth handed over however they saw fit just to avoid wrath. Now, taxes would be fixed, recorded, and accounted for.


    No more hiding wealth behind poor harvests or broken roads.


    No more merchants choosing whom to pay. Now - only princely markets, only standardized tolls. Any violations - banishment from trade.


    But most importantly - control.


    Unannounced audits, secret ledgers, the prince''s court - when a few thieves lost not only their silver but their hands, the rest would quickly understand that the old tricks would no longer save them.


    Three years - if Kievan Rus accepted the new order.


    Five - if the old ways had to be burned out with red-hot iron.


    Ten - if the fear of change proved stronger than the fear of the prince. And if he failed - it wouldn''t take his lifetime, but someone else''s.


    Kyiv would be the first step. If it worked here, the rest would follow like a river''s current - Pereyaslavl, Chernihiv, the Turov-Pinsk lands. Then - Smolensk and Galicia.


    Novgorod, Polotsk, the Rostov-Suzdal lands - those could not be subdued by force, but they could be made to choose. And in the end - Tmutarakan, the last harbor where the tides of power would reach last.


    Where he could not break them, he would bribe them.


    Where he could not bribe them, he would force them to decide - submit, or be left behind.


    This would take years. Perhaps a decade.


    Alexander knew that patience was not the weapon of the weak, but of those who knew how to wait for the right moment.


    And he would wait.


    Build.


    Break.


    Until the day came when all of Rus bowed before him.


    Or until his name was forgotten - along with those who had failed to hold power.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who is reading! I would greatly appreciate your feedback.


    Chapter 25. Whisper of the Steppe Storm


    I''ve finally wrapped up the matters of governors and administration. I hope you found it interesting to watch Alexander make decisions. There are no easy choices here - it''s never as simple as appointing a governor and having everything fall neatly into place. Every character is alive, each with their own ambitions, and events don''t always unfold as expected.


    If you notice any repetitions - like when I mention the same information about characters or events more than once - and it stands out to you, I''d be grateful if you pointed it out in the comments, mentioning the chapter and the repeated passages.


    It''s physically difficult to keep track of everything. Besides creating a multilayered world while maintaining historical accuracy, realism, intrigue, and tension, I also have my personal life, work, and studies. Sometimes, my mind is pure chaos. So if you spot any inconsistencies, I''d be happy to hear about them and fix them.


    Thank you for your support, advice, and criticism. I truly appreciate everyone who takes the time to write and help improve this story!


    Note:


    In Rus, an oath was not just words but a sacred vow - breaking it meant bringing a curse upon oneself and one''s lineage. Chronicles, religious traditions, and historical events confirm this.


    Swearing an oath meant binding yourself to God, the prince, and the state.


    Breaking it meant not just personal disgrace, but doom for one''s entire family.


    An oath was not sealed with paper but with sacred symbols - swords, crosses, or Perun himself.


    Loyalty to a prince meant more than life - it was not just a warrior''s duty but a code of honor.

 Chapter 25. Whisper of the Steppe Storm

    Timur was not born in the center of civilization, but where the wind roamed free like a wolf, and the steppe under the sun swirled with dusty whirlwinds. There were no laws here - only rules set by those strong enough to impose them.


    Concrete could not withstand the steppe - it cracked, sank, and sand slowly devoured the streets with predatory patience. Dust did not merely hang in the air - it clogged pores, burned the lungs, scraped against teeth, leaving a taste of rust. The air was thick, viscous, as if resisting every breath.


    The old men in town perched on overturned crates like ancient khans on thrones, arguing as if deciding the fate of the steppe rather than dusty memories.


    - Bogd Khan was the last to keep the steppe in check! - one grumbled, pulling his fur sleeves tighter despite the heat outside. - If not for those damned Chinese, we would have¡­


    - Bogd Khan? Pff! - the second spat into the dust. - Mongolia would have died without Sukhbaatar. He freed us, not your holy man!


    - Freed us? - the third only shook his head, staring into the void. - If not for Choibalsan, we would have been gone long ago. He cleansed the weak


    - He slaughtered our people! - the first snapped.


    - Pure blood means nothing without strength!


    Timur''s grandfather listened in silence, but the tension in his jaw made it clear - his patience was not limitless.


    - You are all fools, -he finally said, his voice cutting like a knife on old leather. - Bogd Khan, Sukhbaatar, Choibalsan¡­ all of them are mere shadows of the past. One man raised the Mongols above the whole world. One


    He lifted his head, and in his gaze lay the steppe itself - harsh, boundless, demanding blood.


    - Genghis Khan. All the rest are just servants of his legacy


    Timur grew up with this belief, with his grandfather''s endless speeches that refused to let the steppe fade. The old man was hunched, his face carved with deep wrinkles, but the fire still flickered in his eyes - the same fire that had lit the path of his ancestors.


    He repeated it again and again: their blood came from the very Borjigin.


    Sometimes with pride, sometimes with defiance, and at times - with unnatural desperation, as if convincing not his grandson, but himself.


    - We are not just descendants. We are the ulus of Genghis


    These were not mere words. This was a ritual - eternal, like the fire in the hearth. Every evening, under the heavy, viscous smoke of his pipe, he sat by the window, stared into the night, and began to speak.


    He told how the great khan united the tribes, how he ordered the city of Karakorum to be built, how he sent envoys across Asia, forging an empire unlike any other.


    - In the beginning, there was only the steppe and the wind, - he said. - Scattered clans warring over water, pastures, blood. And then he came. The one called Temujin


    The old man would close his eyes, inhaling the smoke, and his voice would grow rougher, as if echoing from the depths of time.


    - They left him to die, but he returned. He reclaimed his clan, gathered his people. He did not merely give them freedom - he made them believe their will was stronger than steel. He did not rule the steppe. He became its breath. He listened to it as a warrior listens to the breath of his enemy before striking. He did not just strike - he thought. And then he struck so that the earth trembled


    The old man gazed into the night as if he could see the shadows of long-gone riders.


    - He took the name Genghis Khan. The steppe itself acknowledged him, and then he became its master. He swept across it like a storm, leaving behind nothing but ashes and conquered lands. Chinese cities with their stone walls fell like children''s toys. The Persians thought the mountains would save them, but the fire reached them even there. His banner bore nothing but will. And that will was enough for his name to thunder from one end of the world to the other, louder than the name of any god


    He exhaled, letting the smoke drift through the air.


    - His blood is in us. Do not look with your eyes, Timur - look with your blood. The steppe always waits for its own


    Every time, his grandfather repeated that their blood carried a great destiny.


    The old man insisted that a nomad bends but does not break, but Timur had seen steel bend - not under the winds of the steppe, but under brass knuckles in dark alleyways.


    His grandfather believed that the blood of Genghis carried fate, but Timur knew that blood did not lead forward - it only smelled of rust when you spat it onto the asphalt. He saw no greatness, no empire the old man spoke of.


    He saw something else: courtyards littered with cigarette butts and broken glass, where teenagers formed packs like stray dogs, dragging scrap metal from dead factories in exchange for a sip of oblivion. In the mines, people gnawed at the earth, tearing gold from its depths only for it to flow into someone else''s pockets. Those who had lived their whole lives on handouts from the rich died namelessly, like tethered horses grazing until they collapsed, leaving nothing behind.


    He looked at this world and understood that justice did not exist here. The weak were broken, trampled, ground into dust beneath boot soles. It had always been this way. It would always be this way.


    In his first fight, they stomped him into the ground. In his second, they made him swallow blood. In his third, he got up, refusing to fall again.


    By sixteen, he fought for money. By eighteen, he knew how to get it without fighting. By twenty-two, he was the one setting the rules. He was not the son of a rich man, not part of the elite, but he had what others lacked - cold, calculated precision.


    He listened, observed, studied people the way one studies an animal''s weaknesses before the hunt. His grandfather said strength was the ability to command, but Timur knew that in his world, strength was the ability to strike first.


    He learned to hit hard and fast. He mastered everything that worked in street fights and deadly brawls: elbow and knee strikes, locks, sweeps, grips that snapped bones. He took techniques from boxing, wrestling, Krav Maga, even remnants of ancient styles passed down among those who lived by war. Every fight was a set of rules. Timur learned them all - so he could break them, again and again.


    But even the one who has risen can stumble one day.


    Timur was used to calculating moves. Seeing weaknesses, sensing danger. But sometimes, even the most experienced predator takes a wrong step. One second, one misplaced glance - and you are no longer the hunter.


    The air thickened with unease, viscous like the stagnant scent of rotting wood and spilled oil. The street, once familiar, suddenly seemed to change its contours. Shadows grew longer, windows darker.


    The wind, which usually carried the city''s noise, now only rustled the trash underfoot. Something was wrong. He knew it in his gut. And yet, he stepped forward. The city always clung to the night streets with the stickiness of dampness, burnt oil, and the faint metallic taste of foreboding.


    He took another step - and the darkness stirred.


    Not sharply, not suddenly. Just the usual nighttime hum settled, shrank, as if the streets had drawn their heads into their shoulders, hiding from something unseen. Somewhere behind, a door creaked, someone slammed a shutter, but ahead, the alley stood frozen, like an exhaled breath. No footsteps, no voices, even the wind had gone still.


    He caught that moment of silence again, but by then, he could no longer stop the inevitable.


    - Maybe it''s just the wind rustling through the trash? Maybe exhaustion is playing tricks on me?


    The darkness tensed, held its breath. And in that taut silence - a thin crunch of glass beneath a boot. The crack tore through the quiet, ran along the walls, but then immediately died, drowned in waiting.


    Timur froze, straining his hearing.


    - Hey, Timur!


    The voice was familiar, but it came at the wrong time and in the wrong place.


    Timur jerked his head toward the sound - and realized at once that he was caught.


    The first blow crashed into his ribs, folding him in half. His breath shot out like a cork. He tried to jerk back - and immediately ran into a hand, hard as a clamp. The second blow - precise, straight to the kidneys. Crushing. Burning him from the inside.


    A silhouette flickered in the darkness. Timur threw a punch forward - struck a cheekbone, but the hit only skidded off, like a stone skipping on water. They knew how to attack. They had waited.


    The hunter had become the prey.


    They read him like an open book - with the same cold, ruthless precision with which he had once picked apart the weaknesses of others.


    - Too long, hit harder, - someone grumbled.


    They yanked him forward, struck his legs, and the asphalt slammed into his knees, sending pain shooting through them. Hands grabbed his collar and twisted his arm, leaving no room for resistance.


    - Hold his arms! - barked another.


    Timur thrashed, kicked. Someone yelped in pain, but immediately - an angry curse, a flash of fury, and a blow to his temple. The world tilted. The strike rolled back with a delayed echo, like a distant thunderclap. Darkness flared in his eyes - the night crashed into him.


    His ears popped - it was like plunging underwater, with pressure squeezing his head. His throat spasmed.


    His legs buckled. The world slipped through his fingers.


    Hands latched onto him and dragged him forward. He jerked - unconsciously, more from instinct than will. His body wouldn''t obey. His legs folded on their own, like a broken puppet''s.


    Boots skidded, leaving smeared tracks in the dust. The metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue. The smell of machine oil settled thickly in his throat.


    The darkness rolled over him, but not completely. Somewhere, far away, there were still voices, footsteps, the sound of a car door opening.


    He tried to breathe in - and only then realized he couldn''t move.


    A door creaked. A heavy shove to his back - and suddenly, he was inside.


    His throat burned, like after swallowing kerosene - whether from pain or from the thick smell of oil.


    - Where am I?


    Thoughts scattered, slipped away, like wet stones underfoot.


    It felt like a scorching rod was twisting inside his skull, burning away every thought. His ears rang - not a buzz, but a thin, piercing whine, like a dying alarm signal. Any movement sent nausea crashing over him, turning him inside out.


    Dirty seats. Or walls? The floor? Everything blurred into one murky stain. The air was stale, warm, tainted with the taste of someone else''s breath.


    A dull vibration throbbed in his temples - not noise, but the kind of heavy reverberation that rattles through a truck bed bouncing over potholes.


    Windows covered in film looked blind, like abandoned storefronts.


    Dark spots danced before his eyes, the streetlight outside doubling - its blurred arc drifted away, then lurched closer, like a reflection in water.


    The cabin smelled of tobacco, the bitterness of stale alcohol, and something sour, cloying, muddling his head.


    Harsh, irritated voices cut through the silence, each laced with hatred.


    - You think he knew?


    - What difference does it make now?


    Timur recognized the voice.


    His heart jolted - not from fear, but from that sickening, sticky realization.


    Laughter. The kind that once meant, Everything''s under control.


    Only now, it carried a different tone - like Timur was no longer part of the game, but a broken piece about to be swept off the board. He exhaled and shook his head.


    So that''s how it was. Not a mistake. A miscalculation.


    - You should have known, - the voice sounded calm, almost tired.


    Timur smirked. Blood filled his mouth, but he didn''t spit it out.


    - Yeah... - he answered quietly. - Now I do


    He just hadn''t noticed that the doors had closed long before this night.


    Betrayal is rarely loud. It comes quietly - in half-empty bars, in brief glances, in debts never spoken aloud.


    Hands grabbed him, yanked him out.


    Thud.


    His body slammed into the ground, stones digging into his side. He didn''t fall - they tossed him like a bag of trash.


    Someone pressed a boot against his wrist, pinning it down. He wanted to resist, but his strength had drained away with the last blows.


    - Get him up


    A rough yank by the collar, sharp, painful. His legs wouldn''t hold. He tried to stand, but only swayed and collapsed again.


    - He''s already done


    - Done?


    Someone leaned in, prodded his ribs with a boot. No reaction.


    - Is he still breathing?


    - Does it matter?


    - Finish it


    - Come on, it''s getting dark


    A cocking sound. Then the click of metal - short, businesslike, like the tick of a clock counting down the last seconds.


    Timur blinked. Slowly. The world swayed like a pendulum, but didn''t stop.


    The darkness did not release him, but neither did it consume him completely. Shadows drifted before his eyes, like reflections in trembling water - foreign, indistinct, blurring at the slightest movement. Someone was speaking, but the words dissolved into a murmur, slipping away like sound through water.


    He inhaled. Something tore in his throat - hot, salty blood flooded his tongue, mixing with dust, choking his breath. He coughed, and the taste of rusted iron grew even stronger.


    Thoughts flared and immediately faded.


    His skin no longer responded to pain. Only cold. Sand clung to his split lips, blood slowly trickled down his collar, soaking the fabric with useless warmth.


    Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, footsteps echoed. Or the memory of them.


    The world trembled. Collapsed into emptiness.


    But consciousness did not leave. It wavered on the brink - blurred, unsteady.


    Timur blinked. Once. Then again.


    And suddenly, everything became painfully clear, as if someone had torn the veil from his eyes.


    The stars blurred before him - not the night sky, but ancient, golden, buried in the steppe like the treasures of forgotten kings. They called to him, whispering the silent names of those who had gone before.


    - So this is how you die?


    He thought he would feel fear. But there was only bitterness.


    - So this is how it happens¡­


    His grandfather''s face surfaced before his eyes. That same gaze - stern, unyielding, like in childhood when Timur had made a mistake. His lips did not move, but his voice echoed inside, heavy as a stone on the heart.


    Only now, there was no reproach in it.


    - What do you see? - he asked, like the wind in the night steppe.


    Timur tried to answer.


    - Nothing


    His grandfather remained silent. But in his eyes, darkness stirred - not from fire, but from memory. Deep, ancient, swallowing all mistakes, all downfalls. And Timur knew: he remembered.


    Remembered how, as a child, wrapped in an old felt cloak, he listened to the stories of great khans. How he first held a knife in his hands, and his grandfather stood nearby, arms crossed, watching to see if he had the resolve to cut without hesitation.


    That voice rumbled in his memory like distant thunder that lingers even after the storm has passed. He did not just remember it - he heard it inside himself.


    - Do not look with your eyes. Look with your blood. The steppe always waits for its own. Its own Storm.


    Timur opened his mouth, but he did not have time to speak.


    The wind swept over the hills, howled among the stones, and the darkness closed over him.


    The sand chilled his skin. Blood trickled down his temple, burning like the morning sun.


    He lay there, staring at the sky. Above the hill loomed a burial mound, ancient as the steppe itself. The wind stirred the dust, and in his temples, echoes of voices still murmured - not those of the men who had beaten him, but of those who had called to him through eternity.


    The darkness parted.


    And he saw them.


    Shadows surged like a whirlwind, and the steppe came alive beneath the hooves of a thousand horses. The steeds neighed, the clang of sabers cut through the air, and warriors'' cries thundered like rolling storms across the plains. He felt the earth tremble beneath their charge, but it was not the ground of his time.


    They were not ghosts - they were the steppe itself, given flesh. The horses pounded the earth, dust rose in swirling clouds, banners fluttered as if the wind blew not from the plains, but from history itself.


    - Khan! - the voices roared. - The steppe waits for you!


    The earth trembled. The manes of the horses streamed in the storm, sabers flashed, reflecting not the moon''s light, but the glow of distant fires. They circled, thousands of warriors who had stepped beyond time but had never truly left.


    Something ice-cold gripped his shoulder. No - not his shoulder, not his body. The cold pierced into him, driving through bone, through blood. Through his soul.


    - Khan¡­ your horse awaits you


    Names he did not remember.


    But he knew them all.


    His eyelids twitched. The sand beneath his fingers felt different. The air - unfamiliar. He took a ragged breath, but the air was thick, like steppe fog before a storm. His chest tightened, as if the world refused to let him back in.


    The steppe never lost its own.


    This was the end. Or it seemed like it.


    But time did not move here. It did not flow. It had frozen, like ice in the veins of a man staring into the eyes of death.


    Emptiness.


    A jolt. A burst of air into his lungs. He gasped, like a man dragged from water a second before drowning.


    He opened his eyes.


    The steppe had not disappeared.


    It was simply another era now.


    Tukal-Bey woke abruptly to the voices of warriors outside the yurt. The dream of another life returned like the nomadic wind that always finds its way back, leaving the bitterness of the past in his mind. He had not merely seen himself in another world - he had lived it over and over again. And with each time, he became more convinced that it was not a fevered illusion, not a mere vision.


    He had not simply survived. He had been torn from one world and thrown into another, as if the steppe itself had decided it was not yet his time to leave. Now, this was his home. Not the one his mind remembered, but the one his body knew.


    The air inside the yurt was thick, heavy, as if wrung from the bodies of those who lived within it. It carried the mingling scents of leather polished with fat, the muted tang of metal, the sharp essence of dried herbs. Every breath was dense, rich, leaving a taste of salt and smoke on his tongue. There was something primal in this air, something ancient - like the steppe itself.


    Tukal ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of old scars. His skin still held the warmth of sleep, but within him, there was no anxiety, no doubt. Only a cold, clear certainty.


    Yesterday, he had killed his brothers. Yesterday, he had proven to the Horde that he was worthy of the title of Khan.


    The gods do not gamble. If he was here, then it was meant to be. But it was not only they who decided. The ancient Steppe, which knew the past and foresaw the future, had made its choice as well.


    And outside, that Steppe was awakening. The rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against steel, the neighing of horses, the hushed voices of the guards - familiar sounds of the morning world of warriors. But now, this was his world. His Horde. Not yet fully formed, not yet self-aware, but already alive in his thoughts.


    He might have died in another world, but he had awakened in the body of the khan''s eldest son. His body had grown stronger, his hands steadier, his memory deeper - filled with knowledge that was not his own, yet had become inseparable from him.


    Power is not only blood - it is flesh.


    It begins where the defeated bow before the victor. And today, he could feel it completely.


    His palm lazily slid over warm skin, feeling its softness and the quiet rhythm of breath.


    In the dim light of the yurt, three women lay beside him. Their breathing was slow, deep - their bodies still remembered him. After defeating his brothers, he had finally allowed himself to take them all at once.


    Before, he had only met with them rarely - not because he did not desire them, but because his mind had been in chaos. He had fought for power, his thoughts still trapped between two worlds. Timur had absorbed the memories and instincts of Tukal, had filtered them through himself, had redefined them.


    But yesterday, stepping out of battle as the victor, he had cast off the last of his doubts.


    He had taken power, blood, and women - everything that belonged to the strongest.


    His body ached, a wound pulsed in his side, his shoulder throbbed, and his muscles screamed for rest. At night, he had felt the pain, but it had drowned in adrenaline, in the rush of battle, in the heat of the women''s bodies. Now, the blood had cooled, and with every breath, his body reminded him of the price of victory - sharp, piercing, as if ripping through old stitches.


    He ran his fingers along the curve of a woman''s thigh, feeling its silky smoothness and warmth.


    Injuries had not stopped him. He was Tukal-Bey, born of the steppe, forged in battle - he knew no limits.


    His brothers'' blood had not yet dried on the sand of the arena, yet he had already asserted his rule - first in combat, then in the yurt.


    He had won.


    And that victory now lived in every moment, in every breath, in every gaze cast upon him with a mix of fear and reverence.


    That victory lay before him now.


    Three women. Alliances sealed by power. Threads woven into his fate.


    Aybike, Altyn-Tu, and Tumar.


    They were his wives. They were different. But last night - they belonged to him equally.


    The yurt still carried the scent of leather, sweat, flesh, smoke, and the heavy imprint of the night. There was no place here for shame or doubt. All that remained was power, hardened like dried blood on the skin.


    But before stepping outside, he looked back at those who were now part of his dominion.


    Aybike lay closest, her body pressed against the furs. Yet even in sleep, her fingers clutched the edge of the blanket - not idly, but as a last line of defense that could not be lost.


    She had submitted, but her will still smoldered, like embers buried in cold ashes. She was the first, the chief wife, the daughter of Aybars-Kutagi, an elder whose words still held weight.


    Slender, graceful, but with that inner strength that could not be broken with a single touch. Yesterday, her body had fully yielded to him for the first time, yet the fire in her eyes had not died. A spark of pride, a glimmer of defiance. She accepted him not only as her husband but as fate - one that could not be escaped.


    This union was more than a marriage - it was a seal, branded into his power by tradition itself.


    Altyn-Tu lay a little farther away, her breathing deep and steady. The daughter of Baga-Buka, a warlord whose riders were the most disciplined in the Horde. Her skin was darker, her body stronger.


    She moved differently. Like warriors in full gallop - smooth, forceful, decisive. She had not waited to be taken - she had lunged forward, clawed, demanded, and only when he had locked his hands around her wrists did she arch and surrender, turning battle into a different kind of dance.


    This marriage was not just a bond - it was a pair of blades suspended over his head.


    Tumar. In the dim light, her hair spilled over the furs, lips slightly parted, her breathing lazy - like a cat that knows its worth. Even in sleep, there was a hidden alertness about her, the instinct of one who watches from beneath lowered lids.


    The daughter of Kazgym-Kutlug, ruler of the Targitai lineage. She had grown used to thinking herself cunning, skilled at weaving delicate strands of intrigue, but last night, there had been no room for games. When her nails dug into his back, when her voice cracked into a cry, she forgot that this marriage was a bargain.


    A bargain where the merchant had failed to notice when he himself became the goods. But it did not matter. Now he held the scales. Now he decided who and what was worth anything.


    They still slept. But power did not sleep.


    Their bodies were soft, their breathing even, but even in slumber, each of them was something more than just a woman. One - a key to allies. Another - a pledge of loyalty from warriors. The third - a hidden blade wrapped in velvet. He had not simply taken wives. He had taken fate.


    When they awoke, none of them would dare to speak first. They would wait. Silently. As was proper for those who belonged to the victor.


    Tukal-Bey sat up slowly.


    Yesterday, he had claimed the title of Khan.


    And today, the battle for it began.


    Beyond the yurt, the Horde was already stirring. The steppe breathed with the chill of dawn, spreading beneath the horses'' hooves like a living carpet of sun-scorched grass.


    The warriors squinted, shielding their eyes from the sharp morning light, while young herdsmen and riders peered toward the distant horizon, where sky and earth merged - promising both the beginning of the day and an unknown danger. The night''s bony mist slowly dissolved over the encampment, leaving behind the scent of ash, milk, and the sweat of horses.


    Blades were not being sharpened idly - before battle, there was no room for dull steel. Warriors ran their fingers along the edges, testing them in silence, as if feeling the future in the cold of the metal.


    The grooms saddled the horses faster than usual, exchanging glances - the steeds sensed their masters'' tension, stamping nervously at the ground. Even the herders, who normally drove their flocks with careless ease, were watching the horizon today, as if expecting something.


    The nomadic women milked the mares, pouring the fresh kumis into leather flasks. Someone was already cooking the morning broth from dried meat and millet, its thick, hearty aroma spreading through the camp, mingling with the scent of wool and steppe grass.


    But this morning, the Horde was not merely waking.


    Those who usually gathered at the hearths lazily now moved with purpose, preparing for the first emergence of the new khan. Those who had bowed to Tukal yesterday were now checking their weapons, tightening the straps of their chainmail, pulling on their leather armor. Riders strung fresh bowstrings, arguing among themselves about the past night and what his first words would be.


    - They say he will come out holding the Bunchuk, like an ancient biy, like one whom the steppe itself raises above warriors, - one young rider remarked, squaring his shoulders under the weight of his chainmail.


    - And if he doesn''t? - another smirked, running his fingers along the taut sinew of his bow.


    - Then he is no khan, - a gray-haired warrior answered shortly, sharpening his blade. The metal slid across the stone, leaving behind a jagged, rhythmic trail. One pass - like a breath before battle. The second - like a sentence. The third¡­ He was sharpening more than just steel. He was sharpening time, measuring the last moments before blood would spill on the sand.


    By the elders'' tents, the tension was palpable, like the taut string of a bow before the shot. No voices were raised, but every word spoken here carried more weight than a hundred oaths.


    Arslan-Temir, elder of the Kiyat lineage, stood with his feet planted wide, like a warrior before combat. His gaze swept over the faces of the others, but he himself remained unreadable. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low but dense, like a predator''s footsteps in the tall grass - cautious, yet ready to strike.


    - Let him step out. But one appearance does not make a ruler. A khan is not made in the morning, but in the blood spilled for power


    He crossed his arms over his chest, as if testing how firmly the new banner of the Horde held against the wind.


    Jangar-Bulat, keeper of ancient traditions, remained silent, gazing into the sky as if searching for answers there. His fingers idly traced the wooden talisman on his belt, and his lips moved slightly - whether in prayer or in thought was unclear.


    - Did you hear the dogs howling last night? - he suddenly asked, without tearing his gaze from the clouds. - It is a bad omen. The wind is changing. And the spirits do not like change


    - The wind does not change because of spirits, but because of men, - came a low, steady voice.


    Sarych-Bai, elder of the Sarych lineage, did not simply stand - he was motionless, as if carved from bone. The staff in his hand did not look like a symbol of authority, but rather the last bastion of something fading into the past.


    - Time does not ask us when to change horses on a journey, - he said, never taking his eyes off the horizon. - Sometimes, the new one runs faster. And sometimes, without the old one''s tracks, the road is lost¡­


    He did not elaborate, but in his voice was something more than mere reflection on change. It was neither protest nor agreement - just the cold awareness that in the steppe, the rise of a new khan always meant not just a new order, but the shadows of those left behind.


    Temirkhan-Kulan, the shaman, sat in the shadow of the tent, slowly tracing his finger over a smooth stone, leaving behind damp, quickly vanishing marks. He drew circles - one after another, like an old eagle painting the sky with its wings. He did not speak, but he watched.


    For a moment, he froze, as if the wind had carried words to him - words not meant for foreign ears. Temirkhan-Kulan did not look in their direction, but he knew who was speaking, knew the questions hanging in the air, the fates that had intertwined on this night.


    Elder Aybars-Kutaga, Batyr Baga-Buki, and Kazgym-Kutlug, head of the Targitai lineage, stood slightly apart from the others.


    Aybars-Kutaga, Aybike''s father, idly fingered a leather strap with knots - an ancient talisman, thick with the dust of time. His fingers moved slowly, as if each knot held a decision that had already been made, yet had not yet revealed all its consequences.


    His face showed neither concern nor satisfaction - only calm expectation. He was one of the few who did not engage in arguments, but his silence carried more weight than others'' loudest speeches.


    Beside him stood Baga-Buki, the batyr, whose daughter had shared the khan''s bed that night not just as a wife, but as a share of his triumph. His lips curled into a smirk, yet his fingers absently ran along the braided hilt cord of his saber - an unconscious gesture of a warrior accustomed to keeping his weapon close.


    - If he is good in battle, then he will manage in rulership as well, - he muttered, as if speaking into the air, though his gaze lingered on the yurt for a moment.


    That night, their daughters had belonged to the khan not only by right of marriage - now their bodies, their cries, and their blood were woven into his power. The alliance had become more than tradition; it was a seal, stamped behind the felt walls of the yurt.


    Kazgym-Kutlug, the head of the Targitai lineage, stood slightly apart. His fingers glided over the silver plates of his belt - not just a habit, but the gesture of a man who measured every coin, every alliance. He listened to the warlord, but his thoughts ran deeper.


    His daughter, Tumar, was now part of Tukal''s power. Which meant she was part of his own influence as well. He narrowed his eyes, as if weighing whether this was a fortunate bargain or one that had come at too high a cost.


    - Time will tell, - he said, not looking at Baga-Buki, yet seeming to answer his thoughts. - Today, it is not he who will decide, but the Horde


    Aybars-Kutaga ran his palm along his stubbled cheek, as if brushing away invisible dust. His fingers lingered on his chin - a light tapping against his skin betraying patient anticipation. He slowly lifted his eyes to Kazgym and Baga-Buki, then spoke with a faint smirk.


    - You both argue over what is already decided, - Aybars-Kutaga said at last, raising his gaze. - Tukal will step out. The only question is what the Horde will see when he does


    Baga-Buki snorted but did not argue.


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    Kazgym-Kutlug turned his gaze to the khan''s yurt. In that look, there was everything - cold calculation, a barely perceptible trace of unease, and the understanding that it was not only Tukal''s fate being decided now, but his own.


    And that now their daughters were no longer merely the wives of the new khan.


    They were hostages of his power.


    Kazgym-Kutlug exhaled slowly, almost soundlessly, and shifted his gaze to Aybars-Kutaga and Baga-Buki. They remained silent, but their silence was not empty. It carried weight - like a taut bowstring, ready to release an arrow.


    A dull sound rang out nearby - metal sliding over leather as one of the warriors checked the straps of his armor. Another rider, adjusting his saddle, muttered a few short words to a groom. The voices were low, but there was no idle chatter in them.


    Near the great tent, the warriors stood like stakes driven into the earth. They did not move, yet something invisible hung in the air - not fear, but an expectation akin to the stillness before a storm. No one rushed the khan. Everyone knew: his first step beyond the yurt would decide more than a dozen battles.


    Closest to the yurt stood his warriors - the ones who had known before sunrise whom they would serve. Not the former guard of Kara-Buran, whose loyalty still hung in question, but those who had marched and fought beside Tukal, who had sworn fealty not yesterday, but long before he took the khan''s saddle.


    They were not two hundred, nor even a thousand - under his banners, two thousand riders had already gathered. Not the Horde''s elite, but those who had already chosen their fate.


    Riders who had followed him on distant raids, men who knew the meaning of loyalty when there was no throne at their backs, only the wind of conquest ahead. Among them were the warriors of Targul - eight hundred horsemen who called him their leader, though they had never doubted who their true khan was.


    They were not merely guarding the tent - they stood for their ruler.


    Each of them understood that if blood was to be spilled, it would happen today. They did not glance at one another, yet each caught the slightest movements of his neighbors in his peripheral vision - who tightened their grip on a saber, who shifted a lance in hand. They stood still, but beneath that stillness lived a predator''s instinct - to wait and strike first if the steppe chose to change its master.


    The night had not been quiet. There had been no attack, but the darkness carried something else - a ritual that bound power just as surely as the blood spilled in the arena.


    The warriors remained motionless, yet the most perceptive among them could still smell the heavy, dense air of the khan''s yurt - thick, rich, alive. Someone clenched their reins tighter, the leather stretching with a faint creak. Another ran a finger along his saber''s hilt for the third time, as if ensuring that everything was in place, that the steel had not lost its loyalty.


    They did not speak of the night, yet it still lived within them. Some felt it in the tension of their jaws, others in their clenched fists. The wind did not carry away its traces - it only wove them deeper into skin, breath, and blood.


    While half the Horde slept, the other half listened.


    From the khan''s yurt, sounds had drifted that even the night itself seemed to hold its breath for - ragged cries, the dull smack of palms against flesh, heavy breathing that could not be mistaken for anything else. There was no doubt - the khan''s three women had not merely fulfilled their duty. They had accepted his power, taking it into themselves in both body and fate.


    The warriors standing guard did not exchange glances, did not smirk - this was not a spectacle for amusement. This was a ritual, a seal set upon their ruler''s bloodline.


    Now, no one could say that he had not taken what was his.


    Targul-Arystan ran his tongue over his teeth, casting an unnoticed glance along the ranks. The guards stood firm, but he caught subtle details - too many glances toward the yurt, fingers gripping hilts too tightly. They were ready, but the Horde''s silence today felt tense. Like the calm before a storm.


    - Look, Sargul, your riders are sharpening their swords again. Do they fear the first gust of wind will blunt them? - he remarked quietly.


    Sargul-Tengiz, Uru-Bek, commander of two hundred horsemen, sat on the ground, dusting his knife blade with sand. He did not answer at once, merely flipped the blade in his palm, as if weighing not the metal, but the blood soon to be spilled upon it.


    - A sharp knife does not need a second strike if it hits true, - he finally said, turning the blade again. - But honor... it dulls before the first


    Targul smirked, but something flickered in his gaze. They both knew honor was fickle. Today, you swear an oath. Tomorrow, you are cut down. The day after, your warriors swear to a new khan, wiping their swords clean on your dead body.


    - You speak like a shaman who''s lost his drum, - Targul chuckled, crossing his arms. - Yesterday, you stood beside him. Today, you stand a little apart. Tomorrow, will you step back entirely?


    Sargul ran his palm along the blade, brushing off the dust.


    - Yesterday, I stood beside the victor. Today, I watch to see if he remains one tomorrow


    Targul frowned but did not respond immediately. Sargul held his gaze.


    - Loyalty is not tested in oaths, but in blood, - he said quietly. - And that test is yet to come


    A little farther away, leaning on a spear, stood Baichora-Buri, the Blood Executioner of the Horde. His 250 horsemen did not speak, did not argue - only the sharp whisper of whetstones against steel filled the air, dry and shrill, like a distant death rattle.


    They were not merely guards - they were the shadow of his wrath. And each man knew that Baichora kept only warriors who could kill. Their faces were unreadable, but the air around them was tense, thick with the scent of blood before battle.


    - Baichora, your men lick their lips more than raiders before dividing the spoils, - Sargul noted, shaking the dust from his knife. - Are they waiting for a feast, or do you already know who''ll be thrown into the pot first?


    - I don''t eat carrion, - Baichora replied lazily. - Only fresh meat. And only what I kill myself


    Sargul flipped the blade in his hand and smirked.


    - You speak as if you already know who will be first


    - I know that the steppe does not tolerate the weak, - Baichora said evenly. - And who is fated to fall¡­ will not be decided by the khan alone


    He tilted his head slightly, gazing at the distant tents where not all had yet decided whether to accept their new ruler.


    - Yesterday, blood was spilled by those who sought to claim the khan''s saddle. Today, it will be the blood of those who refuse to kneel. Or perhaps¡­ those who pretend to kneel, - he murmured.


    On the edge of the shadows, Sagai-Oglan, the Crooked Wolf, shifted lazily from foot to foot. He squinted, as if the sun stung his eyes, but he was not looking at the sky - his gaze was fixed on Baichora and Sargul. There was no fear in his eyes - only curiosity. The kind a beast has when sizing up another pack, deciding whether to join or tear out a throat.


    - Like dogs before a fight, - he muttered, cracking his neck as if preparing for a brawl.


    - You mean us, or yourself? - Baichora didn''t even turn his head.


    Sagai-Oglan smirked slightly - slowly, as if tasting his own words. There was no humor in that smile, only something else: a hint of challenge, or perhaps anticipation. He tilted his head slightly, like a wolf debating whether to step forward or wait.


    - I am no crow, waiting for the steppe to deliver me the dead. I am no jackal, whining at another''s fire. I am a wolf. And I know when the master of the meat begins to smell like blood himself


    Sargul cast him a brief glance.


    - You''ve always been too blunt, Sagai


    - And you''ve always been too cautious. But who lives longer - the one who runs first, or the one who never takes an extra step?


    - The one who calculates his steps


    They fell silent, but the silence was not empty.


    Sargul lazily ran his finger along the blade, as if testing its sharpness. Baichora tilted his head slightly, as if listening to foreign thoughts. And Sagai¡­ Sagai simply watched. For a long time. Too long. Then he let out a hoarse laugh.


    This time, no one joined him.


    The silence fell between them, like the shadow of a raised blade. Their old game had no rules. Only stakes. And today, someone would inevitably lose. The silence did not last long.


    The warriors moved again, like the steppe wind shifting direction. Someone pulled on the reins, someone tightened their grip on their saber, and someone only now realized that the night had ended, and something new had begun.


    And beyond the thin walls of the yurt, another ritual had begun.


    Tukal slowly exhaled, feeling the weight of the morning. The night had seeped into his body - not only through the heat of the women but through the knowledge that this had been the final trial before power. He shifted his gaze to the Bunchuk.


    That symbol of the khans stood in his yurt now, among the armor and weapons. But yesterday, it had not been there.


    A memory flashed sharply - the cold of the morning air, the first rays of the sun, the slow rhythm of his heart before battle.


    Yesterday morning, the steppe had accepted the blood of his brothers.


    The early sun had not yet reached its zenith, but already it scorched the sand, drying the moisture. Blood on the arena darkened, hardening under the morning heat.


    Tukal, standing over the fallen bodies, knew that his victory was not a matter of strength, nor luck. It was the law of the steppe, as ancient as the earth itself.


    Five against one.


    They had thought such numbers would crush him. But the steppe chooses the strongest.


    In the Horde, duels were always fought one-on-one. But this had not been a duel. It had been a judgment.


    Five blades. Five enemies. Five fates. But the spirits had chosen only one.


    And he remained standing.


    When the last sword cut through the air, when the final breath escaped dying lips, the steppe itself seemed to hold still. Horses stopped tossing their heads, as if they, too, waited to see who would exhale first after the carnage.


    A single moment - and then the first strike of a sword against a shield rang out, like a raindrop before a storm. The second. The third. And then thunder rolled over the arena - the roar of voices, the clash of steel, the pounding of hooves kicking up dust.


    Someone shouted:


    - Tukal!


    And the name was carried across the Horde like a battle cry.


    Young riders galloped along the edge of the arena, raising their spears high.


    Women standing by their tents sang songs laced with sorrow. Some threw embroidered scarves - a symbol of submission - while others pressed their lips together in silence, gazing at Tukal.


    - Too bloody a khan, - someone whispered.


    - Strong as the ancestors! - another voice overpowered it.


    The elders exchanged glances. A murmur passed among them, but none spoke aloud.


    - This day will be remembered in the steppe! - a warrior shouted.


    - Tukal will lead us to conquest! - the young riders echoed.


    The crowd roared again.


    And yet, one man still had not spoken.


    Kara-Buran, the old khan, sat on the raised platform by the arena.


    He had watched it all unfold. Had seen the blood soaking into the sand. Had heard the breath of the Horde blending with the wind. Had witnessed his son standing alone - while his brothers would never rise again.


    This moment marked the end of one era and the beginning of another.


    The crowd fell silent.


    Those who had just been shouting Tukal''s name suddenly stopped, as if their throats had tightened.


    Even the wind, which had been sweeping over the arena, stilled for an instant, as if it, too, was waiting.


    Khan Kara-Buran did not leap to his feet, did not rush forward - he rose slowly, but with weight, like an old beast that had lain in the sun too long but still remembered how to tear flesh.


    His fingers curled; his knuckles cracked slightly as he gripped the hilt of the dagger at his belt - but he did not draw it.


    He stood, as if allowing the earth to recognize his new weight, and then he stepped forward.


    He moved unhurriedly but inexorably, like a river eroding a shore.


    There was a heaviness in his stride, like the blows of a hammer not forged by men, but by the steppe itself. That rhythm did not just command those around him - it made them witnesses to the inevitable.


    Tukal did not move.


    He stood as a stone in the steppe stands before a storm - neither bowing his head nor stepping forward, but also not stepping back.


    Kara-Buran descended, and that step shattered the silence. The warriors parted, giving way, but not with their backs - they stepped aside, continuing to watch. People held their breath, their gazes lowered. Even the horses stood still, sensing that something greater than just a transfer of power was being decided.


    The batyrs bowed their heads, the elders turned away, and those who, just a moment ago, had been shouting the new khan''s name suddenly fell silent, as if the air had grown too thick for words.


    He passed through the ranks of the Horde, looking at no one. Only at the one who remained standing.


    The sand of the arena was soaked in blood. In pools of crimson filth, boots stuck, arrows jutted out like remnants of a failed future. Abandoned swords gleamed in the dust like forgotten oaths. The wind swayed the broken shafts of spears, as if the steppe itself were trying to read the signs left by the fallen.


    And now, everyone was looking only at him.


    He stepped forward, and the steppe seemed to hold its breath. His fingers slid to his buckle, and with one confident motion, he unfastened his belt. The ancient, darkened leather slipped from his hips, and the belt fell, striking the ground with a dull, heavy sound.


    The sand trembled, as if absorbing its weight. That sound was not just the fall of an object. It was the seal of fate.


    - Pick it up. If you know how to bear it


    Tukal took a step forward and leaned down.


    A pause.


    - No. - Kara-Buran''s voice was quiet, but that only made it heavier. - Not with your hand


    Tukal understood what had to be done.


    A thing can be lifted with hands. But power - it is not the weight of metal that makes it heavy. It is the weight of those who bow beneath it.


    He froze, eyeing the belt lying on the ground, like a predator assessing its prey. Slowly, he lifted the toe of his boot, hooked the edge of the darkened leather, and jerked it upward.


    The silver buckles flashed in the sunlight, like a wolf''s eyes before a strike. The belt soared, tearing free from the dust, the ancient leather snapping through the air with a dry crack. For a moment, it seemed as if it sought his hand of its own will, like a blade that recognizes its master.


    Tukal caught it effortlessly, without hesitation, and fastened it around his waist, securing not only the buckle but the right that no one could challenge now.


    At first - silence, like before a storm.


    Then a strike - heavy, thunderous, as if lightning had torn through the sky. Then another. And another. Steel rang, hearts thundered in unison with the blows. The roar of the Horde surged like flame, carrying a single name:


    - Tukal!


    His name rolled over the crowd, rising above the dust, above the very sky.


    A few men stood apart, not chanting Tukal''s name. They said nothing, but their eyes¡­ their eyes remembered.


    Before the roar of the Horde had fully faded, a rider emerged from the khan''s tents. His horse moved steadily, unhurriedly, but no one in the crowd dared step in his path.


    In his hands was the staff of the Bunchuk - not just a banner, but a symbol of power, passed from khan to khan.


    He approached, halted at the edge of the arena, and dismounted without a word.


    This was no ordinary warrior.


    This was Kara-Buran''s standard-bearer - the one who had carried the Bunchuk at the head of the army for years, who had held it high in battle so the Horde knew whom to follow. Now, his hand no longer had the right to touch the staff.


    The standard-bearer stopped before Kara-Buran without speaking. His hand, gripping the staff, did not tremble, but in his gaze lingered the last shadow of loyalty.


    Kara-Buran slowly reached out, but did not immediately grasp the staff. His fingers brushed over the darkened wood, as if reading the memories it held. And then, without hesitation, he took it.


    Only now did he step toward Tukal.


    The black staff, marked by time, was smooth where thousands of hands had gripped it and rough where it had been weathered by the winds of the steppe. The horsehair tassel at its peak trembled, as if it still remembered how banners had once fluttered when the Horde rode to war.


    He held it not as an object - but as a destiny.


    - The belt gives you the right. But this gives you power. Take it. Now, this is your standard


    Tukal did not rush. He raised his eyes - his father''s gaze held no doubt, only the relentless march of the steppe.


    Tukal did not immediately reach out his hand.


    He looked at the Bunchuk, but he saw in it not just a staff, but woven fates - the footsteps of thousands of warriors who had carried it before him. He saw how this symbol of power had swayed in the dust of great conquests, heard how its name had been shouted by those who followed the previous khan - and by those who had perished after turning away from him.


    He knew that if his fingers trembled, the Horde would remember.


    He extended his hand, and the staff was cold as morning frost, heavy as the footsteps of his ancestors.


    When his palm closed around it, he felt as if he were not holding wood, but the very blood of the steppe, its battles, its conquests. The Bunchuk trembled, the horsehair whip lashing the air, as if it, too, knew - it now belonged to Tukal.


    The air froze. Even the fires seemed to stop flickering. No one moved, no one breathed. Only the breath of hundreds of men mingled with the wind. Everyone watched - would his fingers falter, would his grip waver? But he held the staff as if it had always been his. And then the tension snapped, like a bowstring releasing an arrow.


    Someone from deep within the Horde cried out:


    - Tukal! Khan! - the voice, hoarse like a battle cry, shattered the silence.


    In the same instant, the cry was taken up by hundreds, and the roar of the Horde surged over the steppe, like a storm breaking free from its chains.


    The shaman stepped forward. His shadow swayed in the glow of the fire, stretching long, as if the very air bowed before the new khan. Without the blessing of the spirits, even the strongest man was merely a man.


    - The spirits of the ancestors have accepted the new khan!


    The shaman stepped closer. His eyes, darkened in the flickering flames, did not look at Tukal''s face, but deep into him - as if he saw not just a man, but the path he was destined to walk. He bent slowly, lifted a bowl of blood, and in that instant, the fire cracked, sending a crimson tongue of flame into the sky.


    His fingers sank into the thick, warm liquid, and he drew a bloody line on Tukal''s forehead. At that very moment, the air seemed to thicken, becoming heavy, as if the steppe itself had held its breath. The warriors, even those who did not believe in spirits, felt that this was not just a ritual. This was recognition. Not by people. Not by the elders. But by the steppe itself.


    - Now you are not just a khan. Now the Steppe will not walk ahead of you - it will walk behind you. Now your voice is the voice of the wind that lifts the dust beneath the hooves. Now you are Will and Storm


    Kara-Buran nodded. Now he could speak.


    - Five sons were scorched by the sun, but only one remained standing. Five voices cried out for power, but the steppe heard only one. They are carrion, and you are the storm. And now the Horde is yours


    He said it without solemnity. Like a law that could not be disputed.


    The elders held on for a moment longer, as if clinging to the past. But then one - gray-haired, with wrinkles crossing his face like the traces of past storms - slowly bowed his head. Another followed. And then all of them. One by one, like waves obeying the wind, they accepted Tukal.


    Now no one argued.


    But he could not yet rule. The passing of the belt and the banner signified recognition of his strength, but not the final acceptance of his power.


    Only when the sun set beyond the steppe and the evening ritual of summoning the spirits began, when the shamans made their sacrifices and the Great Ancestor spoke through the smoke of the fires - only then would he truly become khan. For now, he was merely a warrior who had won a victory, but not yet the one before whom the steppe itself would bow.


    By nightfall, the Horde had gathered at the sacred fire. During the day, the steppe had roared with cries, swords had clashed, the wind had carried the dust of battle. Now everything was different.


    The warriors were silent, not crossing their arms, not shifting their stance - as if the very earth demanded stillness from them. The women stood behind, wrapped in heavy fabrics, but the night was already creeping in with its cold. Some pulled their cloaks tighter, drew their hoods over their heads. Even the warriors occasionally moved their shoulders imperceptibly, as if the steppe wind had found its way beneath their chainmail.


    Clouds of breath escaped from their mouths. In the firelight, they resembled souls leaving bodies. Some pressed them to their lips - not as a prayer, not out of fear, but as a sign of luck or farewell. Even the horses in the herds had ceased tossing their heads, as if they, too, felt that this night did not tolerate unnecessary sounds.


    In the center, before the great fire, stood Tukal. Before him, on the ground, lay the symbols of power: the Bunchuk with its darkened shaft, a belt with silver buckles, the iron helmet of his lineage. They lay in the dust, as if they had yet to choose to whom they belonged.


    Kara-Buran stood beside him, unmoving, not looking around. He was no longer khan. Tonight, he was merely the one who was giving away what he had once taken.


    The shamans surrounded the fire. Their shadows wavered on the sand, stretching into long, indistinct figures. Dark stains marked their skin - symbols drawn in blood, fat, and ash. Some held dried branches, others - bones ground into powder.


    The eldest shaman raised his hands. The wind stirred his gray braids, and his face, etched with wrinkles, flared in the fire''s glow.


    - Tonight the steppe watches, - his voice was hoarse, old, like the earth itself. - Tonight the spirits rise


    He slowly ran his hand along the shaft of the Banner, touching it with his fingers as if feeling the fabric of time. His lips moved, but his words were not meant for the living.


    A second shaman lifted a bowl of blood.


    - Without blood, there is no path. Without spirit, there is no power


    He dipped his hand into the bowl, soaked a tuft of sheep''s wool in the thick, warm liquid. Then he brought it to the fire, and as the flame touched the blood, smoke curled upward, mixing with the night air.


    The shaman watched the wool burn, then murmured:


    - The spirits will accept if the scent reaches them


    The fire cracked, sending a shower of sparks into the sky, and the wind, as if responding, bent the flames toward Tukal.


    The tambourine struck once. A second time. A third. The sound was heavy, slow, like the heartbeat of the steppe itself.


    Temirkhan-Kulan, the shaman standing in the fire''s shadow, did not move.


    - The night speaks, - he suddenly whispered.


    Someone nearby shuddered.


    - The wind circles. The spirits do not sleep. They await a sign


    Tukal turned to him, but the shaman was already staring into the fire, seeing no one.


    - The wind moves in a circle, - he repeated, but his voice was quieter now, as if he spoke not to people but to those unseen.


    A fourth shaman stepped forward, holding a bowl of blood. It had not been spilled in battle but in ritual - this was the blood of a sacrificial ram, mixed with the ash of the sacred fire.


    The shaman raised a knife, ran the blade along Tukal''s forearm - not deep, but just enough for his blood to mix with the blood of the sacrifice. Drops trickled into the bowl, merging, intertwining into one.


    Then he dipped his fingers, sprinkled the shaft of the Bunchuk, and ran his palm along it, smearing the blood into the wood, pressing the power of the offering into it.


    The blood did not merely trickle - it was absorbed into the shaft, like the steppe drinking rain, sealing the khan''s bond with the spirits and his right to bear the banner of power.


    When the shaman raised his hand, giving Tukal the sign, the fire blazed brighter, and the wind tore at the edges of their robes, as if the spirits had accepted the offering.


    - Spirits of the ancestors, behold! - he said quietly.


    Tukal knew what was to come. He extended his hand, and as his fingers closed around the bowl, the metal burned with cold, as if drawing in the warmth of the living. He hesitated only for a moment, feeling the weight of the ritual, then dipped two fingers into the thick, dark blood.


    Slowly, with the precision of a warrior accustomed to feeling a blade on his skin, he drew a line across his forehead.


    The blood lay in a hot streak, mingling with sweat. In that moment, the air seemed to thicken, grow denser, more tense. The silence around them took on a palpable weight - as if the steppe itself had held its breath.


    And then the fire flared brighter, as if peering into Tukal''s face. The wind broke loose, surging in a gust that sent sand swirling into the air and set the edges of cloaks fluttering. Someone in the crowd gasped, feeling for the first time that something greater than just a ritual was unfolding.


    But this was only the first sign.


    The shamans raised their hands, and then the steppe truly responded. The wind struck with new force, tongues of flame leapt higher, shaping silhouettes in the darkness - shadows resembling ancient ancestors watching the ritual.


    Now their voices sounded in the roar of the fire, mingling with the crackling flames, and in the flickering light, shadows took form - faceless, ancient, as if the very spirits of the steppe had bowed to scrutinize Tukal.


    - The spirits have accepted the blood! - declared the eldest shaman. - The steppe sees! The Horde hears! The khan rises!


    The crowd, as one, fell to their knees. But not immediately.


    The seconds stretched like a drawn bowstring. The elders, the Batyrs, the leaders of the clans did not rush to bow - their eyes darted about, searching the fire for signs of fate. The wind blew harder, tugging at the edges of their robes, as if urging them toward a decision.


    And the first to bow his head was Elder Aibars-Kutaga, followed by Batyr Baga-Buki. One by one, like stones falling into a river, they acknowledged the new khan.


    Somewhere in the back, a voice whispered:


    - The spirits have accepted¡­ - but it quickly faded, swallowed by the crackling fire.


    Elder Subash-Kutlug of the Tengriut clan was the one who did not rush to bow before the new khan. He was the keeper of ancient laws, a man who believed that khans came and went, but the traditions of the steppe were eternal.


    His lips pressed tightly together, his gaze never leaving Tukal. Only when the last warrior lowered his head did he slowly, as if with great effort, do the same. But in his movement, there was no submission - only cold necessity.


    When the last elder finally inclined his head, silence fell over the Horde.


    The crowd did not move, did not breathe, as if the steppe itself was waiting for a sign.


    Tukal stepped forward, and the world seemed to contract into a single moment, a single motion. Everything that had come before - the battles, the blood, the cries - now felt distant, almost insignificant. He reached for the Bunchuk.


    And then he felt them.


    Not the crowd, not the elders - but those who stood behind him, unseen yet real. All who had ruled the Horde before him. All who had fought, died, and left this world, passing power to another. They did not speak, but their gazes weighed upon him heavier than chainmail, stronger than the wind on the blackest nights.


    Was he the one choosing the Bunchuk? Or was he, in this moment, being judged, measured, tested for the right to touch the shaft?


    For a moment, his fingers hesitated. Not from fear - but from understanding.


    But his fingers closed around the shaft with the same inevitability as a river following its course.


    A single heartbeat - and from the depths of the Horde, a voice rang out:


    - Tukal! Khan!


    The voice cut through the tension like an arrow. And then, like a storm, the roar erupted. The Horde thundered like a tempest, a surge of voices crashing into the night sky.


    The fire leapt high, as if the very air acknowledged the new order. The wind howled, sweeping dust from the earth, and for a moment, it seemed even the shadows of the ancestors bowed to this choice.


    Now he was not just a khan.


    He had become the spirit of the steppe. The shadow of the ancestors, the voice that would lead the Horde through war, blood, and conquest.


    But in the Horde, power is not a gift but a blade that cuts the one who grows weak. He had taken what was his, but the steppe does not tolerate stagnant victories - it demands that its master be tested again and again.


    Yesterday, he was recognized by the spirits and the people, but today he would once more be tested by iron, blood, and the merciless wind.


    Tukal-Bey rose, shaking off the remnants of fur from his shoulders as one sheds an old skin. The past night lived in the ashes of the fires, in the echo of voices, in the blood that was now nothing more than dark stains on the steppe earth.


    He cast one more glance at his wives - women nothing like those from his past world.


    Modern women often believed that power lay in words, in appearances, in how they were perceived by others. Here, however, power flowed in the blood, was felt in every movement, in every gaze. These women did not try to seem strong - they simply were.


    Aybike - born in the steppe, raised in the traditions of a lineage where honor was valued above life. She did not play at independence - she breathed it. In the world of the future, such women would be called cold, unapproachable. But in the Horde, this was not a mask but a natural state.


    Altyn-Tu - the daughter of a batyr, in whose veins ran the blood of riders. Her beauty was not delicate, but she possessed something that could not be bought - natural grace, strength, a body accustomed to the saddle and battle. Modern girls knew how to make themselves desirable, but she was desirable by nature, without pretense.


    Tumar - a girl whose beauty did not shout but commanded attention. In the future, she would be called dangerous because she never revealed her true intentions. Her smile always held more than it seemed, and in her voice lay a hint of power.


    These three were not just his wives. They did not pretend to be unattainable, but neither did they submit blindly. They could not be bought, conquered with words, or deceived by illusions. They accepted strength because they themselves were part of this world, where rule belonged not to those who spoke but to those who were heard.


    Tukal held his gaze on them briefly, as if imprinting them in his memory, then turned toward the exit.


    Beyond the thin walls of the yurt, dawn was already rising. It brought with it not just a new day but the first step on a path from which there was no turning back. Power was neither a reward nor a gift. It was a yoke that pressed upon the shoulders - and could only be removed along with one''s head.


    But fate had given him an advantage.


    He possessed something no one else in this world had - knowledge of the future.


    But that did not make him a ruler.


    He did not know how to change this world. He did not know how to make cities function without constant oversight. How to govern subjects as precisely as formations of warriors. How to turn fragmented lands into a mechanism that moved on its own. How to read chronicles, understand the intrigues of noble houses, forge alliances that outlived the rulers themselves.


    But he remembered the steppe. He knew how power was held here. How khans ruled not only with the sword but with words. How tribute was collected, how authority shifted from one clan to another, which laws kept the Horde from falling apart.


    Yet even with this knowledge - even with the memory of one who had grown up among nomadic chieftains - he did not know how to apply the technologies and methods of the future to reshape this world.


    But he knew something else.


    His grandfather spoke of the Great Khans, of their conquests, and how they turned strength into order. How power was upheld not only by the sword but by what followed in its wake. He spoke of ruling not by years but by generations. Of creating not just an empire but a system that outlived its creators.


    His grandfather loved to repeat the same words:


    - The sword is swift, but trade is eternal. You can take gold by force, but if you want it to flow to you on its own, think not of the spoils, but of the path they travel


    Tukal listened. He remembered how the greatest khans wielded gold as skillfully as armies. He knew that salt was more valuable than silver where it was scarce, that wine could be traded for furs, and that fine steel was worth more than ten horses.


    He knew that khans did not merely take - they directed wealth, turning tribute into power. They did not hoard gold in chests but set it in motion: acquiring the finest blacksmiths, hiring the most seasoned warriors, filling their stables with thousands of foreign horses.


    But all of this worked only when no one dared to say "no" to the khan.


    To control wealth, one needed strength. But for power to outlast the blade in one''s hand - strength alone was not enough.


    He had seen how it worked in the Horde. Power rested with those who could seize it, but it rarely outlived those who wielded it. Today you were khan - tomorrow you were a corpse, and your enemies feasted at your table.


    But power that relied on a single man was not power - it was luck. And the wind of history did not remember the lucky. It only left behind those who built something greater than themselves.


    The sword grants a throne, but it does not make it yours. One day is a victory. One year is a struggle. One lifetime is too short if, after you, nothing remains but ashes and bones.


    Power that lives through one man is already dead the day he falls from his horse.


    A conqueror may subjugate the steppe, but if his rule rests only on the edge of a sword, it will fall the moment the blade grows dull.


    Empires are not born from slaughter. They are forged through laws, order, and the gold that flows along trade routes. They are upheld not only by riders but by cities - not ruined, but made to serve.


    Genghis Khan built an empire, but not with blood and swords alone. He gave the Yassa - a code of laws that bound not only people but the steppe itself. Without it, the Mongols would have remained nothing more than a band of riders, not a people before whom the world bowed.


    He did not merely conquer - he built. Under his rule, ancient tribes became a single whole, and the path of war became more than just plunder; it became an order embedded into the conquered lands.


    But laws had to outlive the khan himself. Without them, a state stood like a yurt without poles - seemingly intact, but empty within.


    Gold left unused turned warriors into mere raiders. Trade routes emptied when merchants no longer felt safe. Each new khan, instead of ruling, had to start from nothing - gathering the Horde, spilling blood, reforging order that crumbled with the last strike of his predecessor''s sword.


    He could not repeat their mistakes.


    The Mongols had conquered half the world, but their state did not collapse overnight. They wove themselves into cities, into roads, into laws. ?gedei, the son of Genghis Khan, did not only wage war - he built. He developed the postal system, established trade routes, appointed advisors from the conquered peoples.


    Under him, Mongol rule became a system, not just military plunder. His reign proved that an empire could be upheld not only by sabers but by administrators - not only by fear but by order.


    But the khans who followed him forgot that power was more than strength. They tore the empire apart with wars against each other, not their enemies. The once-unified uluses scattered like pieces of armor falling apart. Conquests continued, but the Horde was losing not cities, but the connections between them.


    Those who knew how to rule still managed to hold their lands. The great Golden Horde did not fall immediately - its throne endured for generations. The Mongols became not just conquerors but masters of these lands.


    They supported local elites, appointed officials, collected taxes. They did not only take - they governed. The great Mughals ruled India for centuries. Even when the Horde''s grip on Rus'' weakened, its legacy lived on in laws, in tax collection, in the very structure of states.


    But when the strong hand weakened, everything crumbled.


    Tukal knew that power built only on fear was like a horse that obeyed as long as it felt steel in its teeth. But the moment the rider''s grip slackened, it would throw him to the ground.


    He could not repeat that mistake.


    He needed a power that would not vanish with his death.


    Not just conquest - order.


    Where other khans were content with raids and plunder, he saw a mechanism. He did not merely want to squeeze the steppe in his fist - he wanted that fist to remain clenched even after him. He had no intention of being just another khan whose name would be washed away by time.


    And in this, there was no doubt.


    Because he was not just Tukal.


    The memory of another world flowed through his veins, seeping into his blood like water into the dry steppe. Timur had died, but he had not disappeared. They did not battle for dominance within his mind - they had merged.


    Timur knew that even the strongest khan was not eternal. That a Horde living only by war would die when there was nothing left to plunder. Tukal knew what power was. He felt it like a drawn bowstring, like the steel of a sword in his grip.


    Now that knowledge had become one.


    What had been instinct for Tukal was calculation for Timur. What Timur saw as history, Tukal saw as the present. They complemented each other until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.


    Now, they were one.


    And this was not merely a dream of a great state - it was the first step toward understanding how to hold power. He did not yet have all the answers, but he already saw further than the others.


    To those around him, he remained the same ruthless and predatory khan, but within him, a new logic was taking shape: not just to conquer, but to secure what had been conquered. Not just to rule, but to build an order that would outlive him.


    He did not merely crave greatness.


    He knew how to achieve it.


    He remembered his grandfather again - the only one who believed not only in the power of the sword but in the power of blood.


    - The blood of Genghis flows in our veins, - the old man would say, tossing dry grass into the fire. - But he himself was not blood - he was a storm. It cannot be inherited - it must be raised anew


    His grandfather could speak for hours - not of legends, not of heroic feats, but of the decisions that made Genghis Khan the ruler of the world. Of the Yassa, which bound the empire tighter than chains. Of the decimal system of the "Tumens," which turned the Horde into a mechanism where everyone knew their place. Of the postal stations, the "Yam," which connected the conquered lands more securely than any wall.


    But it was not only Genghis Khan who built empires.


    Timur listened as his grandfather, half-closing his eyes, spoke of the rulers who came after.


    - Batu could have simply burned Rus, - he said. - But why cut down a tree when you can make it bear fruit? The Rus'' princes gathered tribute themselves, assembled troops themselves, fed the Horde themselves. They fought for the khan''s favor, quarreled, bowed, brought gifts. The Horde did not even rule them - they ruled themselves in its interests


    - And ?gedei? He knew that a steppe warrior could not sit on a throne in a stone city. So he gave power over paper to those who knew how to use it. The Chinese, the Persians, the Uighurs - they wrote the laws that brought gold to the Horde. He did not allow his state to live by war alone. He turned it into a mechanism that fed itself


    - And M?ngke? - Timur only frowned then, not understanding why any of this mattered.


    - M?ngke knew that a single sword could not hold the throne. So he wove the threads of power instead of tearing them. His wars did not only conquer - they married noble daughters. He raised some princes and cast down others. The world is ruled not by blades but by those who know how to wield them


    - Conquering is easy, - his grandfather said. - Holding is harder


    But laws alone were not enough. Power could not rely only on those who wrote decrees - it depended on those who shed blood for it.


    - Timur-Leng did not simply win - he broke his enemies until they fought for him. If a city resisted, he built towers of skulls from its people. If it surrendered, its warriors joined his army. Because they knew: there was no other road left for them


    - Bayezid was the first to create an army that served not a clan but him alone. His soldiers lived by his will. Their families depended on his pay. They could not betray him - because without him, they were nothing


    His grandfather sighed, tossing dry branches into the fire.


    - Conquests mean nothing if tomorrow you have no strength left to defend them. You need more. You need to rule


    And he continued. About the Mamluks - warriors without lineage, who served only the sultan. About the Ottomans, who took the children of their enemies and turned them into soldiers who knew no other life. About the Chinese, who built a state where the throne depended on officials, and the officials on the throne - so that if one fell, the system endured.


    - They were all different, but they all had one thing in common: an order that outlived them


    When his grandfather spoke, Timur usually remained silent. Sometimes, he wanted to interrupt, to say that the world had changed, that power was held differently now. But each time, he stopped himself.


    He frowned when he heard about Batu - could he really have made his enemies gather tribute for him?


    He winced when M?ngke was mentioned - how could one trust those who were enemies just yesterday?


    But when his grandfather spoke of Timur-Leng, of cities that surrendered before the battle even began, of armies that fought for the one who had broken them - he caught himself listening differently. Not as a skeptic, but as a student. And yet, he still had one question.


    - What does it matter how they fought centuries ago?


    But now, he stood where they once stood.


    The first day. The first step, after which there would be no turning back.


    Power was not just an honor, not just an opportunity - it was a burden that no one could carry forever.


    He saw that the sword could conquer the steppe, but it could not hold it. That power was not only fear but also an order that would become invisible chains binding all who lived under his rule. That gold did not only buy - it bound. That rules could subjugate no worse than the whip.


    He was not yet the one before whom men bowed without hesitation. He was not yet a name that was spoken not as a command, but as law itself.


    But the day had already begun.


    And from this step, there was only one road - forward.


    He did not seek to hold the throne.


    He sought to make it so that his name was not spoken - but obeyed.


    So that in every law, in every movement of the steppe, his will lived.


    So that when the wind roamed over the Horde, it did not carry his name.


    It exhaled it - as inevitability.


    ***


    I apologize for the delay. The situation in Odesa is difficult right now - problems with electricity, water, and many other things, especially in my area, where the damage is severe. Because of this, I won''t be able to work on the chapters at the same pace as before. I hope for your understanding.


    If you want to refresh your memory about the events surrounding Tukal, reread Chapter 12. Sometimes I go back to the earlier chapters myself - not just to avoid repetition, but to see how everything weaves together into a single story.


    And at the same time, I notice how my own style has changed. The path I''ve taken - from the first lines to the current chapters. This chapter turned out huge - 10,000+ words.


    Thank you to everyone who reads. If you have thoughts, impressions - leave comments. They help me a lot. When I work on a chapter, I reread it dozens of times, edit, improve - and eventually, I stop perceiving the text objectively.


    I constantly think: It can''t be perfect, I must have missed something. Even when everything is polished, the feeling that there''s an error somewhere doesn''t go away. Sometimes I don''t have the strength to reread it again, sometimes my head buzzes from the strain. So if you notice anything that could be improved - don''t hesitate to write.


    As you''ve probably realized, Tukal-Bey is the second main character. He follows in the footsteps of Genghis Khan and other great nomadic warlords. But he doesn''t have a mystical book containing all the knowledge needed to transform the Middle Ages like Alexander does.


    But he has something else.


    His inner code, his spirit, his unyielding nature, his wildness, his ability to adapt - all of this, combined with his grandfather''s stories and his understanding of the path of Genghis Khan and other great khans, will lead him to forge his own road.


    The road that will elevate him above all others has already opened before him, but don''t expect it to be straight or predictable.


    Tukal will have to walk it not as one who follows the greats, but as one who carves the path himself. He knew how empires were built, how rulers wielded power and won wars - but knowledge is only a shadow of real, practical experience.


    His Horde was not just one among many. It was among the strongest Kipchak Hordes - formidable, hardened by campaigns, accustomed not to waiting for fortune but to seizing it by force. In the steppe, leaders came and went, but men like him were never forgotten.


    It was now the year 1054. A time when the Kipchaks were pushing back the Pechenegs, when the lands of Rus'' had yet to realize that one day they would bow before the Hordes, when the Steppe was boiling in a hidden struggle. And among all the clans and tribes, among all the warriors and elders, his Horde had already become the force that shaped destinies.


    But even the strongest fell if their power rested only on steel. And Tukal knew - if he wanted to rule not for a year, but for a generation, his name had to become not just a storm, but law itself.

 Chapter 26. Sword, Banner, Horse

    While Alexander was rallying loyal senior boyars to his side and ensuring readiness for the coronation, Tukal, on his first day, had to either subjugate or destroy all those who refused to recognize his power.


    The law of the steppe knew no mercy: submit or die.


    In the lands of Rus'', a prince became a ruler because he was born into the right family. In Byzantium and the Holy Roman Empire, power was granted by a crown - a gleaming diadem consecrated by the church.


    But in the steppe, there was no right of blood - only the right of strength.


    The one who could hold the Horde together became its master.


    Yet strength was never just in one man. To rule, a khan had to be recognized not only by the people but also by the noble clans - those whose blood traced back to ancient ancestors, whose names echoed in councils, whose horses were the first to charge into battle.


    If a future khan was weak, he was removed. If a warrior was strong, he could seize power even if he did not belong to the ruler''s house. But personal strength alone was not enough - the Horde could not simply be broken; it could only be made to follow.


    For that, one needed not only a saber but also the support of those who held the fate of the steppe in their hands - the nobility, the batyrs, the elders, and the commanders of the detachments. They could bow before the new khan, or they could drive a blade into his back.


    A khan became a khan not because he was recognized, but because no one dared to challenge him.


    Today, the steppe had not yet decided whose voice would echo in its winds - his or those who believed that power should remain with the old clans.


    Tukal-Bey was already standing, feeling the cold morning air seep through the gaps in the felt walls. Today, he was not just stepping out to his warriors - today, the steppe would truly recognize him.


    He dressed himself. A khan who could not don his own armor was unworthy of either a sword or power.


    First - a thin linen shirt, simple but sturdy, to keep the heavy armor from chafing his skin. Over it, he wore not a lamellar cuirass, but a chainmail coat crafted in steppe fashion - flexible, lightweight, reaching his knees, with loose sleeves so as not to hinder movement in battle. Over that - a battle tunic of thick leather, stitched with metal plates hidden inside - a protection that did not restrict movement in the saddle and could withstand saber blows.


    A woolen kaftan, restrained in ornamentation but deliberately expensive, covered his shoulders and chest. Over it lay a fur cloak of wolf pelt - not just a shield against the wind, but a symbol understood by all. In the steppe, they said: if a khan wears wolf fur, the spirit of the beast guides him on the path to power.


    His khan''s belt completed the image - a wide band of tanned leather adorned with silver plates engraved with ancient symbols of his horde. This belt did more than just fasten his clothing - it bore the weight of weapons and the very destiny of the Horde. Its leather, darkened by time, carried the marks of long journeys, while the silver reflected not only the light but also the history of those who had worn it before.


    On the belt hung a curved saber - not a "k?l??," but a blade like those wielded by the nomads of the Western steppe. Narrow, with a slight curve, perfectly balanced for a slashing strike from the saddle. The hilt was wrapped in rawhide, and the guard was simple, unadorned, but burned with symbols known only to his people. This was a sword not for display but for war.


    Beside it rested a short dagger - plain, without excessive decoration, but heavy with a sense of power. The hilt was made of smoothly polished bone, warm to the touch. There was no doubt - it knew whom to protect, for it had been consecrated by a shaman before battle.


    On the straps of the belt glistened amulets made of eagle claws and wolf teeth. To outsiders, they were mere ornaments; to those who understood steppe customs, they were a sign that this khan had risen above those who had taught him since childhood.


    He sat down, pulling on leather boots with upturned toes - soft for comfort in the saddle, but sturdy enough to withstand a long journey. No buckles, no unnecessary metal - only strong ties that could be undone in a single motion if he had to cross a river by swimming or race faster than the wind.


    Smoothing the edges of his boots, he ran his hand over his khan''s belt, feeling the cool metal of the silver plates beneath his fingers. This belt had been worn by khans before him. Now, it completed the circle.


    Above, at the other end of the yurt, lay the final symbol of his power.


    Tukal stepped forward, reached out his hand - and the standard staff settled into his palm, heavy, predatory, infused not only with metal and wood but with blood.


    He knew that every horde had its own symbol of power. Some flew banners over their camps, others topped their poles with silver spearheads, and some used the hides of beasts taken in battle instead of standards.


    From his grandfather''s stories, Timur remembered that in the eleventh century, there was no single sign for the steppe - each horde kept its own. But his warriors had always followed horse tails woven into bronze rings. They called it the Bunchuk.


    For now, it was only theirs. But "for now" did not mean forever.


    If he subdued the entire steppe, the Bunchuk would rise not just over his warriors, but over all the nomads. Then this standard would become not just the symbol of one Horde, but the banner before which all tribes would bow.


    Much earlier than history had demanded.


    For a moment, he hesitated. He looked at his hands - sinewy, marked with thin scars, accustomed to holding weapons. These hands now held not just a sword, but the fate of the entire Horde.


    Tukal did not rush. He stood, feeling the weight of his weapons and armor pressing down on his shoulders, as if the steppe itself were testing his strength. The belt pulled downward - not just with the weight of metal, but with the burden of expectation.


    He drew in a breath - cold, steeped in the dampness of the earth, the sweat of horses, and inevitability. The chill of steel mixed with the heat of blood, but his heart beat steadily. Everything had already been decided. He knew: the moment he stepped outside, they would bow their heads. Because there could be no other way.


    - The steppe waits. They wait. They already know who their khan is. There is only one step left


    Tukal-Bey threw back the felt curtain, and a sharp gust of cold wind burst into the yurt. It struck his face like the first challenge of the new day. The frost immediately crept under his clothes, sinking its sharp needles into his neck and wrists.


    He stepped forward, holding the Bunchuk in his hand - and the steppe froze, as if it had caught its breath in anticipation. A stillness hung in the air.


    Conversations ceased. One warrior, chewing a piece of horse meat, slowly stopped mid-bite. Another - lean, with a scar on his cheek - tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the wind, though his eyes held a hint of mockery. A young batyr ran his fingers over his belt, twisting it in his hands as if testing his own patience. They did not bow their heads, but each watched in his own way: some with respect, some with doubt, some with a secret hope that today would change their fate.


    The nomads did not blindly revere power - they waited.


    The silence did not carry submission - it carried a challenge. The Horde had seen him seize power, but now the steppe demanded more: could he hold it?


    Targul-Arystan stepped forward first. Slowly, but confidently - like a wolf sniffing the scent of blood on the wind. His dark, watchful eyes slid over Tukal with a lazy smirk. Not malicious, not contemptuous - testing. He was not looking at the khan, but at the man he had known for too long to bow his head out of habit.


    Stopping just short of him, he leaned slightly forward, as if listening to something invisible.


    - I thought that at least this night you would allow yourself some rest, but it seems a khan has no time to waste on sleep. Not just one, but all three at once? - There was no open laughter in his voice, but the corners of his lips twitched in a barely noticeable grin. He had no doubts about Tukal''s strength, yet there was still a note of surprise in his words. - A great khan, and strong as a stallion!


    Some raised their brows, a few chuckled, while one of the young batyrs slowly ran a finger over the hilt of his dagger, as if contemplating the limits of human endurance. But it wasn''t just about the feat itself.


    Many of those present had heard the night.


    After the evening ritual of becoming khan, Tukal-Bey had gone straight to his yurt, where his chief wife was already waiting for him. By their tradition, the khan had to spend the night with her, sealing his power not only with blood but also with the continuation of his lineage. Given his injuries, no one doubted that this would be the end of it. But the moment he stepped inside, Tukal ordered the other two wives to be brought as well - those who heard the command exchanged glances.


    Tension reigned around the campfires. No one dared to comment on the muffled thuds against the felt walls, the ragged breathing, the stifled cries coming from the yurt. The fabric of the tent trembled as if alive, the taut ropes creaked, and inside, at times muted, at times sharp, came the sound of a sudden intake of breath, a strangled moan, heavy breathing merging with the night wind.


    The Horde heard. The Horde remembered.


    Some snorted, shrugged, exchanged looks - strong man, young khan, it happens. But when it went on hour after hour, when the night did not subside but only grew stronger, smirks turned into realization. First amusement, then astonishment, and by dawn - a silent question no one dared to voice.


    - How?


    How could a man who had been wounded in the morning, who had stood firm throughout the day, not just complete the ritual and rest, but spend the night as if he had just returned from a victorious feast?


    Tukal had always been unlike the others.


    His body seemed forged by the steppe itself - strong, sinewy, enduring beyond limits. He was not massive like some warriors, but within him lay that steppe-born strength that could not be measured by the width of his shoulders.


    His bones were heavy, his muscles firm - not overly built, but honed for battle. An unyielding natural endurance allowed him to withstand blows that would have felled others. But even he was not invincible.


    Blood still pulsed in his fresh wounds. But his body, accustomed to pain since childhood, did not perceive it as weakness but as a part of life. He was not immortal, not made of iron - but while others wrestled with their own frailty, he kept moving forward.


    He had not only survived the battle but had taken three women that same night, not allowing himself a single moment of rest. It was not boasting, not stubbornness - it was his nature. When his blood boiled, he lived. When his body burned, he moved.


    And now he stood before them - firm, confident, with the same unshakable presence with which he had marched into battle the day before.


    The young batyr Aktai-Kutlug, who just yesterday had confidently bet on his death, now avoided the khan''s gaze. He stepped back into the depths of the crowd, as if hoping the steppe wind would erase his mistake. He was no fool - challenging him now meant throwing his life away. But there was no submission in his eyes, only a heavy realization of the inevitable.


    Someone in the crowd exhaled slowly. The elder bek Baisary-Kagan, who had survived more wars than the young warriors could remember, studied Tukal intently, as if weighing him not as a man, but as a sign of the times. He had seen khans fall - those who clung to power but could not hold it. He had seen the strong become weak when the steppe turned away from them.


    But this one would not fall.


    Not because he was lucky to seize power, but because he had taken it in such a way that it could no longer be taken from him. Yet even understanding this, Baisary-Kagan''s gaze remained different. There was no doubt in it - only the awareness of how quickly everything had changed.


    Bek Karysh-Buril stood motionless, as if the steppe had suddenly become foreign to him. Just yesterday, his lord had fought here - Sary-batyr, the man he had followed without question. Now he was gone.


    His fingers clenched around the hilt of his saber, his knuckles turning white - not from readiness for battle, but from the war still raging within him. His mind understood that power had passed to the strongest, that resistance was pointless. But his gut refused to accept it.


    And when Tukal''s voice broke the silence, Karysh''s fingers tightened even more.


    Tukal raised his gaze - calm, firm, unwavering. There was no doubt in his eyes, not even a shadow of a question - only the cold certainty of a man for whom this outcome had been the only possibility.


    His lips twitched into a smirk - not mocking, not insolent, but lazily predatory, as if he were merely reminding them of the obvious.


    - What, jealous?


    Targul smirked wider, shrugging like a man who had seen much but had still found something to be surprised by.


    - Jealousy? No. - He shook his head. - But one thing''s for sure: now no one in the Horde will doubt that you didn''t just take power - you seized it as a true khan should


    He squinted, appraising, as if seeing Tukal in a new light.


    - But here''s what''s strange... I thought a beast, once sated with blood, would finally rest. And you, it seems, have only been roused


    The warriors did not laugh, did not speak - but the air thickened, like before a storm. The joke had broken the first tension of the morning, but only for a moment.


    Into this silence came a new sound - heavy footsteps on the trampled earth.


    From behind the batyrs stepped Baga-Buka - broad-shouldered, thick-bearded, his boots crunching against the morning crust of frozen ground. He held the reins in his hands, and even before the horse emerged from behind the warriors, it was clear: this was no ordinary steed.


    It moved smoothly, economically, without unnecessary jerks - the way beasts walk when they have nothing to prove. A bay stallion with a powerful frame, strong legs, and a narrow head, his eyes intelligent, almost human. In his veins ran the blood of the Horde''s finest warhorses - the ones that survived the steppe blizzards, covered two distances instead of one, and did not fall until their rider''s heart ceased to beat.


    Such horses were not taken in raids and not bought for gold. They were marked as foals, raised in the best herds, protected, trained - prepared for warriors whose lives were worth more than hundreds of others. His ancestors had galloped under the banners of great commanders, his brothers were born for battle, and he was destined to become the pillar of a new khan.


    Baga-Buka halted, his heavy gaze sliding over the khan''s face. Without haste, he raised his hand, holding the reins, as if the invisible weight of this gesture could change the course of events.


    - Your horse, khan. He waits, as do we


    His voice was steady, but there was weight in his words. He was not merely fulfilling a duty - he, the father of Altyn-Tu, Tukal''s second wife, was publicly recognizing the new ruler. Or testing him.


    Baga-Buka slapped the stallion''s neck, and the horse tossed its head, pulling at the reins.


    - A smart horse. He can sense a khan''s hand. If the rider is weak, he''ll throw him off like a speck of dust from his mane. - He ran his palm over the leather of the reins, testing how they lay in his grip, then looked at Tukal with a long, measured gaze. - But you have nothing to fear, do you?


    There was no challenge in his voice, no open mockery, yet something more lay beneath the words - an invisible trial that required no response.


    Somewhere in the crowd, someone chuckled, but Tukal did not look away. He knew these were not mere words. A test did not always come in the form of a sword. Sometimes, it came as a question.


    Baga-Buka was not just a commander of the southern detachments. His fifteen-hundred-strong force was renowned for its iron discipline, and he respected only strength. He was one of the Horde''s strongest and most ruthless batyrs. He had not simply given his daughter to Tukal - he had placed his faith in him. Now he awaited an answer.


    Killing one''s rivals was one thing. Holding the steppe was another.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    - The only ones who should be afraid are those who try to stand in my way, - Tukal answered calmly, taking the reins.


    Baga-Buka did not move. In the same instant, his hand clamped onto Tukal''s wrist like iron.


    For a moment, the air hung heavy with tension.


    There was no threat in their gazes. Only a silent test.


    - Then show me you can hold the saddle, - Baga-Buka said, releasing his grip.


    He held Tukal''s gaze for a moment longer, then gave a short nod. Not low, not as a servant - but as a warrior acknowledging the strength of another.


    After the batyr''s words, Tukal did not answer immediately.


    He only looked at Baga-Buka, calmly, without hurry, like a man who had already said everything he needed to say and was now simply waiting for others to realize it.


    - You know I can hold the saddle


    For a moment, silence reigned.


    Baga-Buka snorted, inclining his head ever so slightly - not in submission, but in recognition of the truth. Then he simply stepped aside, no longer needing words.


    The wind stirred the horse''s mane, making the silver threads on the Bunchuk''s staff flare in the morning light.


    Tukal tightened his grip on the reins but did not rush to mount. The Bunchuk was still in his hands - heavy, adorned with the manes of warhorses that had known only wind and battle.


    He clenched the staff tighter, feeling the cool metal rings beneath his fingers. He had already proven that power was in his grasp - when he stepped out of the yurt, when he passed through the evaluating gazes of the Horde, when he took the horse''s reins. But one final step remained unchanged, the last act of asserting authority - the passing of the Bunchuk to the standard-bearer.


    This gesture required no words, yet it meant more than any oath.


    The khan holds the banner when he takes power. But when he affirms it - he passes it on.


    From this moment, the symbol of might no longer belonged to one man - it became the banner of the entire Horde. It would be raised over the battlefield, over councils, over those who doubted. As long as the Bunchuk stood high - the khan lived, the Horde was united.


    The steppe seemed to freeze. Neither wind nor horses disturbed the silence. Some warriors clenched their fingers around the hilts of their swords, others around their reins, as if in this moment, fate could be turned in any direction.


    Everyone knew what was coming. A name would now be spoken. By tradition, the khan had to pass the Bunchuk - the symbol of power - to the one who would become his standard-bearer.


    With this choice, the steppe would take its first step into a new world - one where blood meant less than strength, where the past could no longer dictate the future.


    No one dared to speak, no one moved. The choice of a standard-bearer was not just an honor - it was the khan''s mark of trust, capable of elevating a man or leaving him in the shadows. Some glances darted between the batyrs, while others stood still, as if even the steppe wind had frozen in anticipation.


    Tukal knew who he would choose. He saw in the crowd those whom others expected - young batyrs with great names, descendants of noble clans whose fathers had fought under Kara-Buran. Their grandfathers had sat in councils with great khans, their brothers had led raids, their blood was woven into the fate of the steppe.


    But his Horde would be different.


    Not one where power was passed by blood, where a khan''s son became khan merely because he bore the name, where strength was measured not by personal merit but by a lineage stretching back to ancient chiefs. He would raise it above that, forge a Horde where a man was valued not for who his ancestors were, but for what he could give to the Horde.


    His heir would not inherit power simply by birthright. He would receive only the right to prove himself worthy of keeping it. Just like all those who stood beside him. There would be no privileges granted at birth, no positions held by blood alone, but there would be something stronger than blood - a Trial.


    His Horde would be new. A world where men did not wait for inheritance but seized their fate with their own hands. Where those who rose were not the ones allowed to, but the ones who tore their place free.


    He slowly let his gaze pass over the faces - and in that moment, the steppe seemed to hold its breath. The air became thick, like on the hottest days when the sky presses down, silencing even the wind. No one moved - they waited. And in that stillness, there was more weight than in any words. Some longed to hear a familiar name, others were certain it would be theirs.


    And then Tukal spoke:


    - Jalal-Oglan


    The name rang out evenly, calmly - not like a conqueror''s cry, but like a challenge cast into the steppe.


    A few warriors exchanged glances. Some looked at Jalal, others at Tukal, as if expecting him to say more, but the khan remained silent. Some ran their fingers slowly over their sword hilts, as if testing their weight for this new day.


    Others dug their heels into the ground more firmly, like warriors who had decided to stand no matter what. Some merely watched - unblinking, neither approving nor resisting - but such gazes always carried more weight than words.


    The name struck Jalal like a gust of steppe wind - sharp, sudden, knocking the breath from his lungs. But it did not shake him. He only planted his feet more firmly into the earth, as if rooting himself to withstand the force that was about to crash down upon him.


    He did not waver. He made no sudden movement, no attempt to straighten up - but something inside him shifted, something that would no longer allow him to remain who he had been just a moment ago.


    War, steppe storms, blood, the dust of the roads - he had known all of it before. But now he faced something else, something unknown. He did not move, his expression did not change, but inside, everything had turned over.


    Tukal was looking straight at him.


    He was no heir to a noble lineage. He had no generations of warriors standing behind him. He was a man who had risen on his own - not by blood, not by name, but by carving his path step by step through battle, death, and the storms of the steppe.


    This was a moment after which one could no longer remain the same.


    Jalal held his breath for an instant - not from fear, but because at that moment, a new road opened before him like the edge of a cliff before a rider. Tukal''s gaze told him that stepping back was not an option.


    Only forward now.


    Now he had to prove himself worthy of this choice.


    Some batyrs exchanged glances. Some with approval, others with heavy silence. Someone clenched their teeth, someone else gave a barely perceptible shake of the head - accepting, but not agreeing.


    No one challenged the decision. But that did not mean all were satisfied.


    Jalal stepped forward. Not quickly - steadily. Each step sounded louder than it should have, each gaze piercing him heavier than metal. But he did not slow.


    He could feel the eyes upon him, cutting sharper than enemy spears.


    The blood-stained executioner of the Horde, Baichora-Buri, gave a barely noticeable nod, acknowledging the choice, but said nothing. He simply shifted slightly aside, clearing the path, though his heavy stare spoke:


    - Let''s see what you''re worth


    The elder bek, Kurban-Asar, stood with a stone face, but his fingers tightened subtly around the hilt of his saber. He did not look directly at Jalal, as if speaking more to himself than to anyone else, yet making sure those nearby could hear.


    - In the old days, the standard-bearer was not the one who stepped forward first, but the one who fell last on the battlefield, - his voice was quiet but weighty, steeped in years. - The old khans chose those who stood to the end, those who knew the true weight of the Bunchuk in battle


    He let his gaze pass over Jalal - not in challenge, but with the cold, straightforward judgment of the steppe.


    - And now, it seems, all it takes is to hear your name?


    He did not direct these words at the khan. He was not issuing a challenge. But in them lay something even the wisest warrior could not conceal - doubt.


    Tension thickened in the air.


    Jalal''s expression did not change, but for a moment, his jaw tensed. To answer would be to show that it had struck a nerve. But silence carried more weight.


    The Crooked Wolf, Sagay-Oglan, standing nearby, smirked, lazily flipping a dagger between his hands.


    - Well, then, let the wind test him, - he drawled, watching Jalal as if he truly expected the Bunchuk to slip from his grasp.


    Someone in the crowd snorted briefly, another shook their head. No one argued.


    Sargul, standing to the side, merely exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering between Tukal and Jalal.


    Baichora-Buri remained silent, but as Jalal passed him, he struck him briefly in the shoulder - not aggressively, but like testing the strength of armor.


    - Go already, - he said, turning away.


    Jalal finally stepped out of the crowd, and each of his footsteps echoed in the silence, as if the steppe itself was listening to who would become the standard-bearer. The crowd remained quiet, but it was not an indifferent silence - it was drawn tight like a bowstring. Some held their breath, others lowered their gaze, while some stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if trying to decipher what would come next.


    There was no fear or hesitation in his eyes - only a firm realization: from this moment on, he was rising higher. But this was not just an honor; it was a challenge to fate. He was no longer just a centurion.


    Now he was the khan''s hand - the one who would be the first to raise the Bunchuk over the army and carry Tukal''s authority to where it needed to be seen.


    He stopped before the khan. The silence thickened like the air before a storm.


    Tukal did not rush. He looked at Jalal, not weighing his strength, but what would come next. Passing the Bunchuk was not just about choosing a standard-bearer. It was a step that could not be undone.


    His gaze shifted to the banner, gripping the staff as if, in this moment, he was holding not just a symbol of power, but the Horde itself. The chill of metal, the weight of authority, the manes of warhorses, whose spirits, the shamans said, never abandoned the banner.


    Tukal lifted the Bunchuk slightly higher.


    The silence that fell over the Horde was not empty.


    Baga-Buka shifted his shoulders slightly, as if testing if his muscles had gone stiff, but his gaze remained locked on Tukal. He did not look at the Bunchuk, nor at Jalal - only at the one who held the banner. He did not care for rituals, but he cared for power. The question was simple: would this man hold what he had taken?


    - His hand didn''t waver, - he muttered quietly, almost to himself.


    Beside him, arms crossed over his chest, stood Turgul-Batyr, the commander of the Horde''s western wing. Tall, broad-shouldered, with streaks of gray in his thick dark hair, he resembled an ancient cliff, unmoving before the wind. He smirked, but there was no amusement in it.


    - Not yet, - he replied just as quietly, not looking away.


    His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fist. He had seen many khans. He had seen empires fall. And he knew that power was not just a banner - it was the people willing to die for it.


    A little ahead, as if separating himself from them, stood Jangar-Bulat, elder of the Uysun clan. Tall and gaunt, his face etched with deep wrinkles, he seemed carved from time rather than flesh. His gray beard flowed down to his chest, and in his eyes lay the abyss of years spent speaking with spirits. His lips moved, but his words were barely audible.


    Someone nearby instinctively tensed - there was something in his whisper, the kind of ancient words spoken over fires when omens were awaited.


    - The spirits of the steppe do not speak with voices, - he murmured at last, as if to himself. - They speak through the wind


    As if in response, the banner swayed.


    Tuktar-Baga, ruler of the Chala?r clan, standing slightly to the side, snorted. Of average height, with sinewy arms and a warrior''s thick neck, he looked younger than his years - the fire of life had not yet dimmed in him, and his voice carried the sharpness of a man used to settling matters with his fists.


    But a little farther back, in the shadow of the crowd, stood the widows of Tukal''s slain brothers.


    They said nothing, but their presence was as palpable as the cold of the steppe dawn. One bowed her head, as if already resigned to the new order. The other, on the contrary, stared straight ahead, her lips moving barely perceptibly. A prayer or a curse? No one knew.


    Beside them stood their fathers and brothers - rulers of clans who, just yesterday, might have hoped for the khan''s title themselves.


    Batyr Uran-Tash, old but tough like the dried roots of the steppe, kept his hands clasped behind his back. He did not look at the banner - only at Tukal, with the heavy gaze of a man who had lost, but had not yet decided if he was ready to accept defeat.


    Next to him, rocking slightly on his heels as if weighing every word, stood Kul-Magun, a ruler from the northern lands. His face remained unreadable, but his fingers kept brushing the hilt of his sword - not in threat, but reflexively, like a man who clung to steel when the future was uncertain.


    Tuktar-Baga glanced at them, then back at Tukal.


    - A good trick, old man, - he said lazily, shifting his gaze from the Bunchuk to Jangar-Bulat. - But spirits don''t lead raids. Living men do


    Jangar-Bulat did not respond, but his gaze grew heavier. Baga-Buka gave a short chuckle.


    - What''s wrong, Tuktar? Spirits aren''t enough for you either? - he asked, glancing at him sideways, assessing.


    Tuktar-Baga snorted, like a wolf refusing to be tamed.


    - I said men lead raids. As for who will lead them... I''m still listening


    Now there was no turning back.


    Jalal gave a short bow - not deep, not submissive, but the way warriors bowed to their leader.


    Tukal extended the Bunchuk with confidence. Not just a symbol of power, but the essence of rule itself, its core, its mark.


    Jalal reached out his hand, and the moment his fingers touched the staff, the air thickened, as if the weight of authority was passed not through words, but through steel and wood itself.


    Now it was no longer just a banner. Now it belonged to the Horde.


    - From this moment, you are my standard-bearer


    Tukal''s voice was steady, but there was more in it than just words.


    - You will carry my power as you carry your life


    Jalal knew the staff would be heavy, but in that moment, he felt not the weight of wood and metal - but the burden of every gaze fixed upon him. Hope. Doubt. A test. He did not feel it with his hands but with his skin.


    Jalal tightened his grip on the staff. His voice was quiet but clear, without a shadow of hesitation:


    - As long as I live, the banner will not fall. As long as I breathe, no foreign hand will touch it. As long as my blood flows, the khan''s power will be seen by all who look upon the Bunchuk


    His words did not sound like an empty vow but a solemn oath sworn before the steppe, before the Horde, before everyone who stood there.


    Now, this was not just a title.


    Now, it was his fate.


    And though he held only a staff in his hand, he knew he grasped more than that. From this moment, he bore something greater - the khan''s trust, the warriors'' honor, the very authority that was now woven into the strands of horsehair and the cold bronze rings.


    His trials would not begin on the battlefield but in everyday life. He had to be strong enough to bear the weight of the staff for hours. Fast enough to keep an enemy from tearing it from his grasp. Enduring enough to carry the banner through day and night if needed.


    But most of all - he could not waver. If the moment came when all others fell, he had to remain standing. If the khan was wounded, he had to raise the banner higher, giving the warriors hope. If the battle was lost, he had to be the last to leave the field, ensuring that no enemy hand would defile the sacred symbol of power.


    It had always been so.


    And now, as Jalal accepted the Bunchuk, he felt its weight - not only in his hand but in the responsibility that had settled upon his shoulders. Now he could not fall. He could not waver. He could not fail.


    Now he was the one who held the banner.


    Now he was the one who raised it when others fell.


    These moments stretched longer than they should have.


    The crowd remained still, but it was not silent agreement. Someone spat sharply into the dust. Another ran a hand over their scabbard, as if unconsciously checking that their weapon was still in place. A few warriors stole glances at the banner but quickly looked away, as if fearing that fate had already been sealed - and that any unnecessary movement might change it.


    Jalal gave a brief bow - not low, not servile, but the way a warrior bows to his leader.


    Then, without hesitation, he raised the Bunchuk.


    The staff settled into his grip with certainty, without a tremor. The weight did not drag him down - on the contrary, in that moment, the banner itself seemed to rise higher, as if absorbing the strength of the moment.


    The batyrs shifted almost imperceptibly. The wind stirred the banner, and for a fleeting instant, it seemed as though the steppe itself had accepted its new standard-bearer.


    Now he belonged to the Horde.


    And the Horde belonged to those who could hold its banner.


    Jalal held it high, unyielding, and in that moment, he stood beside Tukal - not as a centurion but as part of his power.


    - Give the Command, khan


    Tukal nodded, raising his chin slightly as he prepared to mount his horse. It was done. The ritual was complete, the authority affirmed. But in the last instant, something shifted. A nearly primal instinct, a hunter''s sense honed over years, whispered to him - this was not over.


    He slowly swept his gaze over the warriors.


    The crowd was stirring - some were already relaxing, others exchanging glances, weighing what had just happened. Some watched with approval, while others stood in cold silence, accepting the inevitable.


    But one gaze cut like a blade, remaining motionless, as if carved from stone.


    This man did not look away, did not bow his head, did not accept what had happened. There was no anger in his eyes, no flash of recklessness, no challenge, no fear - only a flawlessly measured decision.


    Tukal recognized him. Bahadur-Terkesh - the man who, just yesterday, had been trusted to protect the khan with his own life. The head of Khan Kara-Buran''s Personal Guard. The closest warrior to the ruler, the shield and sword, trampled into battle, soaked in blood, bound by an oath of loyalty.


    Now, he was the former head of the guard.


    Before him stood not a protector of the khan, but a man left without a master - yet not without pride.


    In the steppe, one could kill, take power, force submission. But one could not force acceptance. The others had acknowledged Tukal - silently, though with heaviness in their hearts.


    Bahadur, it seemed, had not.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who reads.


    Initially, I planned to write a single chapter, but I was advised not to overload the text with overly long chapters, as was the case with Chapter 25, and instead to break them into two or three parts if the plot allowed.


    That''s exactly what I did this time - instead of one 11,000-word chapter, I divided it into two 5,000-word chapters, maintaining a balance between the dynamics of events and the depth of the narrative.


    These three chapters - 25, 26, and 27 - serve as an introduction to Tukal''s story and his steppe, a world that will soon collide with Kievan Rus''. Now Alexander has not just a neighbor but a dangerous, powerful adversary whom he will have to reckon with sooner or later. I hope I have managed to show you the steppe world of the 11th century, its laws, its order, its harsh yet just nature. The steppe follows its own rules, far removed from those of Rus'', but the greater their differences, the more powerful their clash will be.

 Chapter 27. Blood and Power

    The silence, which had just begun to dissipate, thickened once more, hanging heavy between the warriors. The wind stirred the horsehair tails of the Bunchuk, but even it could not cut through the tension.


    Tukal turned slowly, without haste, without wasted motion, yet in that movement, there was more authority than in any shout or gesture. This was not just a turn - it was an answer, one that already held supremacy.


    Bahadur did not avert his gaze. His stare was direct, firm, devoid of fear - only silent defiance.


    Tukal lifted his chin slightly, looking at him with lazy, almost indifferent interest, and asked quietly:


    - What, do you have something to say?


    His voice was even, but steel was already in it.


    In the steppe, strength was respected - but even more so were those unafraid to speak their hearts. The others had accepted his power, whether with doubt or silent protest. But between them and Tukal, an invisible boundary still remained. In the steppe, power was not just taken - it had to be held.


    Bahadur-Terkesh continued to stare. In his eyes was only the cold clarity of a man for whom this day was his last.


    His world had collapsed yesterday morning, when Kara-Buran laid down his title before the Horde. Honor, duty, oath - everything he had served had been crushed by another''s will. His ruler, Kara-Buran, was still alive but had become a shadow of the past, while the one Bahadur was supposed to swear allegiance to next - Kara-Tash, the rightful heir - had fallen by Tukal''s hand.


    And there was nothing he could do about it.


    Tukal had killed all his brothers. Openly, before the entire Horde, without deception or cowardice. He had done what the strongest did - claimed his right, proved his strength, bent fate to his will. But for Bahadur, this was not a display of power - it was a sentence.


    He could have yielded. Could have looked up and seen his former comrades silently stepping aside, the guard accepting their new master. He could have stepped forward and sworn allegiance.


    Become a shadow in the new Horde. But then everything he had served would be trampled into the dust beneath the hooves of the khan''s horse. Then his life would not be worth even the ashes carried by the wind. But submission was the path of the living. And he was already dead.


    Kara-Tash''s death had not just deprived him of a master. It had erased the very meaning of his existence. He was not just a warrior - he was a shield. The one who was meant to stand between the blow and his oath.


    He had not stopped Tukal''s blade. He had not protected the khan, had not saved the heir. His hand had remained on the hilt of his sword when it was all over.


    If he had failed to protect - then he had no right to live.


    And if he no longer had a choice, then at least he could decide how he would leave. Not as the defeated. As a warrior.


    Tukal, meanwhile, waited. He was not angry - why waste anger on the weak, who could only stand and remain silent? He simply waited to see what Bahadur would do.


    Bahadur stood unmoving. His posture remained straight, his shoulders tense, but not from fear - rather, from the awareness that this moment would decide his fate.


    - I am loyal to Khan Kara-Buran and his house


    His voice was low, unwavering.


    - You killed your brothers, but I do not see a khan here. Only a murderer


    The air grew thick, heavy, as if steeped in blood.


    Someone tensed. Someone drew in a sharp breath, as if the scent of death was already in the air. The warriors did not look at each other, but each of them felt it - this was a turning point. Everyone knew that standing against the khan now was the same as sentencing oneself to death.


    No one spoke, no one moved. But the silence was no longer just silence. Another moment, and it would tear apart like a sail in a storm.


    Hearing Bahadur''s words, Tukal smiled - not sharply, not mockingly, but slowly, lazily, with that dangerous ease of a man who had already decided what to do with you.


    - You say you don''t see a khan? - His voice was light, almost amused. - But the steppe says otherwise


    He moved his hand slowly, gesturing toward the silent warriors, toward those who had already acknowledged his strength.


    - Or are you blind?


    Bahadur did not answer immediately, but not because he didn''t know what to say - because he had already made his decision. His gaze remained steady, unyielding, as if carved from stone. He knew how this would end. There was no turning back now, but he had made his choice long before this moment.


    - I am not blind, - he finally said.


    He took a step forward and lifted his gaze slightly.


    - I just see something different than you


    Tukal tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious.


    And what is it that you see?


    Bahadur exhaled slowly, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff. His fingers clenched into a fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white, as if holding onto something he could not let go of.


    - I see fear. - His gaze swept over the faces of the silent warriors. - They do not look at you, Tukal. They look down. As if waiting for the storm to pass


    Tukal''s lips twitched into a slow, lazy smirk - the kind that made the blood of wise men run cold and fools reach for their knives.


    - And you think fear is nothing? Fear makes men obedient. Fear breaks the strong. Fear is the first step to power


    Anger flared in Bahadur''s eyes like fire, but his fingers only tightened around the hilt of his sword. His lips trembled, but he did not speak. He had not yet given his fury freedom.


    - You can terrify them, but fear does not make you a khan. Only strength forces the steppe to bow


    The crowd remained motionless, but the silence carried more tension than a hundred war cries. Some lowered their gaze, others tightened their grip on their swords - the steppe already knew how this would end.


    Bahadur-Terkesh stood firm, unmoving, like a stone in the steppe that had endured hundreds of storms. His back remained straight, his gaze unwavering, as if his khan still stood before him - not the man who had taken his place.


    Behind him stood five hundred of the best warriors - the Personal Guard of Kara-Buran. They had not sworn loyalty to a man, nor to a name, nor to the past - but to power itself.


    They were Kara-Buran''s shield, his sword, his final circle of defense. But their loyalty belonged not to him personally, not to his lineage, but to the title of khan itself. And when Kara-Buran had laid down his belt, their oath had disappeared with his power.


    Now, they had to decide whom to serve.


    Some had already made their choice. They looked at Tukal without fear, without hesitation, with that cold steppe stare that respected only deeds, not words. He had taken the throne. He had done so openly and fairly - his strength spoke for itself.


    But not all.


    Those who had followed Bahadur yesterday had not yet moved. They stood tense, frozen, like predators who had not yet decided whether to flee or to attack.


    Bahadur spoke. His voice carried over the ranks, but no one answered. No one stepped forward.


    Someone tightened their grip on their sword but did not draw it. Someone glanced at a comrade, hoping to see resolve, but found only silent waiting. Someone inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly - like a man realizing that the battle was already over, even if his heart still resisted.


    And then, almost imperceptibly, their formation wavered.


    One of the guards - the one who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Bahadur just moments ago - took half a step back. And that was enough to break the chain. Another hesitated, looking down as if searching for an answer in the dust. A third let go of his sword. A fourth shifted slightly - not backward, not forward, but no longer standing beside Bahadur.


    In that moment, everything was decided.


    They did not want to die for the dead.


    Tukal tilted his head slightly, as if in thought. But in his gaze, a cold gleam had already appeared - not just certainty, but inevitability, the kind that always heralded steel and blood. He moved forward - not quickly, not tensely, but with the predatory grace of a steppe wolf circling before the final strike.


    - If you have strength - prove it. If not - bow your head and die standing


    Bahadur did not answer. Only his fingers slowly closed around his sword hilt - not in doubt, but in silent decision.


    - Let the steppe decide, - spoke Elder Aybars-Kutaga, his voice ringing like the final strike of a gong. The warriors already knew - this conversation would end only one way: with someone''s blood on the sand.


    The steppe closed in, silent and predatory, leaving only two men in the center. Some already knew how this would end. Some still hoped for a miracle. But no one interfered. Because the law was stronger than hope. No one shouted, no one cursed or cheered - silence hung over them, thick and unmoving, as if even the wind refused to disturb this moment.


    Nomads did not tolerate long arguments, and in disputes like this, there was only ever one truth - the one who remained standing. The warriors stepped back, clearing a space between the two men. Their movements were swift, efficient - this was not the first time they had witnessed such a thing.


    Someone threw a white cloak onto the ground - old, worn, but now it marked the boundary of the arena.


    Bahadur unfastened his fur cloak and cast it aside. His movements were unhurried, measured - the movements of a man who did not fear death. Beneath the thick battle kaftan, the outlines of a sinewy body, scarred from old wounds, were visible. He straightened his shoulders, as if shedding not only his cloak but the weight of the past.


    Tukal did not rush. His gaze passed over Bahadur - not just looking, but measuring, weighing, like a blacksmith judging whether a piece of metal was worth forging into a blade or throwing into the dust.


    He could kill him. With one movement, with one command - and it would be done. Bahadur would fall, and no one would dare object.


    But Tukal knew what he wanted.


    Bahadur wanted death. But not as a defeated man - as a warrior.


    He wanted his blood to be the last spark of a dying era, for his fall to be a challenge, for the steppe to speak not only of the new khan, but of the one who did not bow. A madman, perhaps. A failure. But loyal to the end.


    Tukal saw it. And so he had no intention of granting him such an end.


    If he killed him now, he would be doing him a favor. He would turn his death into legend. He would make this day remembered not as the triumph of power, but as the defiance of a stubborn man who fell for the old order.


    - Death is too easy a way out. Death is an honor, and he has not earned even that. No, he will live. Let him see how the world he served continues without him. Let the steppe forget his name before his flesh even rots


    Tukal had already decided: Bahadur would live. Live under his rule. Live knowing his oath had meant nothing. Live seeing his warriors turn away, his name become meaningless.


    In the steppe, death could be honor. But forgotten names died harder than bodies.


    And so, he did not deserve even a blade.


    Slowly, without haste, Tukal drew his saber from its scabbard, and light slid along its edge - not as a reflection, but as a warning.


    - I ask you one last time, Bahadur, - his voice was low, steady, carrying that lazy mockery of a man who had already decided another''s fate. - Will you submit?


    Bahadur did not step back. His breathing remained steady, his gaze cold, as if he had already seen the end of this fight.


    - Better to die than to serve an executioner whose hands are drenched in the blood of his own kin. - His voice was even, but something in it echoed like ice cracking beneath a hoof. - Better to fall than to bow before a wolf who devours his own pack


    The crowd did not stir, but the air grew thick, heavy, like the moments before a storm. The warriors said nothing, but their gazes sharpened, as if the very world had frozen before the inevitable.


    And then, the war horn tore through the silence like the first strike of a sword, heralding the beginning.


    Tukal stood relaxed, his sword barely touching the ground, his shoulders loose, as if he were not facing one of the Horde''s finest warriors. He did not look tense - only watchful, like a wolf lazily observing a deer, knowing the hunt was already over. He rolled his shoulders lazily, adjusting his grip on the saber as if warming up before training.


    Bahadur-Terkesh did not fall for the trick.


    He knew he was facing a killer - younger, faster, harder. He saw how Tukal moved, how calmly he held his sword, how lazily he rolled it between his fingers, as if he didn''t even find it necessary to exert himself.


    But it did not matter.


    He was a warrior.


    He had fought through dozens of battles, his blade had served two khans, his name was respected, and his voice alone could stop a brawl before weapons were drawn. He was not just a bodyguard, not merely a soldier. He was the one who had carried the old world on his shoulders.


    And now that world was collapsing.


    And there was nothing he could do about it.


    He knew it was not just a man dying today. An era was dying. Honor was dying. Everything he had believed in was dying.


    Khan Kara-Buran had not fought against the decision of the noble clans, the elders, and the batyrs. His heir, Kara-Tash, had been slain. Their blood had soaked into the dust, but it had not sparked a rebellion, had not called the steppe to war. No one had come to avenge them. No one had stepped forward when he had spoken.


    He was alone.


    His people, his brothers, those he had fought beside, had stepped back. Not because they were traitors - but because they understood that it was over.


    Bahadur himself was no fool.


    He knew he would not win this fight. He had seen how Tukal moved. This was not just a man relying on strength. He moved differently - too fast, too precise, as if he already knew where his enemy would be in the next moment.


    Like a beast born not in a human body, but in the body of a steppe predator.


    Bahadur had heard of such warriors - shamans called them the "Ones Who Stepped Beyond" They did not simply fight; they sensed battle differently. Their bodies moved not by thought, but by instinct, like a falcon diving from the sky, never calculating its trajectory - it simply knew.


    Bahadur had seen how the Horde''s greatest warriors fought. He had witnessed the fastest, the sharpest, the most skilled. But Tukal-Bey...


    He was something else entirely.


    There was no wasted effort in his movements. No unnecessary jerks, no pointless preparation before a strike - it was as if his body already knew what to do before his mind commanded it. This was not mastery, not technique, but something greater.


    As if the steppe itself had possessed him.


    As if all its spirits, all its predators - wolves, eagles, snow leopards - had merged into one man, granting him their strength, their speed, their vision.


    This was not an ordinary warrior.


    This was someone who did not simply kill. This was someone who could not be killed.


    And yet, Bahadur raised his sword.


    Because he was a man. And a man, even knowing he faces a beast, still goes into battle with it.


    He could not retreat.


    - You are no khan, - he said firmly, gripping his blade.


    Tukal smirked but did not answer immediately. He only tilted his head slightly, as if in thought, then, without a word, unclenched his fingers.


    The saber fell into the dust with a dull clang.


    The crowd froze, like the steppe before the moonrise - when night had not yet arrived, but the light was already fading. Everything around tightened into this moment - the sounds, the breath, even the wind seemed to hold still, watching.


    Young riders tensed; some gripped the hilts of their swords, others instinctively moved forward, but no one dared to cross the boundary the khan had drawn. The elder batyrs remained silent, but in their gazes flickered something beyond mere attention - something between understanding and wariness.


    The khan had not simply discarded his weapon - he had done so before the greatest warrior of Kara-Buran. Not by mistake, not out of recklessness. He had placed himself in this position deliberately.


    This was a challenge so audacious that the air thickened like blood on a blade. The warriors did not look at one another, but every man felt it: this moment would be sung of in the steppe''s ballads - either as the greatest humiliation or as the ultimate proof of power.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    No one dared even to exhale. Now, steel would not decide the outcome - only men.


    Bahadur, too, stood motionless. It was madness. He knew Tukal was strong, but no one in their right mind would throw away their weapon before the sword of an elite batyr. This was not just a challenge - it was a statement.


    But Tukal had no doubts.


    He did not need a saber to kill. He had fought before - in another life. Not on the vast battlefields of the steppe, but in the narrow alleyways of his town, where death did not come with a war cry but crept from the shadows. Where there was no honor - only survival.


    He had fought against street thugs, against brigands who knew no mercy. Against professional fighters trained to end a battle in a single blow. Against killers who left no second chances. And each of these fights had left its mark - not in scars, but in knowledge. He was a master of no single style, but he had absorbed them all.


    He had learned. He had adapted. He had absorbed everything.


    The steppe had its own laws, but they did not change the one universal truth - victory belonged not to the one who followed the rules, but to the one who broke them.


    And now, in this new body - this finely honed machine - he moved three times faster than in his past life. He was stronger, quicker, sharper.


    He knew no fear.


    And against a steppe warrior, even an elite one, that was more than enough.


    Tukal tilted his head slightly, allowing the wind to brush a stray lock of hair from his face. His voice came evenly - not as a challenge, not with anger - just a calm, indifferent acknowledgment of victory:


    - You are not worthy of steel


    Bahadur''s rage flared instantly - or perhaps it was not rage, but a desperate attempt to hold on to himself. In the next moment, he was already moving, not thinking, not hesitating. The saber flashed - a sharp thrust, fast and precise. His blade flew toward Tukal''s throat.


    Bahadur''s sword sliced through empty air.


    The moment the blade should have met flesh, Tukal was no longer there. No sudden dash, no sharp motion - just disappearance, as if he had stepped beyond time itself.


    Bahadur adjusted instantly. His second strike came from another angle - not just a thrust, but a powerful slashing blow, carrying all his fury. He was not striking to win - he was striking simply to land a hit.


    But once again - nothing.


    Tukal did not retreat. He did not fall into defense, did not try to evade like a fighter avoiding defeat. He moved forward.


    The moment Bahadur attempted a side strike, putting all his weight into it, Tukal took a step - a sharp, precise, confident step. Not backward, not sideways, but directly into the strike zone.


    And Bahadur understood - his weapon had become useless.


    Tukal''s hand flashed upward - a short, snapping strike to the wrist. A sharp pain shot through the joint - Bahadur''s fingers released the sword on their own. The saber, glinting in the air, fell into the dust with a clang.


    Bahadur instinctively lunged to retrieve it, but in that instant, Tukal was already there.


    An elbow - short, fast, brutal as a hammer blow.


    To the temple.


    And the world exploded.


    Not in pain - but in emptiness. Everything lost its form, became a blurred mess of shadows. A deep ringing filled his skull, as if metal had shattered inside him. His vision flickered, and his lungs thickened as though the steppe air had turned to sludge.


    Bahadur took a step back - no, not a step, he simply lost his footing. His entire body hung on the edge - not here, not there, but somewhere in the void between consciousness and darkness.


    Tukal saw it.


    He could have finished it. One move. A palm to the throat, a knee to the ribs - and that would be the end. But he waited.


    He gave Bahadur a moment. Gave him the chance to grasp what was happening again.


    Then he took that chance away.


    Another strike - to the thigh.


    Snapping, precise - not just painful, but destroying his foundation. He did not feel a wound, only a cold stab, but in the next second, his leg betrayed him.


    He still tried to hold himself up. But his legs no longer obeyed.


    Like a wolf that miscalculated its jump and now plunged into the void.


    The steppe spun around him.


    But Tukal did not let him fall - one quick step forward, a sudden grip on the shoulder.


    And a throw.


    Bahadur was sent flying backward, air crushed his chest, the world flipped - and then the impact. Dust burst up around him, scattering beneath his body. He tried to inhale, but his lungs would not obey - his chest felt as though it had been crushed under a stone slab.


    But it was not over.


    The moment Bahadur hit the ground, Tukal moved. In one swift motion, he straddled his opponent, driving a knee into his chest, pinning him down before he could even attempt to rise.


    But that was not enough.


    Before Bahadur could take a breath, Tukal''s fingers closed around his throat - sharp, precise, like a falcon''s talons sinking into its captured prey.


    Bahadur struggled, his hands lunging for the grip, but Tukal held firm. His fingers, like a hunter''s snare, tightened, denying him breath, denying him sound. Bahadur''s world shrank - only the iron grip on his throat and the thunderous pounding of his own pulse in his temples remained.


    He struck at Tukal - fists hammering into ribs, shoulders, even his face, but with each passing moment, his blows weakened. They were no longer a warrior''s strikes - only the helpless movements of a dying man.


    Like a bird beating its wings against the ground, knowing it would never fly again.


    The crowd did not breathe. Someone swallowed hard, another''s fingers twitched nervously over a saber hilt. The young riders stood frozen, their breathing ragged. The elder batyrs did not look away - not with disdain, not with admiration, but with that cold scrutiny with which one observes the new leader of a wolf pack.


    Bahadur struggled to free himself, but Tukal''s grip was merciless.


    Tukal leaned in closer, squeezing his throat with a slow, terrifying patience, as if merely waiting for the last breath to leave his defeated opponent''s lungs.


    - What do you say now, old man? - His voice was calm, without rage or mockery. Only absolute dominance.


    Bahadur clenched his teeth, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze remained the same as before the fight - direct, fearless.


    - The steppe will not accept you, - he rasped.


    Tukal looked at him. A flicker of something like curiosity crossed his eyes. Slowly, he leaned in, so close that Bahadur could feel his breath on his face.


    - Then let it accept you, - he whispered.


    His fingers tightened further on Bahadur''s throat - but in the last moment, they loosened.


    Bahadur gasped, coughing, sucking in air greedily.


    The crowd was motionless. Some had expected death. Some had hoped for it. But Tukal had left him alive.


    He rose, never taking his eyes off the man sprawled in the dust. A few moments of silence - as if he were still deciding whether to finish what he had started. Then, unhurried, with lazy certainty, he lowered his boot and pressed Bahadur''s head into the dirt.


    The dry earth crunched. Bahadur did not resist. Only the dust clung to his face, mixing with the crusted blood. This weight did not merely press him into the steppe''s soil - it forced him into his new place in this world. The place of the defeated.


    - Live, - Tukal''s voice was quiet, but every man heard it. - And remember this day. Now you know what fear is.


    The air was heavy, thick with something unseen yet tangible, as if the steppe itself had held its breath, watching what had just transpired. The warriors of the Guard stared at Bahadur''s body sprawled in the dust, but none of them stepped forward.


    Someone gripped the hilt of their sword. Another''s gaze darted to his comrades, searching for an answer - what now?


    A few beks remained frozen, their breathing heavier, fingers trembling on their sword hilts. One of the centurions took a moment longer than the others to comprehend that it was over. He made a hesitant step forward but stopped immediately upon meeting Tukal''s gaze. That look said it all:


    - Will you try?


    And in that moment, everything became clear. Slowly, not all at once, one of the senior commanders removed his hand from his sword. Another stepped back. A third exhaled deeply and lowered his head.


    Words were unnecessary. Everything had already been said. Everything had already been decided.


    But somewhere deep within the ranks, someone still lunged forward - too fast, too abruptly, with a movement that was not even an attack. Yet before he could reach Bahadur, two senior beks seized his shoulders, holding him back.


    - Not now, - one of them murmured, gripping his forearm so tightly that his knuckles turned white.


    The Guard had not yet knelt before Tukal. But it was no longer the Guard of Kara-Buran.


    Bahadur lay with his face pressed into the earth, his breath ragged, his chest rising in sharp jerks, but he did not move. Dust clung to the sweat on his skin, dried blood crusted on his split lips, yet he did not even attempt to wipe it away. His lungs had no air left - only the crushing weight of defeat, heavier than the khan''s boot.


    He felt Tukal lift his foot and step back, but he did not raise his head. His temples pounded, his throat burned, but worst of all was not the pain.


    Worst of all was the emptiness.


    He had not simply lost. He had been humiliated. He was still breathing, but his breath meant nothing. The Horde no longer looked at him. They looked only at Tukal.


    Bahadur clenched his fingers as if trying to grasp something unseen, but his hand closed around nothing but dry dust.


    He wanted to feel anger. He wanted to hate. He wanted to force himself to rise, but his body no longer belonged to him. It obeyed another''s will, not his own.


    And the worst part was realizing that he no longer knew who he was.


    Meanwhile, Tukal''s gaze shifted lazily to the sword lying in the dust. He did not rush. There was no triumphant scorn in his movements, only the relaxed certainty of a predator already sated.


    Calmly, with the ease that belonged only to victors, he stepped forward and picked up the weapon.


    Bahadur''s saber.


    The blade was heavy, steeped in the sweat and blood of past battles. Its hilt still held the warmth of its fallen master''s grip. But now, this sword no longer belonged to him.


    Bahadur heard the scrape of the blade leaving the ground. His sword. Just a minute ago, it had been an extension of his hand, a part of himself. And now, it was in another''s grasp.


    Tukal ran his fingers along the edge, as if weighing it not as a weapon, but as a symbol. As the essence of Bahadur himself - something that had just been taken away.


    And Bahadur simply lay there.


    He could have screamed. He could have spat out a final curse. But he did nothing.


    He knew the steppe had already forgotten him.


    Tukal slowly raised his head and looked at the warriors before him. Not all of them - only the best. The ones closest to power and the ones who knew what it meant to hold it. The Personal Guard. The men who understood what it meant to serve a khan.


    His gaze settled on the deputy, Shir-Arystan.


    The silence grew denser, as if the steppe had once again held its breath.


    Shir-Arystan, watching this moment unfold, showed neither surprise nor doubt. He did not rejoice in Bahadur''s fall, nor did he mourn it. His gaze remained cold and sharp, like that of a warrior who could see which way the wind of change was blowing.


    - You are now the blade of the Horde, - Tukal said, holding the sword horizontally, hilt-first. - Will you take it, or will you follow the old man?


    Shir-Arystan did not answer immediately. There was no hesitation in his eyes, but neither was there relief. He had served Bahadur for many years, knew his strengths and weaknesses. Once, he had followed him not out of obligation, but out of respect. But at this moment, he no longer saw the warrior he had once followed. He saw a man whose name no longer meant anything.


    He was not sentimental. He knew the steppe and its laws.


    Bahadur had been a great warrior - but his time was over.


    He looked at Tukal. This man had not just won - he had denied his enemy even an honorable death. He knew how to break a man, but he also knew when to stop. This was not blind cruelty - it was cold, calculated strength. The kind that would drive the Horde forward.


    Slowly, without fear or submission, Shir-Arystan stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and reached for the sword.


    - My place is where strength is, khan. I am your blade


    With these words, Shir-Arystan did not simply acknowledge Tukal - he cemented the inevitable. He was no longer just a warrior. He was now the first to stand between the khan and any threat. But not as a servant. Not as a chained dog waiting for its master''s command. As a guardian. As a weapon that decided for itself who was worthy to wield it.


    For him, this moment was neither a tragedy nor a betrayal. It was the shift in the wind that predators sense before others. He had respected Bahadur. But Bahadur had lost. His time was over.


    In the steppe, there were no "loyalists" or "traitors." There were only the strong and the fallen.


    And Shir-Arystan had no intention of falling.


    He looked at Tukal, not with submission, but with understanding. This man had taken power so completely that it could no longer be taken from him. He had not finished off Bahadur because there was no need. He did not demand oaths because only the weak needed vows.


    This was strength that no longer required proof.


    And now, his sword belonged to it.


    The warriors gathered around watched this spectacle of power with keen attention. Their gazes held both the pain of losing the old world and the realization that the new order had not just arrived - it had been solidified. Bahadur had been defeated. But he had not been killed.


    For some, it was humiliating - to leave the vanquished alive, to let him breathe after his defeat. For others, it was a lesson. Now, no one would see him as a martyr. No one would sing of his heroic death.


    He had not become a symbol of defiance. He had become a living reminder of what happened to those who stood against the khan and lost.


    Tukal stood alone on the dust-covered battlefield of the Horde. Not as a warrior. Not as a killer. As the one who decided fates. And no one had the right to object. His choice was not up for debate. His power needed no words. Now, it was undeniable.


    Silence hung in the air. No one doubted anymore. Those who had hesitated yesterday no longer had a choice.


    - The Horde has seen who is fit to rule, - he said. - I do not ask for loyalty. I take it


    His words were quiet. But the steppe already knew them. They sank into the dust beneath hooves, dissolved into the breath of the horses, passed through the eyes of the warriors.


    And no one asked anymore whose voice ruled now.


    The air still trembled with fading tension, but it was no longer the fear of battle. It was the stillness with which the steppe greets a new day - a day where the old world no longer exists.


    The elders stood apart, their gazes shifting between Tukal, Bahadur sprawled in the dust, and the silent warriors whose postures changed ever so slightly - just a moment ago rigid with tension, now they seemed to be seeking a comfortable place in a new reality.


    The first to speak was Zhangar-Bulat, elder of the Uisun clan, tall and gaunt, his face etched with deep wrinkles. He slowly ran a finger through his gray beard, as if checking whether his wisdom had crumbled over time.


    - Thirty years, - Zhangar-Bulat murmured, as if tasting the words. - Thirty years since I last saw this. Back then, it was another khan who took power with the sword, not through bloodlines. And back then, I said: "The Horde will not forget." And today, I say the same


    He turned his gaze to Tukal.


    - This one will not be forgotten


    Beside him stood Senior Bek Kurban-Asar - a broad-shouldered old warrior with a shaggy beard and hands just as accustomed to gripping reins as they were to holding a sword. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.


    - We always say the steppe does not love change. But the steppe always changes, and we follow it


    - Some follow, - murmured Tukhtar-Baga, head of a noble clan, - while others remain in the dust


    - Bahadur remained, - one of the centurions nearby muttered.


    - Bahadur did not remain, - Zhangar-Bulat shook his head. - Bahadur fell, but he did not vanish. Someone will remember him when they wish to test the khan''s strength


    Kurban-Asar ran his fingers over the guard of his sword in silence, as if tracing an old scar.


    - They will test him again, - he finally said, with no hint of doubt in his voice. - But the khan did not give them a martyr. He gave them something that lasts longer than memory. He gave them fear


    The elders exchanged glances. Subash-Kutlug, the eldest among them, whose face was as hard as dried steppe clay, was not looking at Tukal but at the banner in Jalal''s hands.


    - This day will be remembered, - he finally said. - The question is, will they remember it as the birth of a new khan... or as the day the steppe trembled for the first time?


    Tukhtar-Baga narrowed his eyes slightly.


    - Is there a difference?


    Subash-Kutlug slowly ran his hand over his gray beard, as if weighing the future at his fingertips, then looked at Tukal again.


    - There is always a difference. But you can only understand it not today, but on the day that follows


    The Horde already knew that power belonged to Tukal, but the final word always belonged to those who tested the strength of a new khan first. And Targul-Arystan stepped forward, holding the reins of the Khan''s horse, yet he did not hurry to hand them over.


    He lazily shifted the leather straps from palm to palm, squinting appraisingly - not like a wolf ready to submit to its leader, but like an old beast deciding whether the newcomer was worth acknowledging. In his eyes was something more than just respect.


    - Well, khan, - his voice was hoarse, steeped in winds and the smoke of steppe fires. - Now we just have to see if you''re on the horse, or if the horse is on you


    The crowd chuckled. Some grinned in approval, while others tensed, awaiting a response. Targul was not provoking, nor was he groveling. He simply spoke his mind - as always.


    Tukal did not answer. He simply extended his hand, and Targul, without hesitation, placed the reins in his palm.


    - Fine, - he grunted, inclining his head slightly. - A khan like this - only forward


    The words were not submission, but a statement. A fact that would now have to be lived with.


    With a single motion, Tukal vaulted into the saddle. The horse shuddered, sensing the strength of its new rider, but immediately yielded. Its muscles tensed, as if the steppe itself was preparing to surge forward.


    He sat straight, slowly surveying the warriors.


    This was not just the Horde.


    This was his army.


    His will.


    The first thing he would do was solidify his power. Harshly, without mercy, without hesitation. The old ways would fall, replaced by new ones - his laws, his order. He would reorganize the army, train his men in new tactics, blending them with everything he knew.


    The first step - the Steppe.


    To the west, stretching from the shores of the Black Sea to the Pontic steppes, lay his Horde - the Horde of Tukal-Bey. But this power was still fresh; it had to be cemented with swords and oaths. Beyond the rivers, the encampments, and the crossroads of ancient roads, began the lands of those who could become either enemies or the conquered.


    To the east, along the Volga, stood the Horde of Toksoba. Its warriors were resilient, its cavalry swift, but its leaders lacked unity. They tore at each other with disputes and bloody skirmishes, fighting over who would bear the banner. While they bickered over power, their Horde remained weak.


    To the north, in the bend of the Don, ruled Khan Syrchan. He was cautious and cunning but hesitant. The Middle-Don Horde under his command still listened to the winds, waiting to see where they would turn. His people would not die for him - but they might kneel before the one who could offer them strength and spoils.


    Further, beyond the rolling steppe hills, in the upper reaches of the Seversky Donets, still held on Sharukan the Elder. Frail but unbroken, he remembered the times when the Polovtsians ruled unchallenged. His North-Donets Horde preserved the ancient traditions, and his name was still spoken with respect. He was one who could become either an ally - or the last enemy before the unification of the Steppe.


    But among all these rulers, it was Kirchan who wavered. His power was already cracking, his people restless, scanning the horizon for a new khan. A single push - and he would fall. His Horde would become part of Tukal''s strength.


    And this would be only the beginning.


    Then - Rus''.


    He had heard that blood had just been spilled there. Princes were dead. Power balanced on the edge of a sword, and a young boy named Alexander was ascending the throne.


    He would be the first to learn what the Horde''s footsteps meant upon his land.


    Rus'' would become their granary, just as it once became Batu''s spoils. But he would go further.


    Further than Batu.


    Further, further, further - until the whole world lay beneath the hooves of his horses.


    The wind carried the banner with its horse-tail streamers across the steppe, its silver rings gleaming in the sunlight.


    Tukal-Bey tightened the reins.


    - Forward


    And the steppe roared.


    ***


    Thanks to everyone who reads,


    Next, starting with Chapter 27, we return to Kievan Rus''.


    In Chapter 27, Sophia strolls through Yaroslav the Wise''s gardens, becoming acquainted with Rus culture. She is accompanied by Anna Monomakhina, the widow of Vsevolod, who has arrived at court. Meanwhile, Alexander inspects St. Sophia Cathedral in preparation for the ceremony, while Nikodim discusses with him and the boyars their roles in the coronation and their places in the ceremonial order. At the same time, Polish and Hungarian delegations arrive in Kyiv, along with Khan Tugorkan.


    In Chapter 28, Alexander will visit the kitchens of Rus'', providing a detailed look at what was eaten in the 11th century, which spices were available, how food was prepared, and under what conditions cooks worked. It is here that Alexander will introduce his first small reforms concerning household management and supply chains.


    The next chapter about Tukal will be titled "The Young Falcon Against the Old Serpent" - the beginning of his Horde''s expansion into neighboring lands. War in the steppe is not always decided by swords alone - Tukal will use every method available to future great commanders. Not all khans were strategists, but Tukal will become the embodiment of one - a young, intelligent, and powerful man forging a new order.

 Chapter 28. Cage without a Key

    Alexander, unlike Tukal-Bey, was in no hurry to assert his power with sword and blood. He built his system differently - with cunning and strategy.


    Why spill blood if you can make everyone bow without a single strike? But if the time came, his sword would fall just as decisively as the princely orders did now.


    At this moment, he was in the small princely chamber, seated behind a massive oak table. Alongside him, on heavy benches, sat Stanislav the Great, Olga Strumenskaya, Gleb Turovsky, Boris Stalnogorsky, and Vasily Svyatopolkovich.


    They were not just sitting - they were positioning themselves like pieces in a chess game, but the board was not made of wood; it was made of anticipation. Those closer to the prince could seize the initiative, say a word that might change the course of the meeting. Those sitting farther away understood this - and lay in wait, watching to see who would take the first risk.


    The room was spacious but not lavish - it carried the austere grandeur characteristic of the Kievan court. Stone walls, paneled with dark oak, absorbed the light of numerous lamps placed along the walls. Their flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the polished tabletops and heavy benches.


    The air was filled with the mingling scents of burning oil and wax, with a faint trace of wood smoke lingering. In the corner, logs crackled in a brazier, releasing barely perceptible warmth, but the cold of the stone seeped through the carpets covering the floor.


    The silence here did not just hang in the air - it pressed down.


    It was not broken by words or loud gestures. Only cautious movements: a finger tapping a measured rhythm on the table, a gaze shifting stealthily from one face to another, a sleeve twitching slightly under an unnoticed motion of fingers. Outside the windows, the wind howled; at times, muffled shouts of the guards or the distant splash of the river reached them.


    The fates of lands were being decided in this hall. And everyone seated at the table could feel it in their very skin.


    Alexander knew that he had to act unwaveringly, yet subtly. To give no reason for open resistance, but also to leave no room for doubt.


    They had all gathered here to see the new prince. To assess him. To understand with whom they would have to deal. But Alexander had no intention of wasting time on formalities. He got straight to the point.


    The first person he spoke to was Gleb Turovsky - the senior boyar and princely governor of the Turov-Pinsk land, appointed back in the days of Yaroslav the Wise.


    The negotiations dragged on. Gleb had not expected the prince to seize the initiative so quickly. He was used to governors being consulted, not having decisions dictated to them. Used to discussions, not to facing ready-made schemes where his role was already assigned.


    Alexander left no room for doubt. He did not ask - he painted reality as if it had already come to pass.


    Gleb could have objected, but each of his arguments found its reflection in the prince''s skillfully placed words. Again and again, the conversation turned in such a way that Turovsky himself agreed, came to the necessary conclusions on his own, felt for himself how the fingers of power subtly settled on his shoulders.


    At some point, Gleb narrowed his eyes, clinging to the words like to the slippery edge of a cliff. He was searching for a catch - that very moment when Alexander would press harder, when the thread of cunning would reveal itself.


    But there was nothing.


    Everything sounded logical. Advantageous. Even too much so. A feeling of unease slid across his skin like a cold wind - invisible, yet inevitable.


    In the end, Gleb nodded. Not because he wanted to, but because arguing was pointless. Soon, they had agreed on all points.


    His legitimacy as governor remained, but now he held power not as a man of Yaroslav, but as a man of Alexander. He could rule. But not independently - only within the framework of the unified princely system.


    Then the conversation shifted to matters of economic cooperation.


    Gleb himself did not hold a complete monopoly on resources. He controlled the saltworks, sawmills, and fur trade, but a significant portion of the region''s wealth belonged to the senior boyars. Dubrovitsky controlled the forests, Stanimir Luninecky held the pastures and livestock, Pinsky managed the river routes, and Mozyrsky oversaw the artisan workshops. Gleb could collect taxes and manage revenues, but he could not ignore their influence.


    Alexander understood this. If he wanted to take control of trade, he had to act not through Gleb alone but through the entire boyar system.


    But he did not say this outright. Instead, the prince proposed the Princely Trade Union - a system that would protect the interests of all those engaged in commerce in Turov.


    Gleb listened carefully. He knew Alexander did not hand out gifts for free.


    Alexander had originally planned to launch the Union in Kyiv with the help of Senior Boyar Mikhail Podolsky, but seeing an opportunity, he offered Turov the chance to become the second city where it would take effect.


    At first glance, it was an advantageous proposal.


    Merchants would receive benefits, protection for trade routes, and support from the princely administration. Anyone who joined the Union would get reduced duties, access to new markets, and official patronage.


    But the key was in the details.


    Alexander did not mention that the Union would be run by his people. The regional head would be Gleb, along with the most influential senior boyars - Vsevolod Pinsky, Davyd Mozyrsky, Bronislav Turovsky, and possibly even Dubrovitsky. Their lands, resources, and trade routes would become part of the Union - but by their own choice.


    Gleb had nothing to object to.


    Formally, his influence remained intact. But he could no longer control trade alone. Now, every step required coordination - with those sitting at the same table, who no longer looked at him, but at the prince.


    Princely officials would not manage the merchant courtyards directly, but they would regulate exports and duties. Treasurers overseeing revenues would be chosen jointly by Gleb and Kyiv. No one could claim that the prince was seizing control - he was merely creating a more convenient system, one that everyone wanted to join voluntarily.


    Gleb could continue trading outside the Union, but Alexander made it clear: in time, this would become unprofitable.


    How was trade to be structured?


    Salt - through the princely trade routes.


    Furs - through the caravans of the Princely Trade Union.


    Timber - under Dubrovitsky''s control, but subject to princely duties.


    The system appeared flawless. Merchants would gain stability, protection, and lower duties, and Turov could quickly grow rich.


    But Gleb remained silent.


    He understood that if the Union solidified, his power would weaken. He could refuse - and Turov would be left out. He could agree - and over time, he would become just another cog in the prince''s machine.


    He searched for a way out.


    But no matter how many options he turned over in his mind, one fact remained unchanged: if he did not join the Union now, later he would be faced with a fait accompli. With or without him.


    An outright refusal would look like an attempt to isolate Turov from the expanding network. Full agreement would mean immediately handing over control to the prince.


    Gleb weighed everything carefully and chose a cautious path. He supported the idea but suggested implementing the Union gradually, observing how it would function in Kyiv.


    Alexander did not rush him.


    He knew: the more merchants and boyars became accustomed to the new order, the harder it would be to turn back.


    After discussing economic matters, Alexander smoothly steered the conversation toward military issues.


    - You say that Turov must grow? - The prince leaned forward, letting his words carry weight. - That merchants, caravans, and cities must be protected?


    Gleb hesitated before answering, studying the prince intently. He nodded, but not immediately - as if testing whether there was a hidden catch in his words.


    - Then the druzhina must grow as well, - Alexander spoke calmly but firmly. - The richer the trade, the greater the risks. Warriors are needed on the roads, in the cities, at the crossings


    Gleb did not interrupt, but his gaze sharpened. He heard not only the prince''s words but also what was left unspoken between them.


    - But warriors require silver, - the prince paused. - They need food, weapons, pay


    Gleb ran a finger along the table, his frown deepening.


    - Who will pay for this?


    Alexander looked at him, as if giving him the chance to reach the conclusion himself.


    - Who pays for those who protect him? - the prince finally said.


    For a moment, Gleb clenched his fingers on the table, but quickly regained control.


    - And the garrison? - he narrowed his eyes. - If the druzhina grows, does that mean it will come under my direct command?


    Alexander did not answer immediately. He only tilted his head slightly, letting Gleb realize the obvious on his own. There was more pressure in the silence than in any words.


    - The Princely Garrison remains, but it is no longer yours, - the prince''s voice remained even. He did not threaten, did not press - he merely stated the inevitable


    - It will not intervene in boyar disputes. But if someone decides they can rule without the prince''s word¡­ - Alexander inclined his head slightly, as if leaving Gleb to finish the thought himself. - The garrison will be nearby


    Gleb said nothing. But his fingers on the table shifted slightly closer to a fist.


    - The garrison commander and military treasurer will come from Kyiv, - Alexander continued. - Trade routes are a common concern. Their protection requires coordination


    Gleb exhaled through his nose - quietly, almost imperceptibly.


    - Of course, - he said slowly. - After all, security is more important than anything. Even more important than who makes the decisions


    Alexander did not reply.


    But no reply was needed.


    Now, the full picture had come together.


    Until now, the garrison in Turov had formally belonged to the prince, but Gleb had controlled it. The governor could deploy it on raids, station it at crossings, keep it ready in case of unrest. Now, he was losing that tool.


    The military treasurer controlled supplies and salaries; the garrison commander managed officer appointments and troop movements. Gleb could no longer use these forces at his own discretion. He could not order them to march, could not replace their leadership, could not even direct them where he saw fit.


    His druzhina remained under his command. He could appoint centurions, allocate forces, keep his men in check. But the garrison - belonged to the prince. The finances - belonged to the prince. The movement of troops at key points - belonged to the prince as well.


    The stronger his army, the greater the burden on Turov. The higher the expenses, the harder it would be to remain independent from Kyiv. If revenues declined, Gleb''s druzhina would weaken - and with it, his influence.


    But the princely garrison would remain. It, too, would be maintained with local resources, but it would be governed by Kyiv. It did not answer to Gleb. It did not depend on how much silver was in Turov''s treasury. It would always be here - even if one day, Gleb decided he no longer wanted to pay for it.


    Gleb slowly traced his finger along the edge of the table.


    First the warriors. Then the supplies. And then? When he wakes up one day and realizes his druzhina is no longer his?


    His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. Everything seemed reasonable. Logical. Almost inevitable. But something inside him resisted. As if, even now, in his hand was not the seal of a governor, but merely a tribute to the prince.


    Gleb raised his eyes to Alexander.


    The prince was calm. He did not press. Did not demand. He merely positioned the pieces so that any move led to the same result.


    Control.


    For a second, silence reigned.


    Stanislav the Great cast a brief, scrutinizing glance at Gleb. Vasily Svyatopolkovich inclined his head slightly, as if agreeing with something that had not been spoken aloud. Olga Strumenskaya kept her gaze fixed on the prince, but the corners of her lips twitched, as though she had noticed how Gleb had stepped into the carefully laid snare.


    Gleb could refuse.


    He could stand up, slap his palm against the table, and declare that Turov would not bow to foreign games. But then¡­


    Then doubts would pierce not only the prince but everyone seated in this hall. Not only would his loyalty be questioned, but so would his right to decide. And without that, he was nothing more than a dog that barks but does not bite.


    Alexander would not demand again - he would simply frame the questions differently.


    - Should Turov be trusted? Perhaps it would be simpler to transfer the trade routes into other hands? Appoint a new governor?


    That would mean either open conflict or an outright admission that he did not wish to be part of the unified system.


    Alexander did not demand anything outright. He merely created conditions where refusal meant defeat.


    There was no choice.


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    Gleb clenched his teeth. And nodded. Briefly. Almost mechanically. Like a man who had just locked himself in a cage - only to realize a moment later that he did not have the key.


    And then it struck him: the cage was not even his.


    And it was not he who had closed the door.


    Something inside him faltered. Not anger. Not fear. Something cold, faceless - like a void that had always been there, only now he noticed it.


    Something had been taken from him.


    And not today. No.


    It had happened earlier.


    Now, he simply understood that it could never be reclaimed.


    In the end:


    The Turovian druzhina would expand, but its upkeep would not come from the prince''s treasury - it would come from local revenues. Now, Gleb himself was paying for the growth of his own forces - and in doing so, he became dependent on the wealth of the region. If trade declined, if merchants delayed payments, if the harvest failed - it would not be the prince who suffered, but him.


    The Kyiv garrison would remain in Turov, but its command would now follow princely decrees rather than Gleb''s orders. The prince had taken it out of the governor''s hands, turning it into an instrument of oversight - and, if necessary, a lever of coercion.


    Finances, supplies, strategic leadership - it all remained in Alexander''s hands. He had unburdened his own treasury, removed responsibility for maintaining Turov''s forces, and funded their expansion with someone else''s money. Turov now paid for its own security - but could no longer wield it freely.


    Alexander was not merely strengthening his influence. He was constructing a system in which Gleb could grow - but only within the framework set by the prince. The stronger the governor became, the deeper he became entangled in a structure from which there was no exit without losses.


    A subtle bridle.


    The senior boyars of Turov had not yet realized the changes that awaited them. For now, they retained their old connections and authority, but the world around them had already shifted.


    Today, Gleb had gained the right to recruit more warriors. Tomorrow, that would mean his power would strengthen - while theirs would weaken. The stronger one boyar became, the faster the balance of power would shift.


    Rostislav Dubrovitsky and Stanimir Luninecky did not yet see it. They might believe that Turov''s forces were merely local reinforcements. But they were mistaken.


    The druzhina was growing - and with it, the very structure of power was changing. Now, Turov''s warriors served not only Gleb but also the prince. Now, the governor''s influence depended not on his decisions but on the prince''s control over supplies, finances, and key defensive positions.


    Sooner or later, Dubrovitsky and Luninecky would have to choose:


    Adapt to the new order or resist - and face the consequences.


    Alexander knew:


    If the Turovian druzhina grew too strong, the boyars would find a way to weaken it. But if it weakened, only the prince could protect it.


    And when Gleb realized this himself, he would be the first to seek support.


    For Alexander, this was a quiet victory.


    Gleb had gained more warriors, but if he ever decided to stand against Kyiv, he would find that the key levers of control over that army were no longer in his hands.


    Alexander built power not with the sword, but with bonds - bonds that could not be broken without loss.


    After the military matters, they moved on to the appointment of boyars.


    An army provided strength. Trade - gold.


    But power over the land was decided not only by swords, but by who would hold it tomorrow. Gleb knew: if he did not seize this lever, someone else would. Especially if it was Luninecky.


    Previously, as the prince''s governor, Gleb could influence the balance of power but not control it. The boyars retained relative independence, and strong figures like Stanimir could challenge his decisions.


    Now, Alexander removed that uncertainty. Right here at this very table, in this very room, he was rewriting the rules. Gleb did not interrupt him, but tension coiled in his chest like a compressed spring.


    - The appointment of boyars is now yours, - the prince''s voice was steady, almost lazy. - But every name will be approved in Kyiv. You will propose - I will confirm. Or... suggest a better solution


    The hall grew quieter. Gleb''s expression did not change, but inside, he was already calculating the consequences. He was gaining a powerful tool, one that had previously required careful maneuvering through influence and agreements. Now, he could legally place his own people in key positions, remove opponents, strengthen his network.


    But power was never granted without conditions.


    - Every decision you make passes through the princely seal, - Alexander continued. - We must understand who governs the land


    Gleb did not like that "We"


    Now, the prince would see every shift in Turov-Pinsk''s governance before it even took effect. Anyone Gleb wanted to appoint would first have to travel to Kyiv.


    Officially - for approval. In reality - for a conversation. Some would return unchanged. Some would return different. And some would not return at all.


    - A conversation? - Gleb clarified.


    Alexander did not answer immediately. The corners of his lips twitched slightly - as if he enjoyed the fact that the governor understood everything without further explanation.


    - Conversation is a valuable tool, - he said calmly. - Sometimes, it''s just a conversation. And sometimes - it''s an opportunity to come to an agreement in advance


    Gleb did not need an explanation.


    The people he nominated would still come to him with bows, swear loyalty, seek his approval. But once they passed through Kyiv - everything would change.


    Some would return as they were. Others - with a noose tightened too securely to undo without consequence. On paper, they would be his boyars. In speech - his circle.


    But he would no longer know who truly stood before him. Who was truly with him, and who had already made their choice elsewhere.


    Who bowed their head out of loyalty, and who was only waiting for the moment to bow before another. And what if, one day, he gave an order and instead of "Yes", he heard: "As the prince commands"


    Gleb did not lift his gaze from the table, but within him, a heavy, clinging premonition thickened. Power was a network of connections, promises, obligations. But now, there were knots in this network that he had not tied himself. He had gained more control, but now every step he took left a trace that led not only to him but higher - to Kyiv.


    As long as he remained within this system, he held power. As long as he played by the prince''s rules, he governed Turov.


    But if he ever stumbled¡­ if the prince decided that Turov needed someone more reliable¡­ The same mechanisms that had given him power would take it away. Just as they were now taking it from Luninecky.


    Alexander and Gleb both knew that Stanimir Luninecky would not submit easily.


    He would fight. He would cling to his power, search for loopholes, weave intrigues. Now, every appointment went through Gleb. And every decision Gleb made passed through the princely seal - the final touch that turned his authority into someone else''s instrument.


    Luninecky was still a strong figure - but only on paper. In reality, his power no longer belonged to him.


    Once, he could appoint his own people, challenge decisions, dictate terms. Now, his power had been reduced to one thing: waiting for others to decide.


    The days of equal struggle were over.


    Now, Gleb could openly strengthen his influence, place his people in office, weaken his enemies. But this was power granted on the prince''s terms.


    A system where he was strong - but not free.


    The last point of their conversation was the question of regional governance.


    Here, Alexander did not propose - he declared.


    A Princely Council of Turov would be established in the Turov-Pinsk land.


    It appeared to be a step toward stability: from now on, important decisions would be made jointly by the region''s senior boyars, the governor, and representatives of the prince.


    Formally - equal voices. In reality - the prince''s hand on the region''s throat.


    Such a structure had never existed before.


    In the regions, boyars did not answer to a unified governing body - each ruled their own lands independently, and matters requiring discussion were handled in private gatherings of the nobility.


    Official councils existed only in Kyiv and Novgorod.


    In Kyiv, it was a circle of senior boyars and the prince''s closest advisors, who participated in state governance and deliberated on key decisions.


    In Novgorod, it was the veche system, where major boyars and posadniks played a decisive role in governing the city.


    Alexander decided to change the very approach to governance. Now, local leadership would not just be a gathering of boyars but a formalized structure, where power would be divided between Gleb, the prince, and those who joined the new council.


    But Alexander understood that not every boyar would immediately accept these rules.


    Some would approach the idea cautiously. Others would hesitate. And some might resist outright.


    Gleb himself did not rush to respond. The council could grant him influence, could strengthen his position.


    It could¡­ but not without cost. For every gain, he paid in power - power that was no longer his alone but part of something larger. Something he did not control.


    Alexander did not press. He made it clear that the boyars could decide for themselves whether to join the council or not.


    But he knew that sooner or later, they would have to choose.


    Those who joined the council would gain access to decision-making, trade privileges, and guarantees of protection. Their voices would carry weight, their lands would become part of a unified system.


    Those who refused would soon realize they were being left behind.


    The council would not wait for their approval. Decisions would begin being made without them, and sooner or later, they would have to either submit to the new order or attempt to resist.


    But against what? Against an official governing body? Against the prince? Against the majority?


    The council did not yet exist. But it already ruled.


    Alexander saw how they assessed him. How they measured themselves against the new order, trying to understand whether they could survive in it - or if it was better to challenge it.


    Some of them still hesitated. Others waited to see who would make the first move.


    But the feeling of inevitability was already in the air.


    The prince''s words, his confidence, his calculated moves - some found them alarming, others impressive. They had expected to see a young ruler they could guide, perhaps even outmaneuver. But before them sat no boy. He did not bargain, did not plead, did not threaten.


    He was building a system in which one could only take their place - or stand against it.


    Gleb had received everything. Trade, the army, the right to appoint boyars. Increased influence. Everything that could make him stronger.


    But what among this was truly his - and what was merely a leash, invisibly tightening around his throat?


    The druzhina was growing, but it now depended on the region''s taxes. If something went wrong, it would be the first to weaken. The boyars now answered to him, but every appointment required the prince''s seal. If tomorrow Kyiv decided someone was unsuitable, the decision would already be made.


    The council granted power, but it was no longer the power of one man - it was the power of a system.


    He had become stronger. But not freer.


    And the keys? The keys were in the prince''s hands.


    He lifted his eyes and met the silent gazes around the table.


    Stanislav the Great sat calmly, as if he already knew how it would end. He did not seem tense, did not play at silence like the others. He simply watched - not the prince, but those seated at the table. For him, this was not a choice but an inevitability.


    Olga Strumenskaya maintained flawless composure, but her gaze was sharp - not just attentive, but calculating. She did not refuse the game, but she wanted to know what pieces were on the board and how they moved.


    Vasily Svyatopolkovich ran a finger along the edge of the table, never once lifting his eyes. His silence was not passive - he was weighing, comparing, deciding how the new order could benefit him personally.


    Boris Stalnogorsky continued tapping his fingers on the wood - slowly, but no longer in idle anticipation. Now, it was as if he were testing the invisible weight of decisions.


    Gleb Turovsky sat motionless, but his fingers tensed ever so slightly. He understood that the choice had already been made for him - all that remained was to accept it aloud.


    No one objected.


    No one argued.


    The silence in the room was not fear, but something worse - the understanding that there was no way back.


    No one spoke, but everyone knew: the rules were already set.


    All that remained was to announce the sentence.


    Alexander had no doubt - sooner or later, they would all find themselves inside the system he was building.


    But power was not just a structure.


    Its strength was not in dictating rules but in ensuring they were followed. Without control, even the most carefully designed system would become nothing more than a hollow shell, where everything was decided by money, connections, and bribes.


    Alexander knew that if power left loopholes, it was not power - it was a feeding trough. And no one walks away from a feeding trough. They gnaw at it to the last.


    In Rus'', bribes were not seen as a crime - they were an inseparable part of governance. Judges received gifts for favorable rulings, governors for their patronage. It was not greed - it was the system.


    But now, Alexander would set a new law: power would no longer be for sale.


    After the coronation, he would begin a reform of the Rus Pravda, rewriting his father''s laws to leave no gaps for corruption.


    But a law, by itself, is just paper.


    He needed mechanisms that would make greed useless and theft suicidal.


    He could fight it as they did here, in the 11th century - with repression, executions, cruelty. But he knew another way. The time he came from had already seen those who had defeated corruption.


    Lee Kuan Yew built Singapore by placing the system above individuals. One official was caught - ten thought twice. One was punished - a hundred obeyed. He did not merely punish bribe-takers, he changed the very approach to governance: now, it was not people who ruled the system, but the system that ruled people.


    But Rus'' was not Singapore.


    Here, power did not rest on officials but on boyars, princely governors, and the senior druzhina. Here, corruption could not simply be burned out - it had to be reshaped, so that everyone seeking wealth could obtain it only through the prince.


    Alexander would change the very nature of power: no longer could one buy a position, no longer could one buy influence. Now, the only currency was loyalty to the prince.


    The first step would be harsh punishment.


    Not just fines or exile - complete ruin of the guilty and their families.


    Every official, from treasurers to judges, would know:


    One bribe - and you are an outcast. No land. No protection. No future.


    But fear was only a collar. True control lay in dependency.


    The boyars had to understand: their power, their wealth, their status depended not on connections but on the prince. Now, it was not they who bought influence - influence was granted by the prince. Now, anyone who wanted to stay afloat had to stop seeking loopholes and become part of the system.


    The second measure - high salaries and strict selection.


    Princely officials would earn more than they could steal, but in return - ruthless oversight.


    Secret inspectors. Double accounting. Unannounced audits.


    Only those who sought power, not profit, would remain in the system. The rest would be cast out.


    He would not eradicate human greed, but he would make theft pointless.


    His power would be different.


    Not a feeding trough.


    But a mechanism.


    Rigid as bone.


    Merciless as hunger.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who reads.


    This episode turned out to be very large - with many details and nuances, even though some of them I left for the future. Many points will be explained and revealed further in the story.


    Once again, I have split the chapter, but this time into three parts, because it touches on five regions at once: the Turov-Pinsk land, Smolensk, Rostov-Suzdal, Vladimir-Volhynia, and Chernigov.


    In the next chapter, I will take a closer look at how exactly Alexander is changing the traditional system of governance in Rus, using examples from other lands. Contrasts will be shown - how princes ruled before, especially his father Yaroslav, and how now, a unique strategy is being formed for each region.


    In the previous chapter, I wrote that this one would include the storyline of Sophia and other characters, but it has temporarily taken a back seat. The reason is that I write in real-time, without a pre-planned script - I follow the events of the book''s world rather than forcing them onto rigid tracks.


    I take into account everything happening with the characters at the moment and make decisions not as a writer, but as an observer of their fates.


    That is why there are no pre-determined deaths or events in my work. Characters do not die because "it has to happen" or "it was planned." They die only when the world of the book places them in situations where there is no way out.

 Chapter 29. A Game that cannot be Unplayed

    After speaking with Gleb, a tense silence settled over the table. Everyone watched Alexander, each trying to guess who would be next.


    But the prince knew that the way he had spoken to Gleb wouldn''t work with them.


    The Turovo-Pinsk land existed by princely will; its power was not rooted in the earth but woven like threads stretching toward Kyiv. With Gleb, he had spoken as a master, knowing he could sever those threads at any moment.


    But Chernihiv and the Vladimir-Volhynian land were a different matter. They did not dangle on threads - they stood like fortresses, deeply embedded in their soil. There, the prince could not simply take - he had to make them want to give.


    What bends the weak only stiffens the backs of the strong - and makes them ready to strike.


    To gain their lands, he could not take - he had to offer. But in such a way that one day, they themselves would make a choice - with no choice at all.


    Alexander shifted his gaze to Boris Stalnogorsky.


    The elder boyar''s face remained impassive, but the prince knew - behind that motionless mask lurked a sharp mind. Boris already understood where this conversation was heading. And he understood that he was next.


    This man was not used to having terms dictated to him. He was used to dictating them himself.


    Boris was not just one of the elder boyars.


    He was the shadow of Prince Sviatoslav''s power, the one who kept Chernihiv in check while the prince waged wars or sat with his brothers in Kyiv. He oversaw the druzhina, the forges, the roads, the trade. His word decided where supplies would go, who would receive weapons, who would be placed in key positions.


    But now Prince Sviatoslav was dead. His power had not just weakened - it had become a void, and those who once clung to it were now inevitably slipping into it.


    Chernihiv was wealthy, strong, influential - but now it was strength without a master. Authority remained, but there was no hand to grasp it.


    If Boris were a fool, he would have believed that he could now rule on his own. He would already see himself at the head of the city, where no one dared to oppose him.


    But he was not a fool.


    He knew that power was not the voice booming in the council hall, but the whisper behind one''s back. And that whisper had already begun.


    He knew that the elder boyars of Chernihiv were already exchanging glances, listening not just to him, but to each other. For now, he held the city. But if the prince refused to acknowledge him, others would emerge - men who would decide that he was no longer needed.


    They weren''t there yet.


    But they would be.


    - Boris, you are already ruling Chernihiv, - Alexander began calmly. - Everyone comes to you for decisions. You hold trade, the druzhina, the weapons forges. You have no need to prove your strength


    Boris tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the prince''s words.


    - An interesting observation, - he said slowly. - Do you know what they call men who rule without a seal?


    He didn''t wait for an answer.


    - Those who are recognized not for their title, but for their strength


    - But you are not a governor. - Alexander''s voice turned harder. - You are power without a seal. Everyone knows you are in charge, but on paper, you do not exist


    Boris held the pause.


    - On paper?


    - Until you are officially confirmed, you are vulnerable, - Alexander continued. - Today, you hold Chernihiv. Tomorrow, the boyars may decide that someone else would be more profitable


    - Vulnerable? - Boris inclined his head slightly, but his tone carried more amusement than question.


    - If you are not legitimized, you are at the mercy of others'' decisions, - the prince repeated.


    - Perhaps. - Boris tapped his finger against the table, as if deciding how far to go. - But one who depends can always shift his point of support


    Alexander did not answer immediately. He only watched.


    Silent. Steady.


    Observing as Boris cornered himself, as his fingers hesitated over the table for just a moment before moving again.


    The silence grew denser, pressing down like the weight of an approaching storm. Somewhere in the corner, the fire crackled, but even its sound felt muted - as if the hearth itself had paused in anticipation.


    Boris clenched his fist almost imperceptibly, his nails nearly digging into his palm. The whiteness of his knuckles faded quickly, but Alexander noticed that the tension remained.


    The prince did not speak. And in that silence, there was no emptiness - only waiting. Long enough for Boris to feel how his own thoughts were turning against him.


    At last, Boris leaned back.


    - I hold Chernihiv. I have the druzhina. I have the trade routes. - His voice was steady, but there was challenge in it. - What do I need your seal for?


    Alexander''s lips shifted in the shadow of a smile - not mocking, not kind, but the kind that appears when a piece on the board moves exactly where it should.


    - The druzhina feeds off the forges of Chernihiv, - Alexander traced his finger along the edge of the table. - The boyars lead merchants where the markets are most profitable


    He met Boris''s gaze directly.


    - But do you know what they do not like?


    Boris did not answer.


    - Those who might become unnecessary


    Alexander saw it - that flicker of understanding deep in Boris''s eyes.


    Boyars tolerated power, but they did not tolerate its instability. A governor could be ruthless, even cruel, but if he lost his grip, he would be replaced. If a ruler held his position only by the goodwill of others, he was no ruler at all.


    Boris was no fool. He knew that power was not passed down - it was seized. The moment he loosened his grip, someone else would take his place.


    Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But it would happen.


    Alexander knew that Boris understood this.


    And he used it to his advantage.


    - I am not offering you influence. - The prince''s voice was steady, but it carried the certainty of a man who already knew the answer. - I am offering you something you lack


    He held the pause.


    - Legitimate power


    Boris studied him without blinking. He knew this game.


    He knew that power granted by a prince was both a guarantee and a chain.


    He had seen how Gleb had willingly shackled himself, believing he was in control. But that trick would not work on him.


    - And what do you want in return? - he finally asked. His voice remained calm, but his gaze was sharp.


    A pause. Barely noticeable, but tangible.


    - And what do I gain, besides a seal?


    Alexander didn''t hesitate.


    - Chernihiv remains under the prince''s hand, - Alexander''s voice was steady but weighted. - You will be my governor. Officially. With the princely seal, with the right to collect tribute, appoint voivodes, and administer justice


    He paused.


    - I will secure the trade routes, and merchants will pass through your lands - not by your word, but by mine. When I establish the Princely Trade Union, you will be its face in Chernihiv. Not just a boyar. Not just a ruler. The one through whom gold flows


    This was not just power.


    This was power the boyars could not take away.


    - You offer me power, - Boris said slowly. - But I already have it


    He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the prince.


    - The question is¡­ what will you do if I refuse?


    Alexander didn''t lean back, didn''t avert his gaze - on the contrary, he leaned in slightly, closing the distance.


    - You hold it in your hands, - he said evenly. - I am merely ensuring that the fingers gripping it don''t loosen¡­ when someone starts to pull


    Now Boris did not smirk.


    - So, I remain the owner?


    - You remain the owner, - Alexander''s voice was steady, but behind those words, one could hear the faint creak of a closing trap. - But that''s not the question. The question is whose hand will hold the seal when someone decides your time has passed


    Boris did not answer, but his gaze grew harder.


    - You still rule, - the prince continued, - but now your power is more than just your word. Now it is recognized. Or¡­ if you prefer, we can see who in Chernihiv dares to speak louder than you


    The silence in the hall stretched tight, ready to snap.


    Stanislav the Great sat with a stone-cold face, but in the depths of his eyes, a shadow of approval flickered - he saw how the prince was cornering his opponent, leaving him no way out but the one he needed.


    Gleb Turovsky ran a finger along the edge of the table, as if testing the blade of a knife no longer in his hands. He had been under that gaze before. Now he watched as the noose tightened around another''s neck.


    Vasily Svyatopolkovich narrowed his eyes slightly, as if weighing the situation against himself. Who would be called next?


    Olga Strumenskaya did not move, but her gaze was not on Boris - it was on the prince. As if searching for a second meaning in his words.


    Boris felt every gaze. They were all waiting. Waiting for his answer, his decision - they were waiting for his move.


    He could refuse.


    But then what?


    - War? Conspiracy? A slow strangulation until he was left with nothing?


    What would tomorrow bring if he said "no"?


    Chernihiv was a city where weakness was not forgiven.


    Kyiv was a city where defiance was not tolerated.


    Was it worth risking everything he had built for the illusion of complete freedom?


    He gripped the goblet as if he were holding his own fate. His knuckles whitened, but he quickly relaxed his grip. The wine inside trembled, but did not spill.


    He already knew the answer.


    But before he spoke it aloud, he allowed himself a sip. Slow. Measured.


    - Fine


    He placed the goblet down deliberately, letting his hand linger a moment longer than necessary.


    - But remember, prince - those who forge chains rarely notice when they themselves are bound


    Boris lifted his gaze, and in it there was neither fear nor submission - only quiet, waiting strength.


    Alexander understood.


    This was not just a response.


    It was a move.


    Boris had neither lost nor won.


    He remained strong, but now his strength served princely power.


    Alexander knew this move was his, but the game was far from over. The pieces were set, yet not everyone had realized who was whose pawn now.


    Silence settled over the table, but it was no longer the detached quiet from before - now, it carried the weight of understanding.


    Gleb Turovsky ran his finger along the table''s edge, as if checking whether any trace remained of the chains now binding Boris.


    Stanislav the Great sat motionless, but something in his gaze had changed - he was now assessing not only Boris but also the prince, as if calculating his future moves.


    Vasily Svyatopolkovich glanced at Boris, but the man did not even look his way, as if knowing that Kyiv would now have to reckon with him. Olga Strumenskaya withdrew her hand from her signet ring just a fraction slower than necessary.


    And only Boris, as if nothing had happened, picked up his goblet once more. He took a sip, held the pause, and set it down again without lingering. Like a man who had accepted the inevitable - and who would find a way to turn it to his advantage.


    Alexander knew that Chernihiv could not be subdued in a single stroke.


    It was too wealthy, too proud.


    It controlled vast lands, trade routes, fertile fields, and its boyars were accustomed to independence. There was no prince in Chernihiv, but power belonged to those who did not bow their heads even before the Kyiv throne.


    This city had always stood apart.


    While Kyiv ruled over all of Rus'', Chernihiv remained a second center of power - a city where the boyars held enough authority to challenge princely rule, but not enough to govern without it.


    In Kyiv, the boyars were tied closely to the prince, bound by his court and his politics.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    In Chernihiv, they were used to negotiating among themselves, forming their own aristocracy, independent of Kyiv''s will.


    To take it by force?


    That would mean a war stretching for years. To impose princely rule immediately? That would spark resistance.


    But the first step toward Chernihiv had been taken.


    Boris was no longer merely ruling. He now ruled by the prince''s word. It was not yet total princely power, but neither was it solely his own. Now, every victory he won would be part of the princely system.


    And every mistake - a reason to replace him.


    Alexander held the pause before speaking, his voice calm.


    - A wise choice, Boris. You made the right move. For now


    Boris inclined his head slightly - not confirming, but not denying either.


    When Alexander began implementing new laws and reforms, Boris would not stand aside. He would be a part of them. And if, one day, he ever decided to leave - he would have to break not just princely power, but his own.


    Everyone at the table already understood that the prince had strength.


    Today, it was Boris and Gleb. Tomorrow, it would be someone else.


    Those who had doubted Alexander yesterday were now silent. Not because they accepted his power - but because they could no longer deny it. It was felt in the thick, contemplative hush. In the heavy gazes the elder boyars hesitated to meet.


    And now, for the first time, something of Yaroslav the Wise surfaced in him.


    But not as a reflection - rather, as a shadow foretelling a different path.


    Yaroslav had ruled through men. He built his power by creating loyal boyars, strong governors, powerful allies who served not so much the princely authority, but him personally.


    His state was held together by the people he knew how to see, use, reward, and punish.


    Alexander was beginning to rule through an iron system.


    It was not yet fully realized, but its shape was emerging. It had not yet bound the princely lands, but its links were beginning to close. He could not afford to depend solely on men, as his father had.


    Men were fickle. A system was not.


    Yaroslav had held power in the hands of his boyars. Alexander was building a structure in which power would hold them - and would not let them go.


    They still believed themselves independent. They still thought they could bargain, find loopholes. That they retained their freedom.


    But if Alexander moved swiftly - if he did everything right - the moment would come when they were no longer rulers, but part of a structure with no escape.


    They thought they were playing against the prince.


    But he was setting the board so that, by the end of the game, each piece would be exactly where it belonged.


    And now it was time for the next move.


    Who would realize it first?


    And who would only understand - when it was already too late?


    Boris said nothing more. He had accepted the terms, but he had not surrendered. Everyone in the hall knew the struggle was not over - it had only changed its form.


    But he was not the only one who had a choice to make.


    Alexander turned his gaze to Olga.


    Olga Strumenskaya - a widow, a ruler, the mistress of the Vladimir-Volhynian land, where her name was not just a word but law. In Volhynia, they did not ask who the prince was. They asked what Olga had to say.


    That won''t work with this land.


    Chernihiv and Volhynia were both strong, yet fundamentally different.


    Chernihiv lived by iron. It forged swords, hardened its druzhinas, built walls, preparing for war even when there was none. It rumbled like a forge before battle.


    Volhynia was another matter. Here, war was waged differently. Not with spears, but with agreements. Not with strikes, but with alliances. It was a hub of trade, where the road to power did not run across battlefields but through the wealthy courtyards of merchants.


    We had to negotiate with Chernigov. We will have to play with Volyn.


    Olga Strumenskaya was not someone who could be bent.


    But she could be woven into the system in such a way that it would seem like her own decision.


    And Alexander knew how.


    Olga sat like a statue carved from stone. Only her fingers moved, gliding over her heavy signet ring - not absentmindedly, not in thought. That gesture was not a habit; it was a tool.


    She seemed to be merely toying with her jewelry, but Alexander knew that women like Olga never did anything "merely." Her silence was a shield, behind which the sharpness of her calculations lay in wait.


    Olga had not touched her goblet, yet she had not allowed the servant to remove it either.


    Like a hand hovering over a chess piece - the move had not yet been made, but the game had already shifted.


    Alexander did not rush to speak either. He simply watched.


    He understood that Olga did not tolerate pressure. Volhynia was her fortress, and power here was not held by walls but by a web where every knot was tied by her word.


    She did not wield a sword. She built the roads through which gold flowed and placed barriers wherever power moved against her. Those who tried to escape her web, she did not break - she simply left them without roads.


    And when Alexander finally spoke, her gaze sharpened instantly - cold, almost dangerous.


    - Olga. - The prince''s voice was steady, firm. - You rule the Vladimir-Volhynian land. You held it after Voivode Yaropolk''s death. You gathered the boyars and maintained order


    Olga did not move, but her eyelids lowered just slightly - as if shielding an unnecessary emotion.


    - I do what is necessary, - her voice was even, but Alexander caught the tight, stretched thread within it, taut as a drawn bowstring.


    She did not look at him directly, but her eyelids flickered - almost imperceptibly, like tightened strings about to vibrate. One more word, and she would either strike or brace for a blow.


    Alexander held the silence. Deliberately. Testing how far she would let it stretch.


    - And you continue to do so, - he finally said. - I want to confirm your authority. Officially


    He did not continue immediately.


    Olga waited, but the prince did not rush. And so, she was the first to break the silence.


    - But? - There was no fear in her voice, but caution had appeared.


    Alexander leaned forward, slowly.


    - Your sons


    Olga did not reply. She only lowered her gaze to her ring, as if studying it, though she knew every curve by heart.


    But now her gesture had changed. If before, her fingers had glided over the metal as if playing, now she gripped the ring so tightly that the skin stretched over her knuckles.


    When she raised her eyes again, there was no anger, no fear.


    Only cold anticipation.


    Alexander saw the shift in her posture - subtle, yet palpable. Just moments ago, she had sat at ease. Now, her shoulders had tensed, the smallest adjustment, as if she was bracing for a strike.


    If before, she had simply been in control of the situation, now, before him, was a woman who did not just hold power - she was protecting her blood.


    Like a she-wolf sensing approaching danger.


    - What about them? - Olga''s voice was steady, but there was a note in it that thickened the air in the chamber.


    It was not fear. Not anxiety. It was a warning.


    Alexander knew that her sons were not just heirs. They were her extension, her fortress, her future. The elder - a warrior, dreaming of becoming a voivode. The younger - a politician, already pulling the strings of power.


    Alexander did not answer immediately. He waited, letting the anticipation stretch like a taut string, then spoke in a tone that made each word land with weight.


    - After the coronation, I will turn to the army, - he said, and in his voice was not just an intention but a decision that could no longer be changed. - Not just the druzhina, but a war machine. Permanent. Trained. A true force that does not scatter to their homes after every campaign


    He looked directly into Olga''s eyes.


    - And I will need young, ambitious, intelligent voivodes who will prove they are worthy


    He paused, letting the words settle into the silence.


    - Ratibor could be among the first, if he proves himself


    Olga did not reply immediately. She ran a finger over her signet ring, slowly, as if weighing his words.


    - My sons do not ask for favors, prince, - her voice was steady, but beneath it, a sharp note flickered. - And they certainly do not wait to be noticed. They take what is theirs.


    She raised her gaze - cold, certain.


    - Ratibor will prove himself worthy even without you and me


    She held the pause before continuing.


    - And the younger? - Her tone remained calm, but now there was more than interest in it - there was precise calculation. - You want to make him part of your game?


    Alexander remained silent. He understood that Olga was testing his limits, forcing him to prove his own significance. But he did not rush to react.


    She attacked. He allowed it.


    Outwardly, not a trace of doubt. Inwardly, the faintest smirk.


    She was making a move, but the entire game was already unfolding under his hand.


    - I am forming the Princely Trade Union, - he said evenly. - In Kyiv. In other lands. And in the future, in Vladimir-Volhynia as well


    He let a brief pause hang.


    - If your younger son takes his place among the elder boyars, he will be the first to lead this union in your land. The first to shape trade routes and tighten his control over them. The first to receive the direct support of the prince


    Olga''s finger moved along her ring again, as if weighing the offer.


    - Politics, - she repeated thoughtfully.


    - Power, - Alexander corrected. - If he proves himself, I will entrust him with more. When I begin my reforms, those who have shown their strength and skill will stand at their foundation


    This time, she did not answer.


    Her fingers traced the engraving on the ring once more.


    If this had been only about herself, she would have found a way out. She would have simply risen, glanced at the prince, and left him with an empty space where an answer should have been.


    But this was not just about her name.


    This was her blood.


    And blood cannot be abandoned without tearing oneself apart.


    Alexander was not taking her power.


    But he was creating conditions in which her sons would receive it from his hands.


    Ratibor, her eldest, could carve his own path - through steel, through skill, through determination. But the prince was not merely offering a chance. He was shaping an army where the rank of voivode would depend not only on valor but on loyalty.


    Today, he was a centurion. In the future - a princely voivode.


    But not of Vladimir-Volhynia. Of Kyiv. Or even all of Rus''.


    And the younger?


    Vladimir did not fight with weapons. But he fought nonetheless - through deals, through agreements, through influence. And if the Princely Trade Union became what Alexander envisioned, he would not just be a boyar. He would be the one who controlled the trade routes, directed the flow of silver, decided which lands prospered and which remained in shadow.


    If the army held power in its hands, trade bound it in chains of debt and dependence.


    One son could become the shield of the realm.


    The other - its silver hand.


    Today, they were a centurion and a boyar.


    In the future - two Pillars of Princely Power.


    And if one day she ever thought of independence, her own sons would be the first to deny it to her.


    A long, measured silence passed.


    If her husband, Voivode Yaropolk, had been alive, he would have simply raised his sword.


    If she had been a man, she could have struck first.


    But her weapon was not steel. It was her own blood.


    And blood cannot be thrown into battle without risking that it will be spilled.


    - You play well, prince


    She said it quietly, but there was neither admiration nor concession in her voice. Only a measured conclusion.


    Alexander did not smirk.


    - I play so that no one notices when they''ve lost


    Olga raised her eyes, and the question in them was gone - only a decision remained.


    - The question is not who notices first. The question is who manages to make the next move after that


    She paused briefly, then added, almost as if in passing:


    - Besides¡­ Kyiv is a dangerous place. Politics here shifts like the wind, and the druzhina is not always the only power one can rely on. If my younger son takes his place among the boyars, I suppose he could visit Kyiv from time to time?..


    Now it was Alexander who let the silence stretch.


    Gleb Turovsky tilted his head slightly, like a man who had seen the game and appreciated it. Vasily Svyatopolkovich remained still, as if weighing the consequences.


    For the first time in this council, Alexander felt that he was not the only one watching how the pieces were being placed.


    Olga''s gaze was calm, but there was a web already woven within it.


    She was offering an opportunity - but in the form of a condition.


    She knew it was to the prince''s advantage to keep her son close. That he would gain experience, influence, access to decisions. But if it was going to happen, let it appear as though it was her choice.


    She wanted her son not only to be part of princely power, but to be near the prince. To observe. To understand. To know, when the time came, when to make the first move.


    But Alexander saw it, too.


    She played for the long game.


    So did he.


    If her younger son came to Kyiv, he would not just be watching - he would be inside the prince''s reforms, within the changes that could no longer be undone.


    The closer one is to power, the tighter its chains.


    The silence between them shifted - no longer hostile, but no longer purely diplomatic.


    Now it was an exchange.


    And both knew what was truly at stake.


    - Then let it be a game, prince, - Olga said.


    But who would be leading it was yet to be determined.


    Her fingers lifted from the signet ring.


    She picked up her goblet, took a slow, measured sip - no more than one - and placed it back on the table.


    The goblet was no longer full. But neither was it empty.


    She had accepted the terms - but had left herself the right to decide how far this game would go.


    She tilted her head slightly, assessing not only his words but the man himself.


    Alexander held her gaze.


    - We are both playing, Olga, - he said calmly. - But the board still stands in my hall


    For a moment, the silence around the table grew too deep.


    Olga lifted her chin just slightly - not in challenge, but in acknowledgment of the rules.


    Gleb Turovsky turned his gaze to her, as if assessing who had calculated whose moves further.


    Boris did not move, but his fingers brushed against his goblet again - just once, as though marking a shift in the balance of power.


    Olga placed her hands on the table, deliberately, unhurriedly.


    - Then continue, prince, - she said.


    And only then did Alexander turn his gaze to Vasily Svyatopolkovich.


    The Kyiv elder boyar sat with his hands resting on the table, seemingly relaxed. But his fingers tapped slowly against the wood - not in rhythm, but as if testing its strength.


    Not tension. Not anticipation. An assessment of the material.


    Vasily was studying not just the prince, but the very game being played at this table. He saw the pieces fall and knew that the next step would not be the question of whether he would join this match - but rather, what role he would take in it.


    He watched as the prince moved in a circle, pulling one after another into his princely chain. The question was not whether Alexander would speak to him.


    It was what move he would offer.


    Boris had fought until the end. Olga bargained like a merchant, revealing her cards only at the final moment. But Vasily? Vasily did not play such games.


    He knew when it was time to yield.


    Perhaps resistance was pointless. Perhaps the best course was to take as much as possible from what the prince offered.


    But did that mean he was surrendering?


    In Kyiv, survival belonged to those who knew not just when to yield - but how to do it correctly.


    Yes, to be part of princely power. Yes, to be under his control. But was he the only one who had to submit?


    Everyone serves someone.


    Merchants serve the market. Warriors serve their voivode.


    Even princes, even the Grand Prince himself - he was bound by the very rules he created.


    And if submission was inevitable, why not choose to follow the one whose word carried true weight?


    Serving the weak was disgrace.


    Serving the strong was an art.


    But making the strong serve you - without them even realizing it?


    That was art doubled.


    And this Alexander - he was not just strong.


    He spoke in a way that made even the most stubborn bow their heads before they realized they had done so. Vasily had seen Boris clench his fist, seen Olga touch her goblet. This was not mere talent. Not luck.


    This was a weapon.


    Vasily had not reached his position through brute force or sheer influence. He had survived because he could always sense which way the wind was blowing - and he set his sail before anyone else.


    And now, before him, he saw a storm.


    One that would consume all who failed to turn in time.

 Chapter 30. System and chaos

    Alexander was watching Vasily Svyatopolkovich just as closely.


    On his lands stretched the most fertile fields, worked by thousands of peasants, his harvests feeding Kyiv.


    He was not a warrior like Boris. He did not weave political knots like Olga. And he did not cling to old princely privileges like Gleb.


    But he controlled the very heart of Kyivan Rus'' - the land itself.


    Alexander knew that the Kyiv boyars were of a different breed.


    They did not fight with swords. They waged war with contracts, connections, and trade agreements. They did not tolerate mistakes because every word here was worth gold, and every missed opportunity could mean downfall.


    And if Boris or Olga could exist independently of the prince, in Kyiv, power was an entanglement of interests. Here, one could not simply own land. One had to hold onto it.


    Alexander had no intention of forcing Vasily''s hand.


    He was going to offer him an opportunity too foolish to refuse.


    - Vasily, - the prince spoke calmly, but in his voice was the quiet certainty of a man who was not offering a deal, but an inevitability. - You rule some of the richest lands in Kyiv''s domain. But what if I told you that your fields could yield twice the harvest?


    The boyar raised an eyebrow slightly. There was no surprise in his gaze, no disbelief - only evaluation.


    - A bold claim, Prince, - he noted, lazily tracing a finger along the rim of his goblet. - Or a tempting deception?


    - Not deception. Calculation


    Alexander did not hesitate. He laid it out clearly.


    - After my coronation, I will introduce new methods on my princely lands. Three-field rotation, irrigation systems, Arab-style plows. In Byzantium, they already use them. In the lands of Baghdad, they have perfected them. I have heard this not just from merchants - the Byzantines themselves have spoken of how these methods change harvests. The Bulgars have been using them for years, and our traders have seen the difference with their own eyes


    He let a brief silence settle, giving Vasily time to absorb what had been said.


    - These methods have never been fully implemented in Rus''. But once I begin, no one will be able to stay behind. It will be done on my lands. And you can be the first not just to use them - but to be at their very foundation


    Vasily''s lips twitched in what could have been a smile - too brief to be sincere. He understood that the offer sounded too good to be true. But he also saw that the prince did not throw words to the wind.


    If Alexander claimed to have this knowledge, then it was likely true. And if it wasn''t¡­ that would become clear soon enough.


    - So you are offering me¡­ the right to be the first after you?


    - I am offering you more than that. I am offering you the chance to lead this across all princely lands


    Vasily''s fingers closed around the goblet, but he did not lift it. The smooth metal felt slightly cooler than expected. Or was it just the chill of his own thoughts?


    - The first to prove it works?


    - The first to gain not just the harvest, but control over its distribution, - the prince corrected.


    The shadow of a smile that had played on Vasily''s lips a moment ago disappeared, as if it had never been there.


    Alexander saw the man weighing the price of the deal, even as he knew he would take it.


    The prince leaned forward slightly.


    - The one who gives the peasants new tools controls not only the harvest, but the grain market itself


    Alexander did not need to add the obvious - that, in the end, the grain would go where the one holding the keys to the princely granaries decided.


    Somewhere in the corner, the fire crackled, but even its sound seemed muted now - as if it, too, was waiting to hear how this bargain would end.


    Vasily ran a finger along the rim of his goblet again, but this time not out of habit.


    He was weighing the words.


    Weighing the consequences.


    Alexander was offering him power - but a power bound to the prince. A system that could still be called princely for now, but sooner or later, it would become something greater than any single ruler.


    The question was whether he wanted to be part of it now - or later, when all the seats were already taken.


    - So, you''re offering me¡­ the chance to lead it? Or the privilege of being the first trapped within its framework?


    Alexander did not look away.


    - That depends on how you use the opportunities given to you


    Vasily narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning back.


    - Well said, prince. But you offer me the future, and I am used to counting grain in autumn, not in spring


    He let his finger run over the rim of his goblet, as if absentmindedly.


    - What if I take it only for myself? What if my lands, my harvest, are enough for me? If princely power grows - but without me?


    Alexander allowed himself the slightest smirk.


    - Then someone else will claim this right. And then, Vasily, your lands will no longer be among the richest


    Vasily''s brow furrowed slightly.


    - I am not accustomed to trade being regulated from above


    - And I am not accustomed to power being dictated from below, - the prince replied, calm and steady.


    For a moment, the silence at the table grew too deep.


    Vasily tapped a finger against his goblet, considering. He could feel the noose tightening.


    - You want me to be the first to feed this city, - he repeated. - But who will decide who gets the last piece of bread?


    - The princely granaries, - Alexander answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.


    Vasily exhaled - not in irritation, but too slowly, as though weighing the price of grain that now no longer belonged to him.


    - So I grow it, but you decide where it goes?


    Alexander tilted his head slightly.


    - Has it ever bothered you before, who holds the keys to the granaries?


    Vasily did not answer immediately. He knew, of course, that it had.


    But now, for the first time, he truly understood that those keys would never be his.


    The silence in the hall no longer felt like a simple pause in conversation.


    It was a point of no return.


    Vasily did not look at the prince. He looked through him - into calculations, into possible futures.


    He could refuse.


    He could say "no" - and within a year, watch as his peasants bought plows at someone else''s price. Watch as his grain flowed not where he willed it, but where the princely hand directed it.


    Watch as his land - the one that had fed Kyiv for generations - became just another link in someone else''s trade chain.


    Vasily ran his finger slowly along the edge of his goblet, as if testing how smooth these edges would truly be.


    He could try to hold on to independence.


    But there was no independence anymore.


    There was only the choice:


    Be within the system, or be outside it.


    And in front of him sat a man who left no path to remain outside.


    This was not a weak young man, begging the boyars for support.


    This was a ruler, forcing them to accept his power.


    He did not persuade. He did not plead. He did not buy their loyalty.


    He was creating a world where existing outside his rule was simply not possible.


    Vasily saw how this Princely Power, the one he called the System, was being built. It was not yet complete, but the links had already begun to close, and the prince moved forward with the same inevitability that his father once had.


    And Vasily knew that men like him always got what they wanted.


    Vasily exhaled.


    - Very well, prince


    Alexander did not rush to respond, letting the silence settle, seep into the walls of the chamber, muting the weight of the words just spoken.


    He saw in Vasily the same thing he had seen in Boris and Gleb - another piece placed on the board at just the right moment.


    But while Boris had fought to the last and Gleb had grasped at the power offered to him, Vasily, like Olga, refused to be led - he led himself. The only difference was that she wove herself into the game openly, while he did so quietly, allowing others the illusion of control.


    And yet, here he was, faced with a choice that was no choice at all.


    He turned his goblet slowly between his fingers - unhurriedly, as if testing the feel of the chains that had just closed around him.


    - A system, you say¡­ - he murmured, as if tasting the word for the first time. - So that''s what you call it


    He shook his head - not in fear, not in submission, but with the cold calculation of a man who weighed every word.


    - You give it a name, prince. Are you so certain it will never speak without you?


    Vasily raised his eyes, steady.


    - Then remember this, prince¡­


    He did not rush. He lifted his goblet, took a sip, but did not set it down immediately - he held it in his grasp, as if weighing not only the wine but his own words.


    - Any power lasts only as long as the one holding it is trusted to keep their grip


    His finger tapped lightly against the rim - not in threat, but in measured warning.


    Alexander tilted his head slightly, as if listening.


    - Then we will make sure those hands do not tremble, - his voice was calm, but something in it thickened the air in the chamber. - Not mine. Not those sitting at this table


    And now, in his gaze, there was more than just acceptance of the game.


    There was the quiet understanding that the stakes were higher than they had realized.


    The silence stretched tight, drawn like an overstrung bow.


    Vasily met his gaze without a smile.


    He did not yet know how strong this princely system would prove to be.


    But he knew this: power holds firm only as long as no one tries to outplay it.


    And someone always will.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Gleb Turovsky shifted slightly, as if testing the weight of a new obligation to Kyiv. Boris Stalnogorsky remained silent, but his gaze had grown heavier, as if measuring how much longer he should remain on the sidelines.


    Stanislav the Great was not watching the prince - he was watching Vasily, as if deciding who had just played whom.


    Olga Strumenskaya traced her finger along her massive ring, but now her gesture had changed. If before she had idly toyed with the ornament, now her movement resembled the careful inspection of a weapon before battle.


    She did not object to the prince.


    But she did not yield.


    She had accepted the terms, but she had left herself the right to change them when the time came.


    Alexander saw it.


    And he knew that in her silence, there was more than met the eye.


    He turned his gaze back to Vasily.


    - A long winter will show who survives it with profit, - Alexander''s voice was even, but there was ice beneath it.


    Vasily lifted his goblet, but did not drink. His fingers turned it slowly in his palm - casual, almost absentminded. But Alexander saw what he was truly weighing.


    He could set the goblet down.


    Or he could take a step from which there would be no return.


    - Well then¡­ Let the winter decide who stays warm


    He raised his goblet.


    - And who will determine who gets the spring


    The air had frozen, like water before the ice sets in - one more movement, and the surface would crack.


    Alexander looked at Vasily, calm and steady.


    - Let winter decide, - he said evenly. - But spring will show who has survived it stronger


    He did not glance at Vasily''s goblet, yet Vasily hesitated before setting it down.


    That was the first step.


    A step that, just yesterday, had seemed impossible.


    A step that would send out hundreds of others, reshaping Kyivan Rus'' - not with swords, but with the decisions made in this very room.


    But more important than that was something else.


    Now, everyone sitting at this table saw not a young prince, but power - power that was already arranging the pieces on its board.


    Not a boy.


    Not an heir whose time had yet to come.


    Boris Stalnogorsky inclined his head slightly - not in confirmation, but not in rejection either.


    Olga Strumenskaya ran a finger over her signet ring - a gesture betraying a thought:


    - How far will he go?


    Vasily Svyatopolkovich''s gaze flickered over the prince, but in his eyes there was neither admiration nor fear.


    Only calculation.


    They did not yet know what he would become to them.


    But they understood this


    He was no pawn on this board.


    He was the hand that placed the pieces.


    Today - a partner. Tomorrow - perhaps an enemy.


    But one thing was certain: he was someone they would have to reckon with.


    Earlier, at his audience with the Byzantines, he had not seemed so cunning, so deliberate in his every step.


    But now, a new question arose.


    Was this his true nature?


    Or was he simply playing the role required of him today?


    And what if this had all been planned?


    What if, from the very beginning, he had wanted them to see only what he allowed them to see?


    What if he had made them believe they were facing a young ruler who had yet to ascend his throne?


    They couldn''t be sure.


    But one thing was clear.


    They could either acknowledge his power or attempt to break it.


    But retreat was no longer an option - the door had closed, and someone already held the key.


    The only question was, who would realize first


    That they were locked in?


    Or that they were the ones who had been locked out?


    Alexander had no doubts.


    He was not just building power - he was building a structure that would wield it.


    Not men. Not cities.


    Principles.


    A system.


    It was not yet complete, but its shape had begun to emerge.


    This was a path that could not be turned away from.


    Not power for the sake of strength. But strength for the sake of power.


    And he knew exactly how it worked.


    In the modern world, power was not held by swords. It was held by contracts, resources, and control over the flow of money and energy.


    Alexander did not just see this system - he was part of it.


    He had been one of the managing officials in the British Ministry of Resources.


    What would oil cost in a year? Where should new supply routes be opened? Which corporations would gain access to government contracts?


    He did not just calculate the answers - he decided what they would be.


    His work was power.


    A single calculation could collapse a market. A single forecast could ruin a city or enrich a nation.


    He knew how to control dependencies.


    Cut off one supply chain - and an entire region''s economy would begin to suffocate.


    Redirect a single contract - and one man would gain influence while another lost everything.


    He lived by these laws himself.


    His world functioned like a machine. Precise. Emotionless. Devoid of personal decisions. Only calculation.


    And he had believed that this was the only correct way to live.


    But if his former world had been a mechanism running on fixed rules, this one was something else.


    Not chaos - but something alive.


    Here, people still pursued profit, still sought ways to survive.


    But there were things they were willing to die for.


    Here were those who believed in honor - even when it defied reason.


    Who fought to their last breath, even when the battle was lost, even when death was inevitable.


    Like knights dying for the Holy Sepulcher, knowing their bones would be left in foreign soil. Like samurai who walked the path of death, even when their blades had shattered in their hands. Like the princes of Rus'', whose cities burned behind them, yet who did not take a single step back.


    Here were those who defended freedom - even when it led to their destruction.


    Like the steppe warriors who broke their spears against chains but refused to bow to a master. Like the Veche Cities, where the cry of "Freedom!" thundered louder than church bells and the square was drenched in blood. Like the Spartans who fell at Thermopylae, knowing they were dying not for victory, but for the very meaning of freedom.


    Here were those who placed loyalty above gain - even when it cost them everything.


    Like vassals who followed their lords, even as they fell into the abyss. Like the druzhina that stood by their prince, knowing that by tomorrow, their heads would decorate the palisades. Like court physicians who drank poison alongside their sovereign, because they had sworn to serve until their final breath.


    Here was Piety bordering on fanaticism.


    Faith strong enough to lead armies.


    Like in the First Crusade, when thousands who had never met crossed continents to die for Christ. Like monks who vanished into forests and wastelands, renouncing the world for the sake of a single prayer. Like heretics who walked to the pyre with a prayer on their lips, never pleading for mercy.


    But among all of this - amid gods and blood and oaths, amid crowns and swords - there was one more force.


    Here was love, for which men gave up lands, power, and even their lives.


    Like Troy, burning beneath Achaean blows for the sake of a single woman. Like kings who cast their crowns at the feet of their beloved, knowing their empires would not survive it. Like those who died in monasteries, surrounded by candlelight and silence, because they had chosen love over power.


    Love.


    Alexander frowned slightly.


    Love was the enemy of reason. The enemy of logic. The enemy of knowledge.


    Like warm ice - an absurd contradiction that still melts in your hands, no matter how tightly you grip it.


    It defied analysis. It broke patterns. It severed connections. It erased the boundaries between what was right and what was impossible.


    It demanded recklessness. And he had seen how strong men became weak, how the greatest minds put entire nations at risk for something that could never be held.


    But that, too, was a lie.


    Love didn''t always drive people mad. Sometimes, it was just weakness. Sometimes, nothing more than a habit - one that snapped like a thin thread.


    In his world, men did not throw their crowns at a woman''s feet. But they burned down business empires for a single kiss. Oligarchs squandered fortunes, politicians destroyed careers, presidents put entire nations at risk - just to hold on to the ones who made them forget reason.


    And some simply walked away.


    Grew cold.


    Stopped fighting.


    Love cost no less than a throne. Only the currency changed.


    But what was it worth when nothing of it remained?


    He had always known this.


    But once, he failed to understand the most important thing.


    Alexander tried to build a system even within his own feelings - to subject them to the same principles as his work, where every step was logical, every investment paid off, where weakness was a risk, and risk meant loss.


    But love signed no contracts. It drafted no agreements. It did not obey even the most flawless system.


    It offered no guarantees. It brought no stability. And when the moment came to choose between reason or emotion, he chose the one thing he could not betray.


    Logic.


    And lost his wife.


    She did not follow rules, did not offer a guaranteed outcome. He did not understand why one should do what was unprofitable, why one should go against reason when it only led to loss. He could not accept her irrationality.


    Not because he did not love her.


    But because love demanded what he could not accept.


    To accept chaos. To break his own laws for feelings that could not be calculated. To step into the void, knowing there were no guarantees.


    It demanded unprofitable choices. Sacrifices without calculation. Loyalty not to reason, but to something that defied logic.


    Alexander had never been able to go against his nature.


    Nor had he ever wanted to.


    Why should he?


    After all, a man who willingly chooses loss...


    Is he not an idiot?


    He was certain he was right. That logic was stronger than emotion. That love could be built like a strategy.


    In his past life, he chose calculation. He believed in profit, in precision, in control.


    And he lost much.


    But now...


    What if he had encountered something he could not force into a system?


    He was used to calculating people. Controlling them. Placing pieces on the board so that every move was predictable.


    But could a heart be structured?


    For the first time in a long while, he hesitated:


    - What if not everything can be calculated?


    What if this world held things beyond logic?


    Sophia Lakapina.


    His future wife.


    He knew he could handle war. He knew how to rule over boyars, lands, and armies.


    But what if power was not the hardest thing?


    What if the hardest thing¡­ was learning to live where there was no calculation?


    He had seen people die for love. Sell everything for it - honor, status, crowns. Burn to ashes in it.


    And he had seen them lose it.


    He knew that once, he had already made his choice.


    But this time¡­


    This time, he wasn''t sure.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who reads.


    I originally wanted to lay out Alexander''s upcoming economic trap in full detail - one that will ensnare half the regions - but I decided to move that moment to the Evening Feast. That''s where I will reveal how he starts with the weakest Turovo-Pinsk land, how he will counter Novgorod, and how, step by step, he will seize economic control over the other territories.


    Sometimes, people tell me I don''t clarify enough details. Other times, they say I give too many thoughts, emotions, and explanations. I understand that I can''t please everyone, but I will write this story as I see it. That doesn''t mean I ignore opinions - on the contrary, I value each one, and everything I add passes through my own vision of this world.


    Recently, a reader noted that the negotiations with Gleb were too drawn out and that too many events were packed into one chapter. But in reality - whether in the Middle Ages or today - this is exactly how politics works. No one can simply say yes or no. Every word, every pause, every glance carries weight.


    Power in those times was held not only by swords but by words. One wrong step - and you don''t just lose influence; you become a pawn in someone else''s game.


    Alexander does not say this outright. He does not threaten. He does not demand. He offers. But in such a way that refusal is impossible. He is creating a system where saying no is not an act of strength, but a step into the abyss.


    Gleb, Boris, Vasily - none of them are fools. They understand they are being pulled into a new game. But they are given the illusion of control. And they accept the terms because the alternative - uncertainty - is far more terrifying than a princely seal.


    This is the essence of power. Not iron. Not blood. But the ability to make a man submit - so that he wants to.


    Medieval negotiations were not quick exchanges of words, not simple agreements. They were a delicate trade of influence, where the one who hesitates is not the one who doubts, but the one who forces others to speak first.


    Alexander does not break their will. He gives them a choice - a choice where only one path truly exists. And when they agree, they believe they have preserved their freedom.


    If you think politics is simple, this chapter proves otherwise.


    Medieval power is a web.


    Entry is free. There is no way out.


    If you find it difficult to immerse yourself in this era, if you prefer books where politics is just "I am king, you are my vassal, swear loyalty to me," then you are always free to turn to simpler stories, where an oath is enough.


    But my style is not watered-down pop fiction.


    It is a deep, powerful, and detailed immersion into the reality of the 11th century - of Kyivan Rus'' and the other nations of its time.

 Chapter 31. White Lily Among Swords

    While Alexander was establishing his authority in negotiations with the Senior Boyars, Detinets lived in anticipation. Like a vast heart bound by stone and iron, it pulsed with the echo of footsteps, the neighing of horses, and the dull strikes of hammers against metal.


    Tomorrow - the coronation. Tomorrow - a new order.


    The princely court was bustling with preparations. Servants hurried through the passages of the terem, guards doubled their shifts, craftsmen made final checks on the princely crown. The air smelled of wax, fresh wood, and metal. Even the boyars, frozen in the heavy hall, seemed to sense this movement - they did not meet each other''s eyes, yet they still felt that tomorrow everything would change.


    Power was born not only in council chambers.


    It was forged in decisions, sealed by oaths, bound in ties.


    Some submitted to it by right of blood. Others took it by the sword.


    But sometimes, power came not through battles, but through an alliance.


    An alliance that wove foreign blood with new land, expanded borders without a sword, and created strength where yesterday there was only duty.


    In this palace, everything was part of a grand design - both those who prepared the crown and those who were to wear it.


    While Alexander was bending the boyars to his princely system, his future was already entwining with another''s fate.


    In the gardens hidden behind the walls, amidst the morning chill, walked those who were to become part of this new power.


    Sophia Lakapina, the future princess, and her cousin Clio.


    They walked slowly, their thin leather soles barely feeling the sand, but the dampness seeped through the fabric, clung to their skin, as if reminding them: this land was not theirs.


    The air was fresh but not warm - it smelled of damp wood and something tart, foreign. Sophia discreetly pulled her sleeves over her wrists, hiding her fingers from the cold.


    Behind them, with impeccable discipline, moved the eunuchs and servants: silent, indistinguishable from the cool morning shadows lurking beneath the lindens. They were there, yet it was as if they did not exist.


    A little farther back, just a step and a half away, moved the guards.


    The princely druzhina walked heavily, measuredly, as if feeling the weight of their armor even in the silence. Their hands rested on their sword hilts, their gazes gliding along the alleys, noting every movement. They were not motionless - some idly played with the shafts of their spears, others stole furtive glances at the Byzantines.


    But Sophia saw her own as well.


    The Varangian Guard - Byzantine Norse bodyguards - moved differently. Their steps were measured, their breathing even, their gazes like dead water, revealing no depth. They did not merely observe - they recorded. There were no sharp movements, no fidgety turns of the head - only precise, pre-calculated gestures.


    They did not just stand nearby - they enclosed the space. Their backs seemed relaxed, but it was the relaxation of a wolf before a leap. One of the Varangians let his gaze slide over the princely druzhina - not with suspicion, but with detached assessment, like a judge deciding whether an opponent was worthy of being an enemy.


    Sophia knew that this "walk" was not a walk in the full sense of the word: every step left a mark, every word could be heard. She slowed her pace slightly, straightening her back almost imperceptibly. There were no palace walls here, yet the feeling of walking under watchful eyes did not fade.


    Clio walked freely, almost playfully - her ease was irritatingly natural. Sophia, without noticing, adjusted her sleeve, as if tucking an unwelcome thought into the fabric.


    She turned her gaze aside, letting her eyes glide over the trees, paths, and carved pavilions.


    Kyiv appeared calm, but this calm breathed strength - not the strength of power, but of the land itself, which knew no borders.


    Grand Prince Yaroslav the Wise was renowned not only for his victories and laws but also for his ambition to make Kyiv great in every sense - not just in strength, but in beauty. His gardens were proof of that.


    Laid out as early as Vladimir''s reign, under Yaroslav they became a reflection of the new order. Along the walls stretched alleys of lindens, apple trees, and bird cherry, casting shadows over paths strewn with white sand. The air was filled with the bitter scent of wormwood and the sweet aroma of mint - this was a place where not only flowers but also medicinal herbs were grown.


    The waters, dug and landscaped for the princely estates, shimmered under the sun, swans gliding across them while wild ducks circled near the banks. Vineyards stretched along the walls of the terems, indifferent to order. The water reflected the carved towers rising toward the sky, like ships frozen in place.


    Sophia did not stop to admire them as another woman might have. In Constantinople, gardens were an extension of power - their orderliness emphasized the strength of those who could tame even nature. Here, however, everything grew on its own - not chaos, but not submission either.


    The air was oppressive. Damp, sharp, it settled on the skin, clung to her wrists, crept beneath the light fabric of her dress. Sophia shifted her shoulders slightly, as if shaking it off, but the scent remained.


    Too rough. Too alive. It seemed to cling to her, seeping into her breath. It smelled different than in Constantinople - and not just different. It smelled of something that refused to be subdued.


    The paths crunched underfoot rather than echoing dully like marble galleries. The light was softer but colder. This world felt different. What did they value here? What kind of power did this garden reflect?


    She stepped softly but confidently, like a pattern embroidered with the finest silk. Yet fabric, no matter how masterfully woven, still obeyed the hand of the artisan. Her fingers tightened around her cuff. The air was humid, the ground unsteady, and her footprints seemed too deep, too visible, as if this land was in no hurry to accept them.


    She wasn''t merely looking - her gaze lingered on the curves of the paths, on the trees stretching upward, as if nature itself here was striving to break free from someone''s will. It was foreign, wild, yet it had its own logic. Sophia caught herself trying to decipher it.


    Everything here was foreign. Not hostile, but not hers.


    Beside her walked her cousin Clio with ease - the one who always smiled, even when there was no reason to. Her mother used to say: - The most important thing is to keep smiling. As long as you smile, the world won''t see your weaknesses


    Clio listened to her - and smiled. Always.


    - Well, it''s not so bad, - Clio ran her fingers lightly over an apple branch, shaking off a drop of dew - as if brushing away an unnecessary thought. Her voice was light, almost careless, like laughter used to mask unease.


    - Well, they could use a bit more order... - Clio nudged a fallen leaf with the tip of her shoe. - It''s as if they''re waiting for someone to say, "Alright, line up in neat rows!"


    Clio tilted her head slightly, touching the branch. A faint smirk flickered across her face - not quite mockery, not quite doubt.


    Sophia shifted her gaze from the peony to Clio herself. She, too, had been taught to smile once - but not like this. Sophia was meant to be a statue, marble with the faintest curve of her lips. Clio, however, smiled either genuinely or convincingly.


    Sophia turned away, slowly taking in the alleys, the vines, the trees growing as they pleased.


    - This is not a garden, - she finally said. - It''s¡­ nature, only lightly touched


    Clio raised a questioning brow but did not answer right away. Her gaze swept over the garden - assessing, with a slight trace of amused curiosity.


    - Look, - Sophia gestured. - Here, the trees grow as they wish, and no one interferes. There, the vines wrap around the gazebo, but they haven''t been pruned into neat arches like ours. Here, grasses grow among the flowers, and no one pulls them out to leave only roses


    She spoke calmly, but her eyes betrayed a strange feeling. Not admiration, not rejection - rather, an attempt to understand.


    For Sophia, raised in the strictly structured world of the Byzantine court, this garden was something else entirely.


    In Byzantium, a garden was an extension of power.


    There, even nature obeyed man. Fountains shot water in precise streams, not a single drop falling outside the sculpted basins. Marble paths remained dry even after rain.


    Lemon trees were planted not for their fruit but for their beauty - their blooming was calculated so that in spring the air would be filled with fragrance, and in summer, their canopies would provide exactly the right amount of shade for the empress''s walks.


    Cypresses stood like temple columns, and every shadow fell exactly where it was intended. Flowers were planted according to a precise design - to ensure harmony of shades, to prevent a single stray sprout from ruining the composition.


    But here...


    Here, no one set rules. Grass sprouted between the paving stones, vines stretched as they pleased, apple trees spread their branches wide, as if no one dared prune them. This was not a garden, but a place where nature did as it wished. And no one stopped it.


    Lilies reached for the sun wherever they pleased, unrestricted by white stone borders. The ponds were not enclosed in marble, and the wind rippled their surface, blurring reflections.


    Sophia frowned - water should be still, so that reflections remained sharp. Byzantine fountains never wavered under the wind. But here, in Kyiv, even water did not obey man. Apple trees grew as they pleased - their branches intertwined, and their roots lifted the ground, forming small hills.


    Here, man did not command nature - he lived with it. Here, the garden did not serve man - it stood as his equal.


    - And is that such a bad thing? - Clio leaned down, brushing a petal with the tip of her finger. - It''s beautiful... and, really, no one asked its opinion


    She smiled, not waiting for an answer.


    Sophia looked at the garden - but not the way Clio did.


    In Byzantium, every tree had its place, every shadow fell precisely as intended. Here, even the flowers did not know where they belonged. Sophia was not sure whether this could be called order¡­ or freedom.


    She looked at the lily, but she did not see a flower. She saw herself.


    The same white, flawless petal - as long as someone deemed it necessary. One motion - and it would be gone. One command - and it would be broken.


    And the roots¡­ Roots did not save you if they could be torn out in an instant.


    She slowly touched the flower, her fingers lightly pressing the petal. It bent under her touch but did not break. Sophia held her breath. Everything depended on the hand that would pluck it. And whose hand that would be - was not up to the flower.


    In Constantinople, no garden grew on its own. Vines were trained along arches so they would not block the sunlight, roses were planted strictly by color so that white would not mix with crimson. If a sprout appeared where it was not needed, it was removed. Not out of cruelty - out of necessity.


    So it was with her.


    She had been raised like a rose in a palace garden. Beautiful, convenient, without thorns. Sharp words were pruned, unnecessary emotions uprooted like weeds. She had been taught to be an ornament. But ornaments did not choose where they stood.


    Yet here, among these flowers that reached for the sun not by someone''s command¡­ For the first time, she thought:


    - What if I am not an ornament?


    Her father built her fate as he built his plans - precisely, without leaving a single unnecessary step.


    He was not cruel. He was not kind.


    He spoke to the emperor not as a friend, but as a man who knew his worth. As one who remembered that in Byzantium, loyalty was valued - but even more so were those who could be replaced.


    And he had no intention of being replaced.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Nor did she.


    He knew that to remain indispensable, his lineage had to be woven into the game like a thread into silk fabric. Sophia was part of that pattern. She did not choose what her pattern would be, but she knew that more than just her life depended on it.


    Her grandfather - a magister who had served at court - knew the price of influence and what lay hidden behind the throne''s shadow. He was not cruel, but he was cold. He did not speak of love, but of necessity. He saw in her not a granddaughter, but a link in the dynasty.


    She had grown up among marble galleries, where the floors were smooth and cold, among books that taught her not to dream, but to understand.


    She had been taught many things: to speak softly, yet so that she would be heard; to move lightly, yet so that all would see - she was noble. She had been taught that duty was more important than desires, that beauty was power, but power that could never be held directly.


    She knew that one day she would have to leave. To leave her home, her country, her name - and become someone else.


    That was how it had happened with her aunts, with her father''s sisters, with the daughters of great Byzantine houses.


    In Constantinople, girls of noble families did not belong to themselves. They, like rare trees, were planted in golden pots - carefully, with calculation, with the thought of how they would fit into the design of palace gardens.


    Many dreamed of becoming princesses. In fairy tales, it sounded beautiful - silks, crowns, majestic palaces.


    But fairy tales did not say that a crown was a chain. That gold was a cage. That a princess was not the one who ruled, but the one who was given away.


    Their childhoods passed in chambers where carved columns and mosaics replaced the world. Their hands touched silk and parchment, but never the earth. Their voices were heard only where they were permitted.


    Little Byzantine girls were taught how to speak, how to move, how to lower their gaze with grace - but never how to stand against the wind. They were taught to be as silent as the eunuchs'' steps, as flawless as the embossed patterns on the walls of Hagia Sophia.


    But if a tree was planted in a pot, it grew exactly as the gardeners intended.


    If a flower sprouted where it should not have, it was uprooted.


    So it was with them.


    They married those who were chosen for them - emperors, generals, allies whose dynasties intertwined like the patterns on the carpets of imperial chambers. Their fates were decided behind closed doors, their lives dictated by orders signed by men.


    They were not even called by their names, but by their lineage - "daughter of Lakapenos," "the emperor''s betrothed," "the consort of the Caesar." Their existence held meaning only in relation to someone else.


    But there were others. Those who did not submit.


    Zo? Porphyrogenita - three times empress, whose power they tried to take away. Theophano - a woman who chose poison over obedience. Irene of Athens, who ruled alone and then blinded her own son.


    They were not just daughters. Not just wives.


    But they were not happy either.


    They did not sit in golden pots.


    But too many paid for it in blood.


    Sophia''s gaze lingered on the lilies. Which flower would survive longer - the one that bent before the wind, or the one that sent its roots deeper than they could be torn out?


    They did not sit on thrones, but they could rule through the ears of those who did. Sophia had seen how the mothers and sisters of Caesars whispered decisions that later became law. How strength hid beneath the mask of submission.


    But this strength was different - not open, not obvious. And those who too boldly reached for power were remembered by history not as rulers, but as conspirators.


    Sophia had seen it since childhood.


    She had seen how her mother lowered her eyes when men spoke, how her aunt counted the jewels in her caskets as if they held even a drop of real power. She had seen how her father''s sister was sent to a foreign land without anyone asking if she wanted it.


    It had always been this way.


    And Sophia?


    She did not know what she would become.


    But she knew one thing - no matter how carefully flowers were cultivated, one day they took root where no one expected them to.


    She shifted her gaze from the lily to her hands.


    - I don''t know, Clio...


    Sophia slowly touched the petals, running her finger over them.


    - Maybe this garden really isn''t worse than ours


    She frowned slightly.


    - But I think... the flowers here grow on their own. Or do I just want to believe that?


    Clio looked at her but did not answer immediately.


    A quiet breeze stirred the leaves.


    The roots had already touched foreign soil. But if someone tried to tear them out - what if the earth refused to let go?


    - Look, - Clio crouched slightly, tilting her head, and traced a petal with the tip of her finger. - It stands alone. Even if no one expected it to grow here


    Sophia lifted her gaze to her.


    - But it grows, - Clio smiled. - Even if the soil is foreign


    Sophia frowned slightly, but her cousin was already watching her with a mischievous glint in her eye.


    - And if you put down roots... who decides whether they will be allowed to grow?


    Clio was smiling, but her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her sleeve. Sophia noticed - there was something extra in that smile. A bit too much lightness, too much carefreeness. As if saying it too seriously would make it frightening.


    - What do you mean?


    Clio smiled - not cheerfully, but too easily, as if brushing aside her own thought.


    - The prince, of course. Or do you really think... that flowers here grow on their own?


    Sophia gave a small shake of her head.


    - I didn''t choose. Does it even matter?


    Clio hesitated for a second, then shrugged.


    - What if he smiles at you in a way that makes you forget why you came here?


    - Falls in love?.. - Sophia flinched, as if the word had slipped out on its own.


    She wanted to scoff, but suddenly she realized she had been staring into the water for too long.


    The reflection wavered, blurred.


    - That''s just... a fairy tale, isn''t it?


    The wind sent ripples across the surface, distorting the image.


    Sophia ran her finger through the water. The line of her face trembled, dissolved into waves.


    One strong breath - and it would disappear completely.


    Like a woman''s fate, if it was decided for her.


    Clio also looked at the reflections.


    - It''s when you look at someone... and fear that one day they will be gone. Even if they were never yours


    Sophia slowly shook her head.


    - And if emptiness is all that remains? Then no matter what it costs, there is no choice anyway


    Clio glanced at her, the corner of her lips twitching.


    - You speak like a poet


    Sophia did not smile.


    - And you speak like a father


    Clio snorted but did not argue.


    Sophia remained silent as well.


    She did not know what love was. She had been taught that there was duty. There was calculation. There was power.


    Everything else was just a beautiful lie.


    Her finger slowly glided over the velvet petal. The flower was cold, like the morning air.


    Sophia knew - it would wither.


    But what if it managed to bloom first? What if it left a trace, even if only briefly?


    Clio kept talking - lightly, carelessly, but with that smile that concealed everything that could not be said aloud.


    She laughed - softly, as if joking, but Sophia saw that it was not just laughter. It was something more. A final defense.


    Clio smiled the way she had been taught - because smiling was easier than fear. Because if you laughed long enough, you could believe you weren''t afraid.


    But did laughter save you from what had already been decided?


    Could a smile stop the hand poised to pluck the flower?


    How long would their flowers last before someone tried to tear them out by the roots?


    But here... here, no one tore them out.


    Sophia lifted her eyes. No one transplanted flowers to where they looked "right." No one pruned them if they stretched sideways instead of upward.


    They simply grew.


    Without borders. Without someone''s will. Without a hand deciding where they should reach.


    And for the first time, Sophia wondered - what if here, she could take root however she wanted?


    What if no one could decide for her?


    In Byzantium, fates were not decided in battles but in the shadows of curtains. They were shaped with words, sealed with treaties, bound by alliances.


    Here, no one spoke twice. Here, decisions were made with steel, not words.


    If in Constantinople, conspirators were poisoned or exiled, in Kyiv, they were met with a sword. Here, power was not held by parchment, but by steel.


    Sophia had thought Kyiv would be like Constantinople. At first glance, it was - the same walls, the same domes, the same marketplaces where the prices of silk and furs were shouted. But the longer she listened, the more the differences became clear.


    Even the guards moved differently here.


    Byzantine guards stood motionless, like marble statues. Their discipline was absolute - no one moved without an order. But here, the warriors did not stand stiffly at attention. Their eyes searched for danger, their stances were alive, ready for movement.


    Kyiv lived differently. Louder. Harsher. More direct.


    In Byzantium, to take power, one had to weave intricate webs. In Kyiv, one had to have warriors standing behind them.


    But even here, power was not taken by the sword alone.


    Conspiracies were born not behind palace tapestries but at men''s feasts, in heavy nods, in the exchange of oaths and betrayals. Here, intrigues were not hidden behind silks - they were discussed at tables, with a cup of mead in one hand and a knife in the other.


    In Constantinople, conspirators died from poison. In Kyiv, they were buried with swords in their chests.


    But what if you had no sword? No warriors?


    What if you were born not as the one who could take power, but as the one who was given away?


    Sophia did not know what power women could hold here.


    Byzantium taught them to rule through whispers, unseen, through silks and smiles. But here?


    Here, there were no marble corridors where decisions were made in the shadows. Here, one either took power - or perished.


    But what did taking power mean in this world? Sophia did not know.


    She had seen men who bent not only enemies but fate itself to the sword. She had seen how the boyars spoke to each other - not in veiled phrases, but directly, without the refined play of words. She had seen how some hesitated to make decisions, while others waited to see which way the scales of power would tip.


    But Prince Alexander did not wait.


    He was not an heir sitting behind palace walls, waiting for a crown. He did not rule through alliances and marriages.


    Sophia had watched him during audiences and negotiations with her uncle, Magister Nicodemus. She had seen how he held himself before the boyars - unhurried, yet impossible to ignore.


    He did not let the Byzantine set the pace, but he did not yield to another''s rhythm either. He refused easy solutions, choosing a path that took more time but gave more power.


    Alexander did not seek comfort.


    He did not fall for tricks, did not let Nicodemus dictate the game. He listened, weighed his options - and then cut through the conversation like a knife, forcing even an experienced diplomat to change his strategy. Sophia saw how her uncle - a man used to guiding others'' decisions - had met someone who could not be led.


    Alexander did not rule with words. He ruled with the weight of decisions.


    He did not ask if he could.


    He simply took.


    She watched him - and realized that beside him, she could not remain just a name.


    And for the first time, Sophia wondered: in this world, where the sword ruled, was there a place for a woman who did not want to be just an ornament?


    And if there was - what was it?


    What if, beside him, she could do what was impossible in Byzantium?


    What if this land was not a cage, but a battlefield? Where it was not bloodlines that decided, but strength. Where the victor was the one who refused to break. Where even flowers, to survive, had to push through swords?


    What if beside him, she would have to choose - remain a shadow or find her voice?


    She did not believe she could change a man.


    But if even the flowers here broke through stone, without asking¡­


    Then why couldn''t she?


    And if she could - why ask?


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who reads.


    The story of Alexander and Sophia is one of the most complex and captivating.


    He is a man who subjugates everything to a system, even his own feelings. She is someone who was taught from childhood to hide her emotions, to speak and act as befits the daughter of great Byzantium.


    What will happen when two wills, bound in the armor of duty, collide? When one who is used to ruling meets one who has been taught all her life to obey - but never to break?


    This story is one of my favorites. I hope you will enjoy it as well. Because overcoming all of this means embarking on a journey that will take years.


    And as you know, with me, everything always follows its own course.


    I hope I was able to convey the atmosphere to you - what the gardens looked like in both Kievan Rus'' and Byzantium, what the world of noble Byzantine women was like. But this is only the beginning.


    Soon, you will see how women lived here, in Kyiv. And how, over time, everything will begin to change.


    Alexander does not just take power - he transforms it. Step by step, he will change every aspect of this world.

 Chapter 32. Sun over the Abyss

    Kyiv lived, but not peacefully - it seethed like a cauldron in which the boiling brew was already beginning to spill over. Steam burst from the cracks, scalding the hands of those who tried to hold down the lid. Cracks crept along the walls, and only the blind could believe it would not explode.


    The air over the city was heavy, as if before a storm, and every crossroads, every street, even the narrowest alleys, breathed with commotion.


    From the Dnieper docks, caravans of boats flowed like a dense stream spreading along the shore. People, hunched under the weight of bundles, dragged furs, fabrics, and sacks of grain to the prince''s warehouses.


    Loaded carts trembled on potholes, their axles creaking wearily, like an old man grumbling about a hard lot. The drivers urged their horses on - short, rough, with familiar irritation. The lathered horses tossed their heads, shaking off the dust of the road.


    The hum of human voices rolled in waves, like the tolling of the Saint Sophia bell - long, muffled, echoing in every alley.


    The markets roared like a battlefield before the first clash. The guttural cries of merchants cut through the air - sharp, heavy, giving no respite.


    Words collided, intertwining into a continuous din, which could not only be heard but felt on the skin. In this noise, there was life, but there was also something else - something slipping between the words, like the foreboding of a storm.


    In the churches, on the contrary, voices faded, like candles touched by the wind. But in the forges, steel rang: hammers struck red-hot metal with a steady, almost warlike rhythm. Behind the bustle, behind the human clamor, behind the merchants'' cries, a tense silence seeped through, perceptible to those who listened closely.


    Tomorrow, Prince Alexander would rise over the city like the sun over the Dnieper. Or he would fall like a falling star, leaving behind only a trail of ash.


    On the eve of that day, Kyiv was transforming.


    There was not a single place in the streets where the wave of preparations had not reached. By day, traders rushed back and forth with goods, filling the prince''s warehouses; craftsmen worked without rest; boyars received guests, discussing how Kyivan Rus'' would change under the new rule.


    But above all, tomorrow had to pass without turmoil.


    The Kyiv guard resembled a pack of hunting hounds that had caught the scent of prey but awaited the signal.


    At the crossroads stood the druzhinniki - silent, alert. The wind tugged at their cloaks, as if testing the strength of those who wore them. They did not block the roads, but they stood like a beast before a leap - breathing steady, yet ready to lunge.


    Their gazes pierced the faces of passersby, and their fingers twitched near the hilts of their swords. Their hands were relaxed, but if anything disrupted the city''s rhythm, blades would gleam in the air.


    In the detinets, the walls seemed taller than usual. As if the very stones understood that tomorrow would decide Kyiv''s fate.


    Archers stood at their posts, unmoving, like figures carved from stone. Below, at the gates, foot guards paced slowly along the walls, while in the palaces and corridors, men moved with downcast eyes and spoke more quietly than usual.


    In the watch, one of the druzhinniki muttered, as if voicing a thought aloud:


    - And if tomorrow does not go as planned?


    Another exhaled, shook his head.


    - Then there will simply be a new prince. The only question is - who among us will remain in his druzhina?


    Near the cathedral, the air seemed to thicken - no one walked there without sensing someone''s gaze upon them.


    But the most important events were unfolding beyond the detinets.


    In the alleys, there were no voices - only shadows gliding along the walls, dissolving before they could be noticed. Faceless people, silhouettes without names - they did not haggle, did not drink, did not laugh.


    Their movements were smooth, but beneath that smoothness lay coiled tension. Their eyes - watchful, almost predatory. Their hands - too close to their belts, as if ready to grasp steel.


    Merchants? Pilgrims? Or shadows waiting for their moment?


    They listened.


    They watched.


    And if anyone lingered their gaze upon them, they met a coldness as sharp as a blade. Amid the city''s clamor, they discerned not just words, but intentions.


    In movement - not just passersby, but strangers who did not belong in Kyiv.


    Some disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.


    A potter, laying out his wares, noticed how a buyer suddenly fell silent mid-sentence, staring into the crowd. His face twitched, but he said nothing - only followed with his eyes the cloaked figure slipping into an alley.


    There, in the shadows, others watched as well.


    Inn yards and drinking houses were checking newcomers. In these days, the city was filled with hundreds of people - boyar servants, envoys, merchants, wandering warriors, pilgrims, drifters. Who among them was merely seeking shelter, and who was lurking, waiting for the right moment?


    In the alleys, movements were silent. There, where an honest man''s foot would not tread, shadows melted into darkness, and whispers ran swifter than the wind.


    Petty thieves, cunning spies, disguised messengers - all were under watch.


    In the courtyards, fires smoldered, their smoke clawing at throats, making speech difficult. The druzhinniki sat in tight groups - eating tasteless bread, chewing without noticing.


    Others sharpened their blades. The scraping of steel sounded like a countdown to the coming day.


    No loud laughter, no conversations, no drunken jokes - only hushed phrases, footsteps in the dark, and silent glances.


    A heavy weight hung in the air. No one knew whether tomorrow would be a peaceful day or whether Kyiv''s streets would ignite with fire.


    In one of the alleys, a cry rang out - short but piercing.


    - Hold him! - a voice called, filled with alarm.


    For a moment, the crowd fell silent; a druzhinnik standing nearby was already stepping toward the disturbance, making an unseen gesture to summon three more.


    In such days, the word "Feud" sounded like a sentence.


    That was what they called turmoil in Kyivan Rus'' - when the streets became a trap, and people became prey. On such days, no one knew where the slaughter would begin - in an alley, at the market, or right at the gates of the prince''s court.


    The druzhina watched. The guards scanned every face. But could they see the blow that was already looming over the city?


    That day, the air was strangely heavy, like before a storm.


    In Podil, amidst the dense market rows, it was as if nothing had happened. People still bargained, laughed, and raised their cups.


    While they still could.


    The market rows expanded like the living flesh of the city, filling every free corner of streets and courtyards.


    The air here was thick, heavy. It clung to the skin, stretched with the sweetness of sbiten, soaked with the soot of braziers, while fat dripped from spits, sizzling on the coals.


    Merchants, craftsmen, traveling traders, beggars, apprentices - all merged into a single, resonant stream. Someone rushed by with bolts of fabric, another carried buckets of mead on a yoke, while someone else, already drunk and flushed, embraced the first passerby, singing bawdy songs.


    By order of Prince Alexander, a festive market was held in Podil.


    An entire square was set aside for bread stalls - the bakeries never cooled. The crowds buzzed, as if at a meager catch, but today there was neither hunger nor despair. Only the scent of fresh dough, roasted barley, the crackle of hot crusts under fingers.


    Boys squeezed between the stalls, trying to snatch a piece. Old men conversed, recalling that in their lifetime they had never seen such generosity from a prince.


    - Alexander is kind! - someone shouted, raising a loaf above their head, and the crowd roared in response.


    The prince''s druzhinniki stood aside, observing the human tide. They did not interfere - yet. Only their gazes were sharp, watchful.


    Off to the side, near the sprawling market rows, a commotion rose, as if a thousand throats cried out at once.


    - Gold! Pure gold, prince''s minting! - a merchant from the Galician lands waved his hands, showing grivnas with fine engraving.


    - Silk from Persia itself! Smooth as a maiden''s skin! - a trader ran the fabric through his palms, while his assistants kept a keen watch to prevent any theft.


    In the weapon stalls, steel rang out.


    - A sword that will cleave chainmail but not break! - a blacksmith bellowed, raising a blade that gleamed in the sunlight.


    - And this one is of princely craftsmanship! Only the druzhina carries such! - another chimed in, drawing a sword from its scabbard, its blade flashing with a predatory glint.


    The crowd surged, boiled, argued. Kyiv lived as a river does before the flood - restless, with a hidden current beneath the mirror-like surface.


    But in waters full of gleam, there is always lurking murk.


    Behind the merchants, blacksmiths, traders, and drunken revelers, no one noticed the others - those who did not shout, did not bargain, did not drink.


    They did not buy silk, did not test swords. They listened. They watched.


    In the noise of the fair, one could dissolve.


    In the crowd - disappear.


    In the shadows - leave a trace no one would find.


    And behind heavy oak doors, decisions were already being made about which traces would remain after tomorrow.


    The air held the scent of soot, wax, and something stale - as if the very chamber knew that dark deeds were being plotted within.


    - Too many people will be in the square, - a first voice whispered, tension flickering in its caution.


    - Too many? - a second voice snapped back, almost irritated. - That''s even better. Easier to vanish in the crowd


    - But not easier to strike, - a third muttered hoarsely, as if his voice had grown rough from long silence.


    A candle cracked. The silence shuddered with it. In the darkness, someone sharply drew in a breath, as if it was not the wick that had burst, but the last chance to turn back. Someone exhaled too quickly, carelessly.


    - If it happens before the people¡­ - a slow, drawn-out voice, as if the speaker himself hesitated to finish.


    - ¡­He will not become prince, - a fourth voice cut in. There was neither doubt nor triumph in it. Only cold inevitability. - He will become a dead symbol


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    The candle''s flame wavered. Black shadows flickered across the walls, stretching like foreign eyes peering through a window.


    On a dark street, under a low awning, two figures pressed against the damp stone.


    One held a crossbow. The other a sword - but did not draw it. The blade might betray them with the breath of steel.


    - While they look up, you keep the target in your line of fire, - the first one''s voice was quiet. Uncertain.


    - For how long? - the second exhaled through clenched teeth.


    - As long as necessary, - but he knew himself that this was a lie.


    A shadow flickered in the alley. Someone passed by, did not stop.


    - If something goes wrong¡­ - the second man''s voice faltered. He wiped his sweaty brow with his palm, swallowed hard. - We''re finished. Do you understand that? They won''t just kill us. They will erase us


    The first tightened his grip on the crossbow''s stock.


    - There''s nowhere to run, - he said. - So nothing must go wrong


    But there was no certainty in his voice.


    In a tavern in Podil, someone slammed a palm against the table.


    Wine spilled. A thin red stream ran across the wood like an open wound. No one wiped it away. Let it soak in.


    - Money first, - a voice said, quiet but pressing, like a blade at the throat.


    The man sitting across slowly nodded. His fingers clenched his cup so tightly that the whiteness of his knuckles stood out even in the dim light.


    - Tomorrow. When he speaks


    In response - a short chuckle.


    - You are not alone, - they told him. It was neither comfort nor support.


    It was a sentence.


    The tavern hummed as if nothing was happening. People drank, laughed, argued.


    But an old man by the entrance did not drink. He gazed into the distance - toward the place where tomorrow had already begun shaping its fate.


    He said nothing, only clutched his prayer beads in his fist, because he knew:


    - Tomorrow there will be blood


    And in the alleys, shadows were already moving.


    In the weapon stalls, two daggers had vanished. The owners did not ask who had taken them. On such days, questions were asked less frequently.


    In the markets, traders still argued over the price of fish - it seemed as if tomorrow did not trouble them at all.


    But in the shadows, hands grew accustomed to weapons while the steel was still cold. Tomorrow, the blades would be warmed by another''s blood.


    And at that very moment, on another road, guests were entering Kyiv.


    Mud at the fords. Rain-soaked cloaks. Heavy hooves of horses. Caravans, convoys, dusty riders.


    The princely court was waiting, and guests were arriving from all corners of Rus''.


    Some had taken their places long ago.


    Others hurried to arrive at the last moment.


    Still others remained far away - and now their voices would not be heard at the feast.


    Kyiv welcomed guests, but not all in the same way.


    Some were awaited with halls and feasts. Others - with cold stares and locked gates. And some would not see the dawn at all.


    The city lived in tense anticipation.


    With each passing hour, boyars, envoys, druzhinniki, and priests gathered in the Detinets. Nobles - but of different kinds. Some shaped the prince''s fate, others ensured he did not forget it.


    From the west, from the boyar estates, the senior boyars of the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands walked at an unhurried pace. They knew Alexander not by hearsay, but by his decisions. They had seen how he ruled, how he judged, how he forged power.


    After the death of Yaroslav the Wise, it was he who became their prince, and now they walked to where the new fate of Kyivan Rus'' was being decided - not with submission, but with calculation.


    Those who had only just set out would find neither roads, nor time, nor fate. The spring floods had cut off their path - or had they themselves decided it was better to stay away?


    But those who were here were already moving the pieces. At the table, those who arrive last do not get a seat. They can only watch.


    The Turiv-Pinsk, Pereiaslav, and Chernihiv boyars had long settled in Kyiv. Their servants behaved like masters, their advisors tried to predict the prince''s next steps - but it was too late to guess.


    Alexander was already tightening the knots.


    Hlib of Turiv did not merely own land - he controlled a web of agreements. Trading courtyards, lesser boyars, druzhinas defending the borders - all of it was held together by his word.


    But Hlib alone was not enough. One senior boyar is a key, but not an entire fortress.


    To take control of the Turiv-Pinsk lands, it was not enough to secure their governor. At the evening feast, Alexander intended to tighten the noose around half the senior boyars of the region - not with iron, but with silk, soft as Furs, yet just as unyielding.


    But not everywhere could be handled the same way.


    With Borys of Stalnohorod, the conversation was different.


    Chernihiv was accustomed to independence. Borys''s power rested on a balance - the princely lineage, the voivodes, the boyar elders. If that balance was shaken, Chernihiv would no longer be an ally but a part of the princely design.


    While the senior boyars argued over their places at court, their world was already changing without them.


    The Smolensk boyars did not come.


    Too far. Too unexpected. Even the fastest messengers would not have brought them in time.


    But the world did not wait. Their places at the prince''s table were already taken by others - and when the cups were raised tomorrow, their voices would not be remembered.


    No one came from Polotsk either.


    The city was wealthy, its old families influential, but distance made it remote not only geographically but politically.


    The road from Polotsk lay through forests, swamps, and rivers - travel took weeks even in the best of times. Spring floods and sodden roads made it even slower. Even if Vseslav Bryachislavich, Alexander''s cousin, had decided to send his boyars, they would not have reached Kyiv for another two weeks.


    Tmutarakan also remained on the sidelines.


    Rostislav Vladimirovich, the prince''s nephew, and the senior boyars of the Rostov-Suzdal lands were even farther.


    For them, the road to Kyiv passed through the Polovtsian steppes - dangerous routes where caravans could be delayed not by days, but by months. Spring in the south brought not only rain but raids.


    The fortresses of Rus'' stood on alert, and the boyars dared not leave their lands, knowing that in their absence, slaughter could begin. Even if Rostislav had set out the very day he learned of the coronation, he still would not have arrived in time.


    More than a thousand versts to Kyiv. And in such matters, the latecomers are not awaited.


    From the lands of Volodymyr-Volynskyi, covered in road dust, the senior boyars arrived, led by Volodymyr Strumenskyi. Their horses, lathered and dark with sweat, struggled to walk, their servants barely stayed in the saddle, but there was no time to slow down. They had made it - and that meant everything.


    Looking at the Detinets, Volodymyr felt confident. His mother, Olga, was a strong, wise woman - if she had said "go," then he was going exactly where he needed to be.


    Only he was not the one choosing where.


    Unaware of it yet, he carried himself as an ally. As one who had come to the prince''s table with honor and right.


    But his place at that table had already been decided. Not as a warrior. Not as a friend.


    As dice in another''s game.


    Dice that had been cast - without asking if he wanted to play.


    Churchmen were also arriving.


    Hegumens, bishops, priests - their heavy robes had not yet shaken off the road dust, but the crosses on their chests already glimmered in the twilight.


    Some gravitated toward the metropolitan - reserved, dignified, with faces that bore power, not prayer.


    Others sought the prince. They understood that on this day, a blessing meant no less than an oath upon the sword.


    Still others remained in the churches. They lit candles - but in their whispers, there was more than just the name of the Lord. On days when power is decided, prayer often becomes conspiracy.


    And only Novgorod did not ask for a place at court - it came to see who was worthy of it.


    Novgorod never bowed its head. It did not live under the prince''s hand - it bargained, waged wars, forged alliances, and broke them when it was profitable. It respected strength but obeyed only its own.


    The princely governor of Novgorod, Igor Rostislavich, knew this better than anyone.


    He was not the most powerful boyar of Kyivan Rus'', nor did he command countless druzhinas. But Yaroslav the Wise had placed him here not for his sword, but for his ability to maintain balance.


    Novgorod could not be ruled - it could only be guided.


    Where other governors tried to subjugate the city, Igor negotiated. He did not break - he wove himself into trade alliances, supported the veche, prevented the boyars from pulling power to themselves, but also did not allow the prince to lose influence.


    His power was not built on orders but on mutual interests.


    And so he remained in power when others fell.


    He did not know the words "the prince''s grace." He knew deals, agreements, the necessary votes at the veche. Where others bowed, he bargained.


    A posadnik. A merchant. The ruler of a city where words were worth more than swords.


    To some - a man of business. To others - a schemer. To still others - a wolf, patiently waiting.


    And today, he was not merely observing - he was meeting those whose word would decide where Novgorod would lean.


    Not the merchants - they were already in Kyiv.


    Novgorod''s ships, laden with furs, wax, and honey, had descended the Dnieper long before news of the coronation. They traded, negotiated, strengthened ties - and when the time came, Novgorod already knew what was happening.


    But merchants were one thing. And power - another.


    And now those who made decisions were entering Kyiv.


    Kyivans were used to the bustle of the docks. But today, among the arriving ships were those who were not welcomed with open arms.


    The ships nudged the pier like beasts feeling solid ground. The water receded, leaving behind silt and the stench of decay. The wooden planks trembled under the weight of footsteps, and the air smelled not only of the river - there was something else. Something old. Expectation? Distrust?


    From the shore, they were being watched.


    The first to step ashore was Ratibor Slovensky - the senior boyar whose word at the veche carried more weight than that of a dozen merchants.


    Behind him came others - trading men, minor boyars, those who had come to Kyiv for deals but found themselves at the heart of change.


    They walked onto Kyiv''s soil unhurriedly, without unnecessary words. Their gazes slid over the city walls, the druzhinniki, the merchants who gave them slight nods upon recognizing familiar faces.


    Someone in the crowd shook their head, muttering, as if to themselves but loud enough to be heard:


    - They''re not counting the walls, but those who rule them


    Nearby, an old Kyiv merchant smirked and spat into the dust.


    Ratibor stopped, his eyes sweeping over the docks, the druzhinniki at the gangways, the faces filled with more questions than answers.


    His lips twitched - not quite a smile, but not mockery either. Like a merchant who already knows the price but lets others think the bargaining is still ahead.


    - And the price of power too


    Igor stepped forward, casting a quick glance at the newcomers.


    - Was your journey long?


    Ratibor squinted, as if the sun was too bright, but he was not looking at the sky - he was looking at the people, at the docks, at Igor himself.


    - Long enough to understand that we were expected


    Somewhere to the side, someone muttered quietly:


    - The question is, were they expected with bread or with a knife?


    Igor barely nodded.


    - Kyiv welcomes everyone. Differently


    Behind him, someone chuckled - short, like the sound of a knife being tested for sharpness.


    Ratibor smirked - dully, without mirth.


    They spoke no further. Because they knew - they would not be the ones making the decisions.


    Igor watched his own as they disappeared into the noise of the docks.


    The Novgorodians did not rush to declare themselves.


    They wove themselves into Kyiv, like merchants choosing a place for trade. Without noise. Without fuss. They did not need to prove their significance - it was already with them.


    But Kyiv was not just a game of internal politics. It was also the border of worlds.


    Those who came from the north watched to see whom they should recognize.


    But from the west, those were coming who could recognize - or reject.


    Their gaze was colder than the Novgorodians''. Their words carried more weight. Their decisions could determine not only the prince''s fate - but future wars.


    ***


    I thank everyone who is reading.


    I understand that this day turned out long, but it was important for me to show not just Kyivan Rus'' itself, but the entire world of that time - alive, multifaceted, full of events and moving forces. I wanted you to see how everything intertwined: people, fates, intrigues.


    Going forward, I will not dwell in such detail on what has already been shown. In this chapter, you have seen Kyiv not just as a capital, but as a living organism - a city that breathes, acts, and prepares for change. Ahead lies the arrival of the boyars and the Novgorodians, new players on the chessboard of power.


    And in the next chapter, an even broader panorama awaits you: Western delegations, their reception according to all traditions, the first moves in a political game that begins even before the official negotiations. And, of course, the arrival of one of the khans - his reception, customs, the hidden tension, glances full of calculation and expectation. Every meeting is a test, and every word can become a weapon.

 Chapter 33. To some, Bread, To others, a Sword

    At the western gates, where the doors barely had time to close, new caravans, riders, and messengers appeared.


    Not just guests. Not just merchants.


    Those arrived who were accustomed to shaping destinies not at public assemblies but behind the closed doors of palaces.


    The people of Kyiv did not crowd at the gates like children awaiting a miracle. They stood a little farther away, assessing, measuring with their gazes. Merchants calculated which prices would rise. Craftsmen held back their sons so they wouldn''t jostle the foreigners. Warriors did not move, but their eyes keenly followed every gesture.


    Merchants were greeted as always - briskly, with an eye on profit. But when warriors appeared behind them, the market fell silent. People did not hide - but neither did they smile. Their gazes were sharp, assessing: was this a friend, or was it trouble?


    When the riders approached the gates, speaking a foreign tongue, the city froze.


    The noise of Kyiv, like a crashing wave, struck an invisible wall and dissolved into silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.


    The caravan halted, the horses snorted, swatting away flies.


    Polish riders merely tugged at their reins - unhurried, as if testing the firmness of the ground beneath their hooves. The Hungarians dismounted easily, as if they did not feel the weight of the road. Their horses stepped proudly, and their bridles gleamed as if in a triumphal procession.


    On the crimson Polish banners shimmered an embroidered eagle - the symbol of the House of Piast''s power, familiar even from the coins of Boles?aw the Brave.


    Beside them, the Hungarian banners bore the patriarchal cross - a reminder of Saint Stephen, the first king who brought his land to Christianity.


    These symbols were known on the roads of Europe and Rus''. But in Kyiv, they meant one thing - the neighbors had come to see what kind of ruler the new prince would be.


    The envoys did not hurry to enter.


    Stanislav of Ratyn, a close confidant of Prince Casimir I, sat in the saddle straight as a sword in its sheath. His black cloak, devoid of unnecessary embellishments, accentuated his lean figure, and his cold gaze glided over the fortress walls, catching details.


    Thin cracks in the stone. Uneven spots of fresh masonry. Traces of repairs.


    Stanislav was not merely looking - he was reading. Kyiv was strong, but it was still healing old wounds.


    - These walls seem sturdy, - he muttered, but loudly enough to be heard. - Only any crack is an invitation to an enemy. I wonder if the young prince understands that?


    But his gaze caught more than just the masonry.


    The crowd at the gates did not scatter, did not whisper fearfully. The people of Kyiv watched calmly - too calmly. Like a merchant who has long set his price but lets the trader think he is still considering.


    Beside him, Gy?rgy of Eger, representative of the Hungarian King Andrew I, tilted his head as if listening to something of his own. His demeanor was sharply different from the Polish. A restrained smile, a soft gaze, a friendly expression.


    He brushed his belt, inlaid with Byzantine stones, tossed back his cloak, and responded with a slight touch of irony - in Latin, distinctly, as if these were not mere words but a position in a diplomatic game:


    - Simulacra, amice, simulacra. Symbols, my friend, symbols. Walls are merely reflections of a city''s will. The true strength of Kyiv lies in the people who defend it


    Stanislav slowly turned his head toward him but did not argue.


    Gy?rgy continued, as if thinking aloud:


    - But you are right. The young prince must prove that he can not only build walls but also strengthen allies


    As he spoke, the gazes around them latched onto the approaching riders. The murmur, at first distant like the sound of surf, grew louder. Merchants cast sidelong glances, whispering to their servants, passersby slowed their steps, listening to the foreign speech.


    Lachs. They were known. They traded with them, fought them, avenged them. Today they brought gold. Tomorrow - perhaps fire.


    The Ugrians were softer. Their smiles were courteous, their speech respectful. But this was one of those cases where the blade lay so elegantly in its sheath that one forgot its sharpness.


    - Look, the Lachs!


    - And with them, the Ugrians¡­ What have they come for?


    - Look at the gifts! Do you think they brought them for nothing? Everything is calculated


    Others picked up the discussion, but before the crowd could start buzzing louder, a dull stomping sounded behind the gates.


    Not sharp, but weighty - steps the city was accustomed to.


    From the gates, at a measured pace, unhurriedly, as if they themselves were part of the city walls, came Miroslav the Wise and Dobrynya of Pereyaslavl.


    Behind them moved a small procession. Warriors in ceremonial chainmail, their helmets polished to a shine. Servants carried princely banners - a crimson cloth rippling in the morning wind.


    Two young women in long embroidered dresses stepped forward, holding loaves of bread and bowls of salt on snow-white towels.


    Miroslav calculated the game moves ahead. Dobrynya knew how to strike precisely, at the right moment - both with words and with a blade. One set traps. The other broke defenses.


    Miroslav was the first to bow his head in a courteous greeting. But it was not a gesture of submission, but a move in a game where each step meant more than a word:


    - Welcome to Kyiv, gentlemen. Your visit is a sign that Kievan Rus'' continues its greatness. We are glad to see such esteemed guests


    Dobrynya did not bow, only nodded - respectfully, but without submission.


    The women presented the loaves.


    - Kievan Rus'' welcomes guests in the honor of its ancestors, - Miroslav said in an even voice. - Accept bread and salt


    Stanislav of Ratyn slowly extended his hand. He took a piece but did not taste it. He squeezed it between his fingers, as if testing how it would break.


    Gy?rgy broke off a piece and ate it immediately.


    - A good tradition, - he remarked with slight approval. - When there is bread in a house, there is strength in it


    Stanislav barely curled his lips but said nothing.


    A moment later, he stepped back, turning to Miroslav and Dobrynya.


    - I hope the might of Rus'' is reinforced not just by words, - his voice was even, but his fingers tightened slightly on the reins. - Poland wants to know that its neighbor will remain strong


    Miroslav paused.


    - Greatness is reinforced by actions. Tomorrow you will see Kievan Rus'' as it should be


    Stanislav did not respond, but his gaze hardened. Gy?rgy shifted his eyes from Miroslav to Dobrynya, as if assessing how firm their position was.


    Dobrynya noticed. He held the pause. Then, calmly, he added:


    - Walls hold a city. Strength holds borders. But power is not held by orders, but by those willing to die without them. Kyiv does not speak of its power. It shows it with history


    Gy?rgy did not look away, but his shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he had made a decision.


    - Gentlemen, let us leave sharp questions for the reception hall, - he said conciliatorily, spreading his arms as if steering the argument aside. - Kyiv is a magnificent city. I think the young prince may surprise us, perhaps even more than we expect


    Stanislav barely smirked - the way one looks at an enemy who is still an ally.


    - Surprise? - he repeated, tilting his head. - Kievan Rus'' is great, but every new rule brings change. It is important to understand what path the prince will take


    He narrowed his eyes slightly.


    - Your king looks at Rus'' like a marketplace. He would buy it - if only he had the coin. He would take it as an ally - but there is no faith. Then what are you? Buyers? Or are you bargaining?


    Gy?rgy held his gaze a moment longer than usual. Then he smiled - lightly, almost kindly, but a flicker of caution appeared in his eyes.


    - Between our courts flows not gold, but blood. Family blood, if you will. The Queen of Hungary is the sister of Prince Alexander. And a family should know who will take the throne


    There was no threat in his voice - only a pointed statement of fact.


    - We do not simply observe. We remember that as Kievan Rus'' shapes its tomorrow, so too will our alliance be shaped


    Stanislav curled his lips slightly but said nothing.


    At the side, near the walls, two boyars exchanged glances. One raised an eyebrow, the other barely pressed his lips together. Those who knew Latin had already understood everything. The rest only sensed that what had been said meant more than it seemed.


    The crowd did not grasp the meaning, but they caught the intonations.


    A dull whisper swept through like the wind across the steppe.


    - About what?


    - About the prince


    - About the alliance


    - The alliance?


    Rumors spread faster than words.


    - The Ugrians want something


    - To bargain?


    - Or to set conditions?


    The delegations had already passed through the gates and moved further, slowly but without hesitation. Horses clattered their hooves against the stone, the scent of wood and fine fabrics trailing from the wagons. Along the streets, the townspeople watched the envoys intently - some with curiosity, others with caution.


    Gy?rgy still smiled - easily, serenely - but something else flickered in his eyes.


    Stanislav of Ratyn slowly turned his head toward Miroslav.


    There was no open challenge in his gaze, but the question meant more than mere formality.


    - Alliances are fickle things. Today a friend, tomorrow a threat. We want to know that Rus'' will remain strong and stable. The sudden fall of such significant figures as Yaroslav''s sons raises doubts


    The words were spoken calmly, but a hidden sharpness could be felt even through the balanced tone. Silence hung in the air - heavy, like a storm that had yet to strike but was already pressing against the temples.


    Miroslav did not answer immediately. He looked at Stanislav as if weighing not only the question but also the man who had asked it.


    Then, slowly and confidently, he spoke:


    - Kievan Rus'' has endured sorrow, and its path continues. The young prince is taking on a burden that many would consider unbearable. Your visit is a sign that you are ready to assess his resolve


    Dobrynya, crossing his arms over his chest, added:


    - The one who knows how to rise after a fall rules longer than the one who has never fallen


    Stanislav remained silent. His gaze slid over Miroslav''s face, but his expression remained the same - grim, thoughtful, concealing his thoughts.


    However, Gy?rgy, tilting his head slightly, smirked:


    - True strength lies in foreseeing consequences. His decrees are impressive. We have been told that he is already taking his first steps


    The phrase sounded almost careless, but his gaze was sharp. These words carried not just interest - but a careful evaluation.


    The air seemed to thicken. In this silence, one could hear someone in the crowd shifting nervously from foot to foot.


    But before anyone could respond, the sharp voice of the herald rang out. The words of the prince''s decree cut through the air like a blade, echoing across the square.


    Miroslav stepped forward, his steady movement putting an end to the conversation.


    - Kyiv has always known how to welcome those who arrive in peace. Your men are weary from the road, and the prince has ordered that you be given a fitting reception


    He turned, his gaze indicating the depths of the city, where, beyond the rows of streets, the walls of the citadel rose.


    - Your quarters are ready. Lodging within the fortress is a sign of trust that not everyone is granted


    Stanislav did not immediately look in that direction, but he noted it out of the corner of his eye. The corner of his lips twitched into a faint smirk.


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    - Trust? Or convenience for you?


    Miroslav inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging the implication, but his voice remained steady:


    - Both. Poland is used to seeing calculation in its allies. Kyiv prefers to see allies in its calculations


    Gy?rgy chuckled - lightly, almost kindly, but a glint of interest flickered in his eyes:


    - A clever move. Being closer to the prince means being closer to decisions


    Dobrynya, who had been silently observing this play of words, tilted his head slightly, studying the Poles'' reaction. Then he folded his arms across his chest and, without changing his expression, said:


    - And it also means that whoever decides to act foolishly will remain here. Forever


    Stanislav met his gaze - long, intently, as if trying to determine how strong these walls truly were.


    Miroslav let the silence linger, but not for long. He continued, not allowing the conversation to slip into cold tension:


    - Of course, before meeting with the prince, you will have time to rest. This evening, the prince is hosting a feast


    For some - a celebration. For others - a battlefield. In the upper halls, it would be decided who was an ally and who was a shadow at one''s back. Below, in the banquet halls, the common folk would raise their cups, thinking that this feast was about merriment.


    Stanislav ran a finger along the strap of his cloak. He was neither surprised nor amused.


    - A feast before the decisive day... The prince makes the first move


    Gy?rgy inclined his head - but without a bow.


    - He who calls to the table expects a gesture in return


    Miroslav held a pause.


    - The first strike is always a word


    Gy?rgy nodded, but calculation flickered in his eyes:


    - And he who sits closest to the prince chooses whose voice will become a weapon


    Stanislav said nothing, only smirked slightly.


    The delegations moved on, accompanied by the prince''s warriors.


    The crowd watched them for a long time.


    In their whispers, there was everything - admiration, distrust, fear.


    Tomorrow, some would raise a cup to the new prince.


    And some... would start counting those who would not rise from the table.


    But not all whispers were born in Kyiv.


    Somewhere far away, beyond the hills, beyond the Dnieper, other conversations were taking place - under the open sky, among dry grass and the steppe wind.


    News traveled the roads faster than horses. At roadside inns, people murmured:


    - The Cumans are coming


    In the merchants'' shops, they asked something else:


    - They came with gifts. But how many warriors do they have?


    Old men at the gates exchanged glances:


    - What does the wind bring from the steppe - gold or a raid?


    Kyiv did not greet the steppe with smiles.


    Kyiv waited.


    The Cuman caravan stretched along the road, leaving a dusty trail behind. The steppe breathed - the wind drove waves of dry grass, the sun made the air shimmer, as if the very earth was slipping away from beneath the hooves.


    Somewhere in the distance, beyond the hills, the city began. But for now, it was silent - only the rustle of feather grass and the torn gusts of wind carrying the scent of sun-scorched earth. The air trembled, blurring the riders'' outlines, as if the steppe itself was trying to hide them from prying eyes.


    Horses tossed their heads, shooing away flies, men squinted against the scorching light, peering into the horizon. Ahead lay not just a road but the boundary between familiar freedom and the unknown.


    At the front rode Tugorkan.


    A man of the steppe winds, a man who had lived through hundreds of campaigns and dozens of worlds, yet had never learned to trust them. His gaze did not simply skim the horizon - it dug into it, searching for every shadow, every movement. He was not looking for enemies, but he was certain they were near.


    Behind the khan rode his guard - not just warriors, but a pack. Men who did not love peace because they knew:


    Any peace is only the calm before the storm.


    Their light armor did not hinder their movements, sabers at their belts swayed in rhythm with their horses'' steps, as if ready to leap into battle at any moment. The wind played with their garments, teasing out the patterns - encrypted stories of battles, blood, and agreements that had cost no less than war.


    For the Cumans, Kyiv was like a distant relative - too important to be at war with, too dangerous to trust. Their freedom depended on its strength, and its weakness could be their opportunity.


    The rumors of Yaroslav''s sons'' deaths had forced the khanate to move faster than they had wished.


    - We must show that we come in peace, - Tugorkan had said at the council before departure. His voice was steady, calm, yet there was neither doubt nor concession in it. - If we are accused, war is inevitable. And war with Rus'' now is death for the steppe


    The younger warriors protested.


    - Is our honor worth gold? Let them fear us, not us justify ourselves to them!


    Tugorkan interrupted firmly:


    - Without Rus'' bread, your tents will be empty. And the steppe does not forgive hunger. If the prince strengthens his power by blaming us, it will be the end of our world. We must get ahead of their suspicions - but not bow before them


    The wagons, covered with embroidered cloths, concealed furs, gold, and silks. The caravan moved step by step toward Kyiv, and now the hills ahead had risen, beyond which the city began.


    Last evening in Kyiv, they said: - They are near


    At night: - They will be here tomorrow


    At dawn: - Prepare


    The prince''s retinue heard this calmly, without fuss. They knew the Cumans came in different ways. Some with gifts. Others with fire.


    Today, they came with the first.


    But what would come tomorrow?


    Kyiv did not greet the steppe riders as it had the Hungarians and Poles. There were no offerings of bread and salt, no embroidered tablecloths, no respectful bows. They were not awaited in the halls, they were not invited to the table.


    The Cumans were met differently.


    First - the rumble of hooves. Heavy, steady, like the tide before a storm.


    Then - rows of riders.


    Lances pointed upward, like lightning frozen in anticipation of a strike.


    The sun cast reflections on helmets, but there was no warmth in that light.


    Only cold, measured strength.


    The prince''s druzhina did not wait for them in the city. They rode out into the field.


    Not as masters, but not as servants either. They stood motionless, as if they were part of the land itself, making it clear - the steppe riders could come, but they could not rule here.


    At the head of the detachment rode the Supreme Voivode, Ignat Slavyansky.


    His chainmail, blackened by time and countless campaigns, fit him like a second skin. On his head - a dark, spherical helmet with a narrow nose guard that concealed emotions but emphasized his piercing gaze. He did not grip his sword''s hilt - he was in no hurry to reveal his intentions, but he did not loosen his grip either. Everything in his appearance said: this was a man accustomed to resolving matters, but if necessary - he would do so with iron.


    On either side rode Vyshata, head of the garrison, Senior Boyar Svyatoslav Polovetsky, and Boyar Boris Dneprovsky. Each kept a hand on their sword''s hilt.


    Two hundred warriors of the Senior Druzhina, clad in steel, sat in their saddles, shoulder to shoulder.


    They did not charge in reckless assaults like the Frankish knights. They did not crush their foes with sheer weight like the Byzantine cataphracts. They killed differently - with cold calculation, with the precision known only to those who had survived dozens of campaigns.


    There was no haste in this formation, no unnecessary movement, but there was the unmistakable feeling that any word, any gesture from the Cumans - and the air would be sliced apart by the whistle of blades.


    The detachment halted a few dozen steps away. Close enough to catch the movement of a hand toward a weapon. But not so close that a single spark would turn this into slaughter.


    Between the two sides stretched an empty space. But it was more than just land.


    It was a boundary no one dared to cross first.


    Silence stretched on for several moments.


    The horses struck the ground with their hooves, as if eager to bolt forward, but waiting for a sign.


    The steppe riders remained silent.


    The wind tore at their cloaks, but no one moved first.


    The sun glinted off chainmail, but the light was as cold as a blade.


    All that remained was to wait - who would move first?


    Finally, Ignat leaned forward, like a predator studying a foreign pack. His gaze swept over the caravan - not superficially, but with precision. Who was tense? Who was relaxed? Who watched from beneath furrowed brows, and who held themselves with defiance?


    - Khan Tugorkan, - his voice was even but loud enough for not only the Cumans to hear, but also the Senior Druzhina behind him. - Kyiv knows you are approaching. Was your journey peaceful?


    It was not a question.


    It was a test.


    Tugorkan slowly inclined his head - not in submission, but in evaluation. His eyes, dark as the steppe nights, remained still. He heard not just the words, but what stood behind them.


    - Rus'' remembers war. We remember trade. Today, we bring gifts


    He paused, letting them hear the silence between the words.


    - But if tomorrow the steppe hears lies about itself, the roads will change


    His voice was steady. Calm. Without threats. But also without submission.


    - The death of the princes is not on our blades. And we wish to know if their deaths will become your advantage


    Ignat did not answer immediately.


    He looked at Tugorkan the way he would look at a battlefield before a fight - searching for weakness, for strength, for lies, and for truth.


    Beside him, Boyar Vyshata tilted his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.


    - Words are rarely proof, Khan, - he said. - In Kievan Rus'', peace is confirmed by deeds


    In the Cuman crowd, someone shifted a shoulder, another adjusted in the saddle as if shaking off an invisible yoke. They hated such meetings.


    In the steppe, strength was truth.


    In Kyiv, it was law.


    But the steppe knew laws.


    Tugorkan held his pause. A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes.


    Behind him, a young warrior leaned forward, but the Khan raised his hand - a sharp, barely noticeable gesture. The warrior froze at once.


    The Senior Druzhina watched closely.


    - Look how they look at us. As if we were begging them for bread, - someone muttered quietly in the ranks.


    - Silence, - another replied. - Let them speak. The one who justifies himself is the weaker one


    Tugorkan slowly turned his head. Unhurriedly, with the measured slowness of a man used to being obeyed. A single short gesture was enough for several Cumans to dismount.


    It was not just an order - it was a sign.


    They lifted a heavy chest from the wagon, adorned with fine carvings and metal inlays, and carefully placed it before Ignat.


    - This gift is not just a gesture of respect, - the Khan said, and steel slid into his voice. - It is a reminder. Peace between us is profitable. But is it worth destroying what feeds both Rus'' and the steppe?


    Ignat did not immediately lower his gaze to the chest.


    Instead, he studied the men. Who stood too straight, as if afraid to betray their tension? Who was already searching for a way to retreat? He did not see just warriors. He saw weak points.


    They called it diplomacy.


    He called it a test.


    - Gifts are silent, - the voivode finally said. - And silence is worth nothing if no actions follow


    Boyar Rodion Prechisty shook his head.


    - They want to show their importance. But this feels more like an excuse than confidence


    Boyar Igor Svetogor crossed his arms over his chest, his voice firm:


    - The Cumans see weakness where they look for it. Let them find only a wall this time


    Khan Tugorkan straightened in the saddle, looking down at the Senior Druzhina as if weighing their sense.


    - Our deeds are the roads on which your merchants trade, and the steppe that keeps enemies from your borders. Or do you think such things happen on their own?


    Boyar Vyshata narrowed his eyes slightly.


    - Everything has meaning, - he said. - But peace stands not on offerings, but on trust that must be earned


    Ignat slowly nodded, his voice steady but absolute:


    - The Khan and his closest men will enter Kyiv. But their warriors will remain outside. Kievan Rus'' is not accustomed to foreign swords near its hearth


    The Cumans remained silent, but reins tightened, backs stiffened. They were not being stopped at the threshold. They were either received as guests - or shut out entirely.


    Right now, they were being shut out.


    The air grew heavier.


    Someone in the Senior Druzhina gripped a sword hilt. Someone among the Cumans shifted their horse, as if ready to turn back to the steppe.


    But Tugorkan did not let it show. He looked at Ignat the way old leaders do - not offering a challenge, but showing no submission either.


    He only gave a slight nod.


    - A reasonable decision, - he said. - Time will tell if it is the right one


    Ignat did not reply.


    He tugged sharply on the reins, and his horse, sensing its master''s command, threw its head up and turned briskly. Behind him, the Senior Druzhina followed without breaking stride. Calmly. Without looking back. The way men leave when they have already spoken their word.


    Tugorkan did not rush. He watched as the figures of the Druzhina disappeared around the bend, listening to the silence that remained after them.


    When the last helmet vanished behind the hill, the Khan finally nudged his reins. The Cumans moved to follow - but not immediately.


    One of the warriors, young and nervous, glanced between the chest of gifts and the Khan. He wanted to say something, but held his tongue.


    Another, older, with eyes the color of scorched grass, lingered. Without turning his head, he let his gaze skim over Kyiv''s walls, the people at the gates, the sentries frozen on the hills.


    He tightened his grip on the reins.


    - Not today, - he murmured almost to himself. - But the steppe does not forget


    He did not move first.


    First, the wind tugged at his cloak, as if inviting him forward. Then the horses, shaking their heads, impatiently scraped their hooves against the ground. Only then did he slowly turn and ride after the Khan.


    Behind them, on the plain, the Cumans did not move at once.


    They did not like to wait, but they knew that haste was the first step to weakness.


    Someone dismounted, glancing around for a place to set up the tents.


    The river was too far, but the trees at the foot of the hill offered shelter from both wind and prying eyes. Those who knew the terrain noted immediately: the spot was visible from Kyiv''s walls, but distant enough that Rus'' could not track their every movement.


    Servants stretched the tents, untied sacks of provisions, while seasoned warriors did more than just scan the hills - they were already marking vantage points for their sentries.


    But those in the front rows remained still.


    One clenched his fists. Another ran his hand over the hilt of his saber. But none of them spoke.


    They watched in silence - not just with wariness, but with the heavy stillness of men deciding whether to withdraw or to wait for the hour of vengeance.


    Kyiv did not throw open its gates.


    In the steppe, the wind made the decisions.


    Here, the prince did.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who reads.


    I have shown everything I wanted - except for the arrival of Anna Monomakhina, the boyars from Pereyaslavl, and how Nikodim, along with Metropolitan Hilarion and others, determine their places for tomorrow''s ceremony. But it is best not to overload this day.


    Better to move straight to the evening.


    Alexander and Dobrynya are heading to the Kuchmister, and with them, we will take a look into the kitchen of Kievan Rus'' - to see the bustling preparations for the feast, the dishes being made, and how the process itself is organized.


    Only after that - the Evening Feast, where not only matters of the table will be decided, but also upcoming reforms, the submission of the boyars, and new moves in the game of power.

 Chapter 34. Changes on the tip of a Knife

    The day flew by in affairs. Everything was being decided, coordinated, changed - and evening approached unnoticed.


    The princely gridnitsa was coming to life before the feast.


    Here, behind massive oak tables, the boyars, voivodes, senior druzhinniks, and foreign envoys would gather. Here, those whose word carried weight would be received, and their presence - a sign of recognition of the new power.


    But the feast would not be limited to the gridnitsa alone. In the neighboring banquet halls, merchants, heads of craft communities, and city elders would assemble. Kyiv''s craftsmen, traders, key keepers - all those who upheld the city not with weapons, but with labor - would be part of the celebration.


    And the clergy would gather in Saint Sophia of Kyiv. There, under the majestic vaults of the ancient cathedral, the metropolitan and bishops would turn to God and the people, speaking of the future of Kyivan Rus and the prince who was ascending the throne.


    Torches flickered over the polished oak tables, casting living reflections of fire upon them, as if kindling the very air before the feast. Servants bustled between the rows, stretching tablecloths, arranging goblets, ensuring that every plate was full.


    The air hung heavy and dense, like steam over a boiling cauldron. It carried the tart sweetness of mead, the thick heat of roasted fish, and the sharp sourness of kvass, which tickled the nostrils, awakening hunger.


    The city was alive with anticipation. The evening promised to be remembered for a long time.


    In the princely chambers, however, there was tranquility. The warm light of candles glided over parchment, a quill rustled softly. Only the flame flickered, reflecting in the metal of the inkwell, and Alexander slightly slowed the movement of his hand before finishing the last calculations.


    Before him lay not just a set of numbers - but the course of history, which he was shaping with his own hands.


    But paper - only the foundation. True power was born not at the desk, but in words, meetings, agreements.


    This day was not just a step - it was becoming the foundation for tomorrow. After lengthy negotiations with the senior boyars, Alexander left the small princely chamber and headed toward Saint Sophia of Kyiv.


    There, beneath the majestic vaults of the cathedral, consecrated by Greek patriarchs, the metropolitan was already waiting for him. Dignified and focused, he was in no hurry to begin the conversation - as if weighing each word in advance.


    The discussion was long.


    Tomorrow''s ceremony required precision in every gesture, in every rite. Master Nikodim, Agafiy Scholasticus, other clergy - all who would stand beside him in that moment - had to know exactly how the ascension of the new prince would proceed.


    Kyivan Rus followed Orthodoxy. But how closely - was being decided here.


    When Alexander spoke of adopting a family name and returning to princely virtues, Illarion pondered.


    Thin fingers traced the edge of the lectern. His eyelids lowered slightly, and his face became unreadable, like that of a man accustomed to hiding doubts behind composure. Around them, silence reigned - no one dared to interrupt his contemplation.


    Master Nikodim Doux barely inclined his head. Something akin to interest flickered in his gaze. He shifted his eyes to Agafiy Scholasticus, who, though maintaining an outward calm, looked wary.


    - Why, prince? - the metropolitan finally asked. - Is your father''s name not already recorded in the chronicles?


    - A name is given at birth, - Alexander replied. - But a lineage is strengthened by deeds. If there are no roots - they must be planted


    A faint, barely perceptible smile touched the corner of Nikodim''s lips.


    - You speak like a man of Byzantium, - he remarked quietly. - In our lands, family names have existed for centuries. They bind lineages stronger than blood


    - But I am not a Byzantine, - Alexander answered calmly. - I am a prince of Kyivan Rus


    Agafiy Scholasticus straightened.


    - Rus has always followed our traditions, - he reminded. - And if now you introduce something new...


    - Not new, - Alexander shifted his gaze to him, - but I give form to what already exists


    - How do you understand this? - Metropolitan Illarion interjected.


    - Princely power lies not in blood, but in deeds. Being born a prince does not make one a ruler. Only he who creates, rather than destroys, is worthy of remembrance


    Alexander paused, then continued:


    - Power rests not only on strength or the right of the strongest. It demands more - honor, justice, valor, mercy, strength, and wisdom


    Agafiy tilted his head slightly, while Nikodim clenched his fist, as if testing how the words settled.


    - These are worthy pillars, - the metropolitan acknowledged. - But do you not place too much hope in their acceptance?


    Alexander gave a slight smile.


    - If a prince does not set an example, how can others follow?


    The silence between them stretched taut, like an invisible thread ready to snap at a single word.


    The candle flames flickered, reflected in the depths of Illarion''s eyes. A shadow of contemplation crossed the metropolitan''s face, but then it disappeared, giving way to resolve.


    He shifted his gaze to Nikodim. The Byzantine remained impassive, yet his fingers tightened slightly, as if affirming what he had heard.


    The metropolitan spoke softly but weightily - there was no doubt in his voice, only the firmness of a man who knew that Kyivan Rus would not turn away from its faith:


    - Virtues are the foundation of power, prince. If your words do not diverge from your deeds, the church will stand beside you. And it is not the Lord who must confirm your path - but you yourself


    Alexander did not avert his gaze.


    Today - the final preparations.


    Tomorrow - a new order.


    Alexander lingered a little longer, discussing the final details. When the conversation came to an end, he left the cathedral and returned to the princely chambers.


    There, another task awaited him.


    The candles burned steadily, casting long shadows over the parchments.


    Alexander sat at the table, unrolling a scroll, scanning the calculations. The details of tomorrow had been agreed upon, but ahead lay something far greater.


    Soon, the door creaked.


    Alexander did not lift his eyes - by the time and the footsteps, he immediately knew who had come.


    Dobrynya Ognishchanin, his assistant Ladislav, and his son Yaropolk.


    They entered silently, without unnecessary words.


    Ladislav was the first to step to the table, carefully placing the bundles.


    - Data on the lands, - he reported briefly.


    Yaropolk stood beside him, carrying several more scrolls. He placed them down, then stepped back slightly - without haste, without unnecessary abruptness.


    Alexander glanced quickly over the records. Trade duties, the state of the garrisons, the latest reports from the borderlands.


    He already knew half the numbers, but he checked again. To trust was one thing, to control - another.


    Dobrynya did not move, but Alexander felt his watchful gaze. He was not just waiting - he was biding his time.


    - Prince, - he finally spoke, his voice, as always, even and confident. - You should know my heir


    Yaropolk stepped forward and bowed.


    Young, but already formed. Tall, strong, with a clear, slightly narrowed gaze. No confusion, no hesitation - only tense focus.


    Alexander noted his restraint. His ability to stand straight. The calmness behind which an inner tension could be sensed.


    Yaropolk did not know what was expected of him at this moment, but he held firm. A brief glance at Dobrynya - not for advice, just to confirm that his father was there. Then - at the prince. Directly, without trying to guess what answer would be pleasing.


    - He is smart, cunning, cautious. He will serve you faithfully if you take him under your wing, - Dobrynya continued.


    Alexander nodded.


    He saw not just the heir of Ognishchanin.


    He saw in him the makings of someone he would call a secretary in his own era.


    A man who could not only count revenues but think strategically. Plan, anticipate, gather information, and keep a thousand details in his mind.


    For now, Yaropolk was too young for such a role. Twenty-one years old - too early to command the flows of power.


    But metal does not become a sword immediately.


    Yaropolk was like raw steel: not yet a weapon, but already tempered by the first fire. Flexible, yet strong. Sharp, but not yet fully shaped.


    The better the man - the more resistance within him.


    Like in metal: too soft - won''t withstand a strike, too hard - will break. The key is not to press, but to guide.


    Alexander would test what Yaropolk was made of.


    - You will work beside me, - said the prince, looking him in the eyes. - You will think, calculate, anticipate. Listen more than you speak


    Yaropolk nodded.


    Not immediately, but confidently.


    Without enthusiasm, without unnecessary words.


    There was neither joy nor fear in his gaze - only conscious agreement. He had already accepted it as a fact.


    But those who knew Alexander understood - he never took people without reason.


    Everyone who stood beside him proved they were worthy.


    Laziness, deceit, foolishness - he did not forgive.


    He was kind, but he could be cruel. Understanding, but his wrath was terrifying. Just, but merciless to weakness.


    People followed him not out of fear, but because they knew - he would not betray.


    But those who tried to play games with him faced not his power, but his inexorable justice.


    Dobrynya watched the conversation closely.


    He knew Yaropolk would make the right choice.


    But he also knew - his son was no longer just the son of Ognishchanin.


    He was now part of something greater.


    Alexander glanced over the parchments once more, memorizing the numbers, calculations, names. At the evening feast, all of this would be useful.


    He already saw the steps he would take to lay the foundation of a princely trade alliance and the foundation of the Fur Empire.


    The plan was clear. All that remained was to set it in motion.


    He set the scrolls aside, letting them remain where, for now, they meant nothing.


    He raised his head.


    Dobrynya was waiting - not just standing, but attentively watching the prince, reading his state, instinctively sensing the right moment.


    - Ready to go? - the question sounded not like a reminder, but like the continuation of a thought already lingering in the air.


    Alexander slowly exhaled.


    - Yes


    He rose from the table, shifted his shoulders, as if shaking off an invisible weight of thoughts, and stepped toward the exit.


    Dobrynya was the first to head for the door, Ladislav and Yaropolk following, adjusting their positions just behind him.


    The door creaked, letting them into the dim corridor of the princely terem.


    Mstislav and Mirnomir stood at the entrance, as befits druzhinniks. The guards did not sit at the table with the prince - they waited outside, ready to follow him at any moment.


    As soon as Alexander stepped out, they moved behind him without a word.


    At the far end of the passage, the servants froze. Some stole glances at the prince, some slowed their steps, as if afraid of unnecessary movement. But Alexander did not slow down.


    Soon, they left the princely terem.


    Heat, noise, and the smells of the feast struck their faces.


    The princely courtyard was alive with its own rhythm. Servants hurried by, carrying trays, arguing in whispers. Druzhinniks conversed by the fires, their voices rolling heavily under the night sky. The torches burned steadily, casting flickering reflections on the weapons of the guards at the gates.


    But their path lay further.


    Dobrynya walked with confident steps, leading them along the plank walkway. The boards flexed slightly beneath their feet.


    Soon, the building of the princely kitchen came into view.


    Large, massive, stretching along the courtyard.


    Built of stone and sturdy logs, with wide openings to keep the smoke from choking the interior. Tall chimneys rose into the sky, releasing bluish steam. In the dark, it resembled slow-moving serpents, lazily spreading over the detinets.


    The scents hung thick in the air.


    Smoked flaxseed oil, pungent spices, thick steam from boiling cauldrons, saturated with smoke and coal soot.


    Dobrynya was the first to push the heavy door open.


    The kitchen was alive.


    Oil sizzled, knives tapped rhythmically against wooden boards, the air thick with waves of heat, dough, stewed mushrooms, and roasted fish.


    Alexander stepped forward.


    In that moment, everything changed.


    The cook''s fingers froze above the dough, as if forgetting they were supposed to move. Another worker, by contrast, became flustered, lowering a ladle into the cauldron too sharply. Some averted their gaze, others forced themselves to ignore the prince, but the tension in the air stretched tight.


    Yet Alexander saw - they noticed him.


    Too intently.


    Too warily.


    The princely kitchen was not just a place of cooking - it was a living organism. Everything here worked like a mechanism, fine-tuned over the years.


    A baker wiped flour from his forehead, leaving a white streak on tanned skin. By the brazier, a kitchen boy jerked his hand - hot oil had splashed onto his skin, but he dared not cry out, only sucked in a sharp breath and kept stirring the sterlet slices simmering in honey sauce with vinegar and spices.


    In the far corner, someone whispered, glancing at the prince out of the corner of their eye. The air smelled of smoke, baked dough, and the sour tang of fermented kvass.


    - Where are you carrying that, you ass?! - a sharp voice rang out as one of the kitchen boys nearly stumbled, almost spilling a bowl of dough.


    - What''s the prince doing in the kitchen?.. - the brazier master''s voice came hesitantly, as if he was speaking more to himself than to anyone else.


    Someone coughed, someone looked away.


    - Checking on us, is he?.. - he wiped his hands on his apron, slid his gaze over the prince, but did not linger.


    Some fell silent, others began moving faster. Tension hung in the air, but Svaromir did not even glance at the people - as if he hadn''t heard them at all.


    But Alexander saw and heard.


    Near the massive ovens, bakers kneaded dough in wooden troughs, sending loaves into the searing-hot clay furnaces. Grill masters watched the fish - turning sturgeon and sterlet on iron grates, basting them with spiced broth, rubbing in crushed herbs and salt.


    By the barrels, fish cutters worked with a butcher''s precision, cleaning fresh carcasses, sprinkling them with coarse salt, rubbing them with dill and dried garlic. Mead brewers checked their infusions - bending close to inhale the rich aroma, stirring cautiously with wooden paddles to ensure the taste remained perfect.


    At the hearths stood the master cooks - those who could judge by sight how much salt was needed in the broth, when to pull the fish from the fire, and the exact moment to add dried berries to the spiced sauce.


    Around them, kitchen boys bustled - apprentices trusted with little but working quickly, fetching water, clearing dough scraps, picking up fallen spoons.


    In this chaos, there was no disorder - every hand knew its task, every step had purpose.


    The kitchen lived, breathed, moved as one organism, and in its relentless rhythm, there was more order than in the strictest army.


    An army obeys its voivode.


    A kitchen obeys its Kukhmistr.


    Svaromir.


    He did not rush, did not shout - but his gaze spoke louder than words.


    A single nod, and a baker returned the excess dough to the trough. A barely noticeable hand gesture, and the cook at the cauldron knew it was time to add salt. This entire chaos moved to his rhythm, and he held it together the way a voivode commands his ranks.


    Tall, strong, with sun-weathered arms and deep lines on his forehead. No ornate kaftan - just a dark, belted tunic and a heavy leather apron, stained with flour and flecked with grease.


    He did not raise his voice, but the slightest twitch of his brow, and the baker was already removing the dough. A single sharp look - and a servant, without waiting for an order, changed direction.


    He controlled everything.


    Not just the kitchen - but the order, the rhythm, the very air, thick with the heat of the hearths and the scents of food.


    Alexander looked at him and already knew: this man could not be broken.


    But he could be guided.


    When Dobrynya stepped forward, the Kukhmistr turned his head. There was no haste in his movement - only the precision of a man accustomed to seeing everything at once. His gaze swept over the newcomers - quick, assessing, almost indifferent.


    - Prince, - his voice was low, quiet, but carried the firmness of a man who commanded not just a kitchen, but an entire battle formation of a hundred hands and eyes. - How may I serve you?


    - The prince came to see, - Dobrynya replied calmly. - How the preparations are going, what is being cooked, how the kitchen holds up in its work


    Something flickered in Svaromir''s eyes - perhaps surprise, perhaps doubt. But he did not argue.


    - We cook as is customary, - he said simply. - So that both guests are well-fed and hosts satisfied


    Alexander gave a silent nod and stepped deeper in, letting his gaze glide over the rows of tables.


    Everything here was arranged with purpose.


    On one table - fresh vegetables: onions with thin roots, round garlic heads, bundles of greens tied with coarse twine.


    On another - fish: pike and sterlet laid out on wide boards, pieces of smoked sturgeon dusted in coarse salt. No meat, no eggs, no butter - not a single food forbidden during the fast.


    Off to the side - dishes ready to be sent to the banquet hall: boiled sturgeon with aromatic herbs, slices of smoked sterlet, bowls of hot mushroom broth.


    But he was not only interested in this.


    He noticed the barrels of water standing in the corner. One was half-empty, with rare dark particles floating on the surface - dust or sediment. Someone had recently dipped a ladle in, and droplets had spread along the rim.


    Spices lay in open sacks, loosely tied - left so that a hand could scoop them up quickly. Convenient, especially when the kitchen was at full speed. But along with the air, ash from the hearths settled inside.


    Porridge was being stirred with the same wooden spoon that had been used for other dishes before it. It was rinsed hastily, merely dipped in warm water. Nearby, bowls of flour stood open, and in one of them, tiny black specks wriggled - flour mites or just debris carried in by a draft.


    At the cutting table, a young cook brushed fish scales off the board but did not bother to wash them away completely. Further down, dough was rising in a large trough, covered with a cloth already dusted with flour, its edges darkened by old kneading stains.


    A baker pulled rye loaves from the oven and placed them directly onto the wooden table without bothering with a cloth underneath. One of the apprentices, rushing past, accidentally brushed them with his sleeve, leaving a barely visible mark.


    This was routine.


    This was how things had always been done.


    But Alexander noticed the mistakes.


    Alexander stepped closer, lowering his gaze to the table.


    The wooden boards were darkened with oil, etched with deep knife marks. Beside the cleaned fish carcasses lay heavy, forged knives with bone handles.


    One of the young cooks, working on a sturgeon, did not notice the prince - his fingers held the handle firmly, the blade gliding over the dense skin, slicing off the bony plates in long strips. From time to time, he dipped the knife into hot water to keep its edge sharp, then carefully lifted a layer of scales and peeled it away along with the skin.


    Nearby, another cook was gutting a sterlet: with a swift motion, he slit the belly, removed the entrails, and carefully set the liver aside - it would be given to the cooks for sauce. The rest he tossed into a wooden tub, where the fish was already being rubbed with coarse salt.


    Drops of fish oil trickled into a clay bowl set underneath.


    - Why is the fish stored like this? - Alexander asked, pointing at the hanging carcasses and neatly arranged fillets on the boards.


    Svaromir remained unreadable, but a shadow flickered in his eyes - wariness or irritation?


    - This one''s for drying, hung briefly to let excess moisture drain. The fresh ones are kept in tubs of cold water until it''s their turn for the cauldrons


    Alexander nodded.


    - And if the feast lasts longer than expected?


    The Kukhmistr held his gaze.


    - Then we''ll salt some, store some in the cellar. The cooked ones - we''ll keep by the hearths so they don''t go cold


    Dobrynya watched them both without interfering.


    Alexander''s eyes moved back to the hanging fish.


    The slow drying process was visible - thin droplets of water, mixed with salt, trailed down from the carcasses, leaving dark stains on the wooden boards. The scent of raw scales and briny moisture wove into the thick kitchen heat. Everything was being done as it always had been.


    But how?


    He turned and stepped further in.


    The air was already thick with spice - sharp, bitter, mingling with the smoke from the hearths.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Alexander ran his hand over a sack of seasonings. His fingers came away stained in brown-red dust, the scent striking his nose - fiery, pungent, biting like a lash of pepper on the tongue.


    He shook his palm, but the fine powder had worked its way into his skin, settled beneath his nails.


    - Do you always store them like this? - he asked, without looking at the Kukhmistr.


    Svaromir was unfazed.


    - We tie the sacks, but not too tightly, - he answered evenly. - Otherwise, the spices will absorb moisture


    - From dampness or because they''re kept too close to the hearths? - Alexander clarified.


    Svaromir shifted his shoulders slightly but did not argue.


    The prince did not press further.


    Alexander scooped up a handful of spices, clenched his fingers. The powder settled into the creases of his skin, sharp, acrid. Granules spilled, catching beneath his nails.


    He turned to a kitchen boy - the boy stood frozen by the sacks, unsure if he should answer.


    - Would you put ash in the soup? - Alexander asked softly, but in the hush of the kitchen, his voice was sharp.


    The boy flinched.


    - No, my prince...


    - Then why are they in the spices?


    The kitchen boy pressed his lips together. No answer.


    - Fix it, - Alexander shook his hand, letting the last of the powder fall.


    He did not look at Svaromir - did not argue with a man too certain in the order of things.


    Instead, he chose the one who would yield first.


    The Kukhmistr would not be swayed by a single remark.


    But the kitchen boy?


    He would remember.


    He would remember the dry pepper sifting through the prince''s fingers, leaving stains on his skin.


    He would remember how Alexander clenched the spices, then slowly opened his hand.


    How the granules slid down, scattering in the air.


    How the kitchen suddenly became too quiet.


    How everyone was waiting.


    He would fix it.


    And the others would notice.


    Then, they would begin to do the same.


    The kitchen would change on its own.


    Not from words.


    But because people would see the difference.


    Alexander let his gaze slide over the rows of sacks.


    Pepper, caraway, crushed garlic, dried thyme leaves - some spices were scattered across the table, some sacks torn, and in one, ash had mixed with grains of salt.


    The expensive spices were kept in ceramic jars, but there were never enough clay pots. Clay was costly, while sacks were common. They were tied tighter, stored farther from the hearth - but the spices still lost their potency. They faded, settled in the dust.


    It wasn''t just carelessness - it was habit. This was how it had always been done.


    This was not chaos. Everything here followed its own logic. But that logic lacked precision.


    He saw the system - and knew it could be improved.


    Alexander noticed how young cooks at the cutting tables wiped their hands on dirty aprons. One absentmindedly smeared his palm across his sleeve, leaving a dark streak. Another leaned against the table, then grabbed a knife with the same flour- and grease-covered hand - without even checking if it was clean.


    By the hearth, a servant scooped a ladle of water, poured it into a cauldron, then placed the ladle back without changing it. The water had already turned murky, a thin residue clinging to the edges, but no one paid attention.


    Hands moved quickly at the hearths, but in some places, they hesitated - chopped vegetables sat too long on the tables, dough rested for too long, hot dishes cooled before they could be served.


    At that moment, one of the cooks stole a glance at Alexander - a quick, cautious look, as if trying to guess what the prince was after. Someone stirring a pot in the far corner tensed. They weren''t used to power descending here, into the kitchen''s smoky air.


    Alexander turned his gaze to the young cook.


    - How often do you change the water?


    The cook didn''t lift his eyes right away.


    - When... when we see it''s time, my prince


    Alexander slowly ran his finger along the rim of the barrel. A cloudy film remained on his skin. He didn''t hurry to wipe it away, giving the young cook time to see what he saw.


    Only then did he look at him.


    - And do you see?


    The young cook swallowed hard.


    They worked as their fathers and grandfathers had worked. Not because they knew no better, but because here, anything new had to prove itself first.


    He could start reforms right now.


    But he knew: an order would force obedience, yet change nothing. People would bend - but they wouldn''t change.


    He was used to commanding, but he understood that if you broke a system too abruptly, it would break you.


    So he wouldn''t command. He would show.


    People had to see that things could be better. Feel it.


    Alexander smiled slightly.


    - Good, - he said, glancing again at Svaromir. - Then we''ll try something new


    Silence dropped into the kitchen like boiling water into a cauldron - tense, scalding.


    Svaromir ran his hand over the spoon he had been using to stir the sauce. His face remained calm, but his fingers tightened slightly around the wood.


    - Prince... Are you the Kukhmistr now?


    Alexander looked him straight in the eyes. Not mockingly, not arrogantly - the way a man looks when he has already made a decision.


    - If needed, I''ll show you


    He didn''t explain. He simply stepped toward the cutting table.


    The knife flashed in the light of the hearths, sliding swiftly over the fish''s skin. The blade lifted the scales, and they fell away in silver flakes.


    - What''s next? - Alexander asked.


    - Into the cauldron or onto the grill, - the fish master replied reluctantly, watching the prince. - Rub it with salt, splash it with vinegar, and onto the fire.


    Alexander took a sterlet. Not the fattest, not the best-looking - one that would usually go into the stew.


    For him, this was easy.


    He had done it hundreds of times.


    In the field, where you couldn''t wait for the coals to burn down.


    In empty rooms, where silence greeted him instead of dinner.


    Cooking had never been foreign to him. He never waited for someone to serve him food - he made it himself.


    In the army, he quickly learned: if you want a proper meal, cook it yourself.


    Even before that - when his wife left, and no one set a plate before him anymore.


    When he had to get up and do it himself, because there was no one else.


    He knew how fish smelled when left too long over the fire.


    How dough felt in his hands when it lacked salt.


    How to slice an onion without losing too much juice.


    His hands remembered.


    Right on the board, he ran his fingers over the sterlet''s skin, feeling the roughness of the scales. He took the knife, swiftly cut the skin at the head, and pulled. A strip of silver scales peeled away easily, leaving behind a smooth layer of white meat.


    He rubbed in the salt with his fingers - not on the surface, but deeper, so it would soak through. He ran his palm over it, spreading it evenly.


    The fillet landed on a heated iron sheet with a drop of flaxseed oil.


    A hiss.


    One of the kitchen boys flinched instinctively.


    That''s not how it''s done. Not without a large amount of oil.


    But the prince wasn''t looking at them - he was feeling the fish. He felt the first drops of melting fat on his fingertips, listened to the sound change, caught the sharp, spiced scent of crisping skin.


    The fat ran on its own. Enough.


    Alexander tilted the iron sheet slightly, letting the excess drain.


    Behind me, someone barely audibly muttered:


    - So... is it possible?


    Someone else drew in a sharp breath but didn''t speak.


    Another cook gave a low chuckle but didn''t object.


    The young kitchen boy swallowed hard. Just a minute ago, he had eyed the prince with suspicion. Now, he looked at him differently. Intently, as if trying to understand something important.


    Alexander flipped the fish.


    Golden crust.


    The senior cook didn''t blink, didn''t make a sound, but the prince saw - he had memorized it.


    But Alexander was already moving on.


    He stepped to the bakers'' table. Took a bowl, scooped in flour, added salt. A ladle of water. Two strong motions with his hand, and the dough stretched, yielding to his fingers.


    A baker opened his mouth but didn''t manage to speak.


    - And the starter dough?.. - someone asked belatedly.


    Alexander didn''t look up.


    - If you have three hours, - he said calmly, - of course, starter dough


    He didn''t wait. He kneaded the dough in his palms, shaped it into a flat round, pressed lightly at the edges.


    The flatbread landed on the hot stone with a muffled slap.


    The cook at the fish table no longer concealed his interest.


    Alexander took a knife.


    The thin steel sliced through the onion like wind through grass.


    The onion fell in transparent half-rings. The garlic - crushed with a single strike. The herbs weren''t hacked apart - they were cut precisely, evenly.


    Svaromir''s eyes narrowed slightly.


    He saw how the prince held the knife.


    - Fast, - someone murmured.


    The fish was ready. The flatbread crisped at the edges. Everything gathered onto a wooden plate. A pinch of salt - precisely in the center.


    The plate was set before the cooks.


    - Here, - Alexander said shortly.


    The air froze, as if the very heat from the hearths had gripped the kitchen, but no one dared to move first.


    The kitchen boy broke first.


    As if forgetting who stood before him, he simply reached out his hand. Took a piece of fish - hesitantly, as if afraid it might be dry.


    Placed it on the flatbread, added onion, folded the edges, and pressed it together with his fingers.


    Took a bite.


    For a second, he went still.


    He chewed slowly, almost thoughtfully, as if testing the taste by touch.


    His eyes flickered toward the prince - quickly, furtively - but he said nothing.


    He simply took another piece.


    The head cook stepped forward.


    Slowly, without a word, he broke the flatbread in half. Ran his fingers over the dough, as if checking if it was too dry. Took a piece of fish, rubbed it between his fingers, testing the texture, and only then tasted it.


    He chewed.


    Silently.


    But everyone saw how he now looked at the prince.


    Not like an outsider sticking his nose into someone else''s business.


    Not like a stranger who dared to teach the masters.


    But as one looks at a man who knows what he is doing.


    Svaromir did not avert his gaze, but now there was more than just critical scrutiny in it.


    He had seen how the prince held the knife, how he worked the dough - without hesitation, without uncertainty, without seeking approval from others.


    It wasn''t luck.


    It was too precise. Too confident.


    Too much like someone who had done this many times before.


    Svaromir frowned slightly, as if piecing something together.


    - It''s impressive, prince, - he said slowly. - But impressive doesn''t mean right


    Alexander smiled slightly.


    - And what''s familiar doesn''t mean better


    Silence hung in the air, stretched like a drawn bowstring.


    Svaromir ran his finger along the table, collecting a grain of salt. Rubbed it between his hands, as if weighing his answer.


    - We''ll see


    He didn''t want to concede.


    But the firmness in his voice wasn''t the same.


    - What now?


    Alexander looked at his plate.


    Someone silently reached for another piece.


    Someone else hesitated.


    He saw it. Saw that the skepticism in the cooks'' eyes was no longer the same.


    He wiped his hands on the hem of his tunic, looked at the kitchen differently - not as a place where he had just proven something, but as a mechanism that had already begun to shift.


    - Food is more than just taste, - he said, letting his gaze pass over the tables. - It''s how we live. And if we can cook better... we can live better


    Dobrynya Vsevolodovich remained silent, like the others.


    But Alexander saw - he was looking differently too.


    Not with doubt. Not with amusement. But with calculation.


    Like a voivode watching his ranks march straighter.


    Like a seasoned merchant observing another''s trade and recognizing profit.


    Like a man who saw change.


    And yet, he did not ask, "Where did you learn this?" or "How do you have hands like these?"


    He simply tilted his head slightly, watching closely.


    - You''ve got something in mind, prince?


    Alexander slowly ran his finger across the table, leaving a clean streak through the layer of flour and grease.


    - Everything here works... - he paused.


    Only the steady hiss of the cauldrons filled the silence.


    Alexander looked at Svaromir.


    - But now you know - it can work better


    Svaromir frowned but said nothing.


    - How? - Yaropolk finally asked, crossing his arms.


    Alexander slowly let his gaze sweep across the kitchen, but his eyes stopped on the barrels. One was nearly empty. Gray specks floated on the water''s surface.


    He stepped closer.


    - When was the water last changed?


    - In the morning, my prince, - one of the senior cooks replied.


    Alexander dipped a ladle in and lifted it to the light.


    The water trickled down slowly, leaving a murky, grayish film on his skin.


    - Fresh?


    There was no immediate answer.


    By the hearth, a kitchen boy lifted a ladle to his lips - and froze. Someone wiped their hand on an apron, as if trying to rid themselves of a sticky residue. Another, without looking, set their bowl aside.


    - This is how we always do it, my prince, - a voice finally spoke. - We change the water in the morning, and by evening... well, it''s still fresh


    Alexander tilted the ladle and poured the remaining water back into the barrel.


    - Keep two barrels. One for use, the other to settle. Switch them daily. The sediment stays in one, and the other stays clearer


    Someone moved a bowl. Someone else froze with a spoon in hand - the air tightened, but no one spoke first.


    Svaromir simply wiped his hands on his apron.


    - And if water is needed immediately?


    - Then boil it


    - Boil it? - another cook glanced at Svaromir.


    - We never did that before, - someone murmured off to the side.


    The idea felt unfamiliar.


    Water had always been drawn from wells, rivers, springs - places where it was considered clean. If sediment gathered in a barrel, they simply waited for it to settle or poured from the top. The hearth was kept burning for food, not for water.


    Why waste firewood on something that was "already drinkable"?


    But now they looked at the prince - and thought.


    Alexander lifted the barrel lid. Ash clung to the edges. He ran a finger across it, showing the grayish stain to the others.


    - Water may seem clean. Until you look closer


    He brushed off the residue, but a thin film still clung to his skin.


    - And in your stomach, it settles the same way. Day after day.


    Those holding bowls glanced into them. Someone grimaced.


    Dobrynya''s gaze slid silently over the barrel.


    - We don''t know what causes illness, prince, - he said. - One man falls ill - it''s a curse. Another suffers - he prayed to the wrong god. Are you certain it''s the water?


    Alexander knew this conversation was inevitable.


    Before, they wouldn''t have even asked.


    But now, they were waiting for an answer.


    He wasn''t going to argue.


    - I know that when water is left to settle and boiled, people fall ill less often


    Dobrynya squinted at him.


    - Why are you so sure?


    Alexander leaned in slightly, looking into the barrel.


    - In foreign lands, they know this. Arab physicians say that water may look clean, but that doesn''t mean it''s safe. If you let it sit for weeks, it becomes like food that''s begun to spoil. You wouldn''t eat meat if it already had spots, would you?


    Now, the silence was different - not just waiting, but weighing his words.


    The thought was too foreign - boiling water not for broth, but just for drinking.


    Someone instinctively glanced at the wooden bowls where fish lay.


    - But it''s just water, prince... - one of the senior cooks said cautiously.


    - And in water, there are things you can''t see - but you can feel them when your stomach starts to ache


    Dobrynya said nothing, but Alexander could see him assessing the words.


    Svaromir ran a hand over his spoon.


    - We''ll try it, - he finally said.


    His voice was steady, but his gaze had changed.


    Alexander didn''t reply.


    He saw the thought already working in their minds.


    At that moment, one of the kitchen boys had almost lifted the ladle to his lips but hesitated - and set it back down.


    The kitchen still buzzed with activity.


    But the air had changed.


    Alexander looked over the tables and stopped at the spices.


    Open sacks, frayed edges, dark stains on the fabric.


    He reached out, took a pinch of ground pepper, and brought it closer.


    The scent was weaker than it should have been.


    - Why is the pepper just sitting in open sacks? - Alexander ran his fingers over the fabric, leaving a dark trace on his skin. - It''s losing its strength


    The kitchen boy glanced uncertainly at Svaromir, as if waiting for permission to answer.


    - It''s¡­ more convenient, prince. That''s how we''ve always done it


    - Convenient doesn''t mean better


    Alexander shook his hand, dusting off the last of the spice powder.


    - Expensive spices need sealed pots. For the ones you use every day - waxed sacks. Waxed sacks won''t let moisture or dirt in, and the spice will stay dry and fresh longer. You''ll use less and get more


    He examined the sacks more closely.


    Some spices were indeed stored in ceramic: heavy pots stood farther from the hearth, covered with tight lids. Pepper, cloves, cinnamon - everything that had to be brought from thousands of miles away - was costly, and no one wanted to waste it.


    But there wasn''t enough ceramic for everything.


    Some imported seasonings were still kept in sacks - next to bay leaves, caraway, and dried herbs. Tied tightly, stored farther from the heat, but still left open.


    They were stored like the cheap ones.


    Yet in one sack lay black pepper, and in another - salt, already tainted with ash from the hearths.


    Alexander ran a finger across the fabric of the sack and lifted his hand. A dusty shadow remained on his skin.


    - The expensive spices are stored properly, - he said. - But the ones left in sacks are worth silver too


    A nearby cook blinked and muttered:


    - Why? Spices don''t spoil. If the expensive ones did, we would''ve changed the way we store them long ago


    - They don''t spoil, but they weaken, - Alexander replied calmly.


    - They still smell a year later, - another cook added. His voice was firm, but there was doubt in it.


    - They do. But they lose strength, - the prince ran his fingers along the sack''s fabric, leaving a faint trace of spices. - Moisture, dust, ash... It all settles


    Not everyone understood at once, but the thought had already taken root.


    Svaromir smirked, measuring Alexander''s persistence. He didn''t like being taught - especially by outsiders. But he couldn''t dismiss plain logic.


    - And where am I supposed to get that many pots, prince?


    - Are there potters in Kyiv?


    - There are


    - Have them make more


    - That''s extra expense, - someone muttered behind him.


    Alexander smirked. He turned to the cook, tilting his head slightly.


    - Extra? Fine. And if you have to use twice as much to get the same flavor? Where''s the extra in that?


    The cook frowned, glancing irritably at the sack, lips pressing together. He couldn''t deny the prince was right, even if he didn''t want to agree.


    Svaromir shifted his gaze from the prince to the sacks.


    Alexander could see - he was already thinking about it, but not yet convinced.


    - I''ll tell the potters, - Svaromir admitted with slight reluctance. - Looks like we''ll need more pots than people soon


    Yaropolk, meanwhile, watched what was happening with undisguised interest, but there was doubt in his eyes.


    He saw that Alexander wasn''t just changing the order of things - he was doing it without orders, without force - softly, but inevitably. That the long-held ways of the kitchen were crumbling not under the weight of power, but under the weight of common sense.


    It was... unusual.


    He was used to change arriving with orders. When someone said, "Do it this way," and people obeyed - even if through clenched teeth.


    But here, everything was different.


    The cooks weren''t given strict commands, yet they were already looking at the barrels, the sacks, the water - not as they had just an hour ago.


    Yaropolk smirked, shaking his head.


    - Are you trying to turn their kitchen upside down, prince?


    There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also a trace of challenge. He was testing Alexander - did he truly believe he could change something that had stood for decades without a single order?


    Or was this just a clever act that would crumble the moment he left?


    Alexander shook his head calmly.


    - No. I''m making it so they can work better


    Yaropolk narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing back at the cooks.


    After all, the prince could have ordered them. He could have issued commands, forced them to do as he said. But he didn''t.


    Instead, he made them agree on their own.


    Dobrynya had been silently observing all this time, but now he nodded, as if agreeing with some private thought.


    - Do you always do this?


    - Do what?


    - See what''s wrong and fix it?


    Alexander smiled slightly.


    Yaropolk watched him and suddenly realized - this wasn''t just a game. Not some random interference.


    The prince truly lived this way.


    And if even a kitchen - just a kitchen - was already shifting under his words¡­


    What changes awaited everything else?


    - I just always think about how to make things better


    After speaking, Alexander turned to the tables where dough and fish were being prepared.


    - Would you cut onions on your own board like this? - he asked one of the kitchen boys, pointing to the flour embedded in the wood.


    The boy hesitated.


    - N-no, my prince


    - Then why is it acceptable here?


    There was no answer.


    - If you don''t separate the boards, the onions will smell of flour, and the fish will taste like bread. The work will get sloppy, and the food will be worse. Is that what you want?


    The cooks remained silent.


    Someone wiped their hands on an apron. Another glanced around the tables with surprise, as if noticing the stains, crumbs, and ingrained flour for the first time.


    Svaromir looked at the prince differently now. His gaze had become sharper, more focused - but the mockery was gone.


    He was starting to see what Alexander saw.


    The prince could feel it - he had found the right thread. Now, he just needed to pull it further - carefully, patiently.


    - Then we''ll change it, - Svaromir said slowly, clearly forcing himself to admit it. - The boards too


    Alexander''s smile was almost imperceptible.


    Now, they weren''t just listening.


    Now, they were agreeing.


    The prince looked at the kitchen, feeling the struggle within.


    He could have given orders.


    Forced them to wash their hands more often, separate tables for raw and cooked food, establish strict inventory rules. One decisive act could turn the kitchen upside down and make everything run by his rules.


    But if he pushed too hard, it wouldn''t just break the old ways - it would break the people.


    They would work out of obligation, without understanding or desire.


    The moment he turned away, everything would return to how it was.


    Change would last only if it became their choice. People needed to see the benefit, not just hear a command.


    Alexander was used to a different world.


    There, he could implement new practices simply by ordering and explaining. Here, that wouldn''t work.


    Not command - guide.


    Not criticize - demonstrate.


    Not say: - You are doing everything wrong


    But show: - You are already good - but you can be better


    And then, they would want to learn more themselves.


    And after that - everything would become possible.


    Separate knives for meat, bread, and vegetables - not because the prince commanded it, but because it was practical.


    Food inventory - not for reports, but to avoid empty barrels.


    Separate areas for raw and cooked food - because no one wanted to fall sick again.


    People would see for themselves that meat in brine didn''t rot, that towels should be changed more often, that ash mixed with water was almost like soap.


    But everything in its time.


    When they feel the difference, they will ask:


    - Prince, what else can we improve?


    Alexander glanced across the kitchen once more. The people worked. At first glance, nothing had changed.


    But everything had.


    Now they knew they were being watched - not with shouting and threats, but calmly, attentively. They were no longer just waiting; they were observing every move, every word of the prince.


    One of the young cooks hesitated by the barrel, frowning as he stared at the murky sediment.


    Alexander said nothing - he simply met his gaze and gave a barely perceptible nod.


    The silence was no longer empty.


    Change hadn''t happened yet, but the air had already tightened - like a drawn bowstring.


    Alexander turned toward the exit. He was leaving, but he could see it clearly - they were already waiting.


    Behind him, water splashed. He turned back.


    The young cook carefully tipped the barrel and drained the murky water. The others froze, watching him.


    The prince nodded again, silently.


    Now, they weren''t just listening.


    Now, they had begun to repeat.


    ***


    Thank you for reading.


    In this chapter, I slightly changed the style - made the text lighter. I''m curious to hear your thoughts: is it easier to read this way, or should I bring back the previous detailed approach but with more balance?


    I aimed to capture the atmosphere of a medieval kitchen and to show how Alexander doesn''t impose change through force but through natural processes. He doesn''t break traditions or enforce reforms - he makes people arrive at them on their own, as if these changes had always been part of their lives.


    In an era where tradition held more weight than any command, this approach seemed to him not just the right one, but the fastest.


    Next, we move straight to the evening feast.


    I''ll show how banquets were held in Kievan Rus and much more. There, Alexander will meet with various delegations - Khan Tugorkan, great merchants, Mikhail Podolsky, and most importantly, the senior boyars of the Turov-Pinsk lands.


    His primary goal? Securing control over Soft Gold - the fur trade.

 Chapter 35. When power sits down

    Evening had settled over Kyiv, and the princely hall was filling with people.


    Torches along the walls crackled, stirring shadows on beams soaked in the soot of centuries.


    The flames trembled - as if eavesdropping.


    The air was thick with aromas - warm kvass, sharp herbal brews, baked fish. The smoke from the torches soaked into them, making the scents heavy, as if the hall itself were breathing in anticipation.


    But no one sat.


    Servants slid between the tables - silent, near-invisible. They straightened folds, swept away unseen crumbs - preparing the ground not for a meal, but a ritual.


    The guards along the walls stood still, alert. Their eyes cut off every excess movement. Anyone who forgot himself, reached for a cup, stepped too close to the princely table - froze beneath the weight of a single stare.


    Stewards moved through the hall, checking the seating without a word. One gesture, one glance - and a servant was already correcting the smallest flaw.


    But all of it was only preparation.


    This was not the feast the lesser boyars had expected.


    Not a night of bounty, not a celebration of wine. This was a feast where food mattered less than position. Where a goblet meant less than a glance. Where silence spoke louder than any word.


    Every gaze - even if only for a moment - inevitably returned to the princely table.


    It rose above the rest - massive, solid, like power itself. Behind it, on a dais, stood a chair - not a throne, but a symbol no one dared to question.


    The hall waited.


    The chair - stood empty.


    And the air - stretched taut like a string, just before the first note strikes.


    Then the doors creaked open.


    The hall held its breath. All attention turned to the entrance.


    Even those who had been moving since early evening - stopped.


    The eyes - not direct, not open - but each one watched.


    The senior boyars entered first.


    They walked in unhurried, with the air of proprietors. The spring chill still clung to the air, but the road had left only faint traces of damp and dust on their coats.


    Fur cloaks vanished into the hands of servants. Beneath them were richly embroidered kaftans - like armor, but of cloth and gold.


    They didn''t simply arrive - they took possession of the space.


    - Harsh days ahead, - rumbled Mikhail of Podolia, adjusting the silver clasp at his belt. - I can feel it. The feasting''s over. Now every banquet is a council


    - When power shifts, even wine tastes different, - Vasily Svyatopolkovich replied quietly, his sharp gaze sweeping the hall. - Some drink for strength, others - for the chance to take it


    Rurik of the Caves grunted, shrugging off his heavy cloak.


    - The prince wastes no time. He makes sure no one forgets who rules now


    Other boyars followed - together, yet wary. Their voices were low, but their eyes were sharp.


    Some were seeking allies.


    Some were counting who stood with whom.


    Olga of Strumensk entered last. Her younger son, Vladimir, walked beside her - his face habitually reserved. Behind them came the boyars of the Volhynian lands.


    The doors opened again.


    Igor Rostislavich, the posadnik of Novgorod. Oleg of Vyshgorod. Boris of Stalnogorsk. Not a word passed between them, but their eyes spoke more than mouths ever could.


    They didn''t look at the decor of the hall - they looked at the alignments.


    When the boyars of Turov and Pinsk arrived, the air thickened.


    Standing beside Boris, Gleb of Turov caught sight of Stanimir of Luninets among them.


    Gleb''s fingers clenched into a fist. His knuckles turned white. But within seconds, he loosened them, looked away. His talk with the prince had done its work.


    But this was not a feast.


    This was a placement of pieces before a game.


    Soon after, the High Voivode Ignat entered.


    He didn''t walk - he moved as if in battle. In his shoulders - coiled tension. In his steps - precision.


    Behind him came the boyars of Pereyaslavl and Chernigov.


    But true silence fell when Khan Tugorkan appeared.


    With him - several trusted men, more modestly dressed, but no less watchful.


    Their dark eyes swept the hall, evaluating.


    Ignat and Tugorkan met eyes.


    Neither bowed.


    Neither looked away.


    The tension hung in the air. And as if in response - the doors opened once more.


    Mstislav of Bel''sk from the Galician lands, and Ratibor of Slovensk from Novgorod, entered wordlessly.


    And right behind them - footsteps foreign to this land.


    The Byzantines entered the Gridnitsa.


    Their arrival was different.


    Their fabrics - soft, intricate, gleaming. Silk and purple shimmered in that hall like light in a cave.


    They didn''t intrude - they glided.


    Magister Nikodim Doukas led the way, unhurried. Accompanying him was Miroslav the Wise - and it was unclear who was guiding whom: the princely advisor or the Byzantine diplomat.


    Behind them moved Leo Komnenos - upright, focused. His gaze did not search for seats - it measured the hall''s readiness for war.


    Following him - Sebastian Phokas, the trade representative. His smile was light, almost mocking. He wasn''t afraid - he was calculating.


    Their spiritual envoy, Agathios Scholastikos, did not come to the hall. He remained in another part of Kyiv - at Saint Sophia''s Cathedral, with the bishops and abbots of Rus''.


    Not observing. Inspecting.


    Not the prince - but the faith.


    Sophia Lakapene kept slightly apart - not behind, not beside, but in that fragile in-between where the foreign is not yet rejected, but already provokes unease.


    She held herself with restraint, as befits the daughter of a noble house.


    But in the gridnitsa, where a seat at the table meant as much as land underfoot, her presence felt alien.


    A man''s feast - ruled by a man''s order.


    So it had always been.


    Even widowed princesses, matriarchs of ancient houses, appeared only when duty demanded - when honor or fate of the land was at stake.


    And now - a girl. Sixteen. Byzantine.


    And though she had not yet sat, her place had already been marked. At the table. In plain view.


    Not a handmaiden. Not a companion. A delegate.


    The boyars looked. Not openly - on the sly. But their gaze caught.


    In some eyes - irritation, as at a challenge.


    In others - doubt, as if someone had misstepped, and no one yet knew the cost.


    And in the most silent - a wary attention, not to a guest, but to a harbinger.


    She was not a guest.


    She was a question.


    And no one knew whether there would be an answer - or only consequences.


    Almost at once after the Byzantines came the envoys from Poland and the Kingdom of Hungary.


    Gy?rgy of Eger and Stanis?aw of Ratyn.


    Their conversation, begun on the road, did not cease here - only softened. But their glances were sharp, gripping.


    - Destiny, - muttered Gy?rgy as he crossed the threshold.


    - Or calculation, - replied Stanis?aw, not even looking his way.


    A hushed murmur swept the hall.


    Someone exchanged glances. Someone smirked faintly. Someone tensed.


    They spoke as if only to each other - but loud enough to be heard.


    What about - they didn''t say. But everyone felt - it was no accident.


    Closer to the center, Tugorkan did not smirk. He watched - like the steppe watches autumn: awaiting winter.


    Behind the foreign guests came the merchants.


    From Kyiv and Novgorod, Byzantium and the Varangians, Persia and the Bulgars.


    Different tongues, different tallies - but the same gaze.


    They equaled the boyars in wealth, but carried themselves differently.


    No loud greetings, no ceremonial airs - as if they had entered not a hall, but a marketplace.


    They didn''t debate politics.


    They looked at it like a price yet to be named.


    Stefan the Greek, a merchant from Constantinople, was the first to cast his gaze over the tables, the dishes, the goblets.


    But he wasn''t weighing them.


    - What news from Greece? - Lazar'' Torgovich, a Kyivan merchant, asked quietly.


    - Byzantium is the same as ever, - Stefan glanced at a goblet as if weighing it, but did not touch it. - The Emperor stands firm, but his thirst for gold outpaces what the land can yield


    Olaf Longbeard, a Varangian with a silver beard and eyes used to the coastal dusk, smirked.


    - The Emperor should sell swords, not hoard them. Then the gold would come back from war


    Lazar'' nodded:


    - But how much of that gold will stay here - and how much will flow to Tsargrad - that''s what matters


    The word hung in the air.


    Nikodim turned his head. Not sharply - almost lazily - but many noticed the motion.


    He was listening.


    And what he heard was not just a word - but a name. Tsargrad.


    That''s how these people of Rus'' called Constantinople. Not a capital - a lord.


    Not merely a city. A center. A weight. A pull.


    To them - a summit of power.


    To him - the pulse of empire.


    He knew how it sounded in their tongue - drawn out, pressing on the "tsar." Not like in their own, not like in the Rh¨­ma?oi - the name the Byzantines, heirs of Rome, used for their empire.


    Here, every syllable bore both acknowledgment - and rebuke.


    They spoke in Slavic. Not fast. Not soft.


    But clearly - like men used to bargaining, not submission.


    It wasn''t a language they learned from grammars. They heard it on docks, in caravanserais, over jugs of wine and under threat of the blade. Where gold moved faster than words.


    Nikodim didn''t look toward the merchants.


    But he understood: the phrase wasn''t a complaint. It was a key.


    So that the one who was meant to hear - would hear.


    Leo Komnenos exchanged a glance with Sebastian Phokas.


    Sophia Lakapene shifted her shoulder slightly, as if in indifference. But Nikodim caught the tension in that posture - the stillness born not of calm, but of effort.


    It was her first feast beyond the empire.


    And every glance, every step, every flicker on the stone walls reminded her: she was not in Constantinople.


    Not in the palace. Not beneath marble arches.


    Here - everything was different.


    Rougher. Colder. Heavier.


    And more important.


    In the imperial capital, women were allowed near power.


    They had the right to be present - at the senate, at feasts, at decisions.


    And that was enough.


    They knew how to wield their place - quietly, finely, with strength hidden in silk.


    In their Constantinople, power flowed like oil over marble - not with the sword, but with the letter, the smile, the absence.


    Here - it struck the table like an axe.


    Here, power was not wrapped in words.


    Here, the feast was power.


    Sonorous. Dense. Like the clang of iron.


    Here, they did not speak - they severed. With a look. With a cup. With silence.


    The three pillars of this land: Men, Oak, Stone.


    Men - not by blood, but by word.


    In the voice that decides who dies and who is spared.


    In the law, unwritten - dictated.


    In the weapon that makes any decision final.


    Oak - not just in the table where they argue.


    In the court - where words are spoken once.


    In the bench - where they sit not to rest, but to pronounce.


    In judgment - that does not bend, even to pleading.


    Stone - in the walls that do not ask, but remember.


    In memory - that forgets neither betrayal nor debt.


    In the order - that stands, even when men fall.


    And if someone falters - only it will remain.


    Here, there was nothing left to a woman. Not a glance. Not a word. Not memory.


    All the more so - if she was young.


    All the more so - if she was foreign.


    But she stood.


    Beside the magister, within the Byzantine suite, under gazes that held everything: from disdain to wariness.


    Her place at the table was still empty - but it already existed.


    It grated. It caught the eye.


    It meant something - and no one knew what.


    The boyars'' stares scattered like arrows from many walls.


    Mikhail of Podolia stared openly - not hiding his irritation. To him, this wasn''t a challenge - it was an insult.


    Rurik of the Caves didn''t look at all - but leaned closer to his neighbor, as if the affairs of the moment were more pressing. He did not acknowledge mistakes - he ignored them.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    And Olga Strumenskaya, one of the few women whose voice weighed as much as a boyar''s, watched intently. Not with outrage - but with caution.


    She understood better than anyone what it meant to be a woman at a table where the fate of lands was decided.


    Sophia saw it.


    And did not look away - not toward the throne, nor the hall.


    But her fingers slowly clenched around the hem of her gown.


    As if the fabric might hold the balance that was slipping from beneath her.


    Nikodim did not turn to her. But he knew.


    He felt the tension in her spine, the tremble in the cloth beneath her hand.


    He made no gesture. Gave no sign. But deepened the silence beside her - so she would know she was not alone.


    She held.


    Not in step. Not in word. Not in motion.


    But inwardly. At the root.


    And only her fingers knew with what force she breathed.


    It was her first step.


    And in another corner of the hall, away from the words and stares - stood the Steppe.


    Khan Tugorkan.


    Not a guest, not a servant, not an ally. He was unto himself - like wind, like night, like the land beyond city walls.


    He did not touch the food.


    Did not glance at the drinks.


    He observed.


    - The boyars are always fidgeting, - he said quietly, without turning his head.


    Bagatur Aigazi gave a low grunt.


    - They don''t know what to expect. Some wait for the prince, others - for who will make the first move


    Ascalan Kutlug-Ata, grey-haired and impenetrable, narrowed his eyes.


    - They''re counting chairs, khan


    Tugorkan smirked.


    - Let them count. As long as they watch each other, they don''t watch us


    But among all these gazes and movements, there was one group that knew its place.


    The guslars and skaziteli stood by the far wall.


    They did not play.


    They waited.


    At first - there is no music.


    At first - there is silence.


    Not dead, not deaf - but alive, breathing.


    The hall whispered.


    Benches creaked, garments rustled, someone drew in air through clenched teeth. All those sounds flowed around the empty prince''s seat - avoiding it, like water avoids a stone.


    The music did not begin. No goblets were raised.


    Only when the prince would take his seat - then the knot would uncoil.


    But now - expectation.


    Silence stretched taut, like a bowstring.


    In the next moment, the Senior Master of Ceremonies stepped forward.


    The staff in his hand was not merely a symbol - it was a boundary.


    And then - a strike.


    A dull, firm blow, like a command.


    The hall froze. Sounds fell away like soldiers under a warlord''s gaze.


    His voice, sharp and clear, cut through the tension like a blade:


    - The Prince enters the Gridnitsa!


    The murmur of voices died, as if the very air had compressed within the walls.


    The crackling of torches, hushed breaths, the slow creak of benches - the hall stilled, not with calm, but with expectation.


    Some turned immediately.


    Others hesitated, drawing out the last seconds, as if it might change something.


    First to enter were those who were not merely the prince''s men - they were his unyielding borders, his swords and shields.


    Dobrynya Ognishchanin stepped in first, like a watch at the gate. His gaze - heavy. His step - measured, unwavering.


    He did not walk beside the prince. He walked ahead - like a strike before a word, a warning that needed no explanation.


    Beside him - his son, Yaropolk. Still young, but already woven into the fabric of power.


    Behind them came the Prince''s Voivode, Stanislav - tall, broad-shouldered, bearing the confidence of one who leads, not follows.


    Behind him marched the princely druzhina - seasoned warriors, his personal guard.


    Then came the senior druzhinniki - those who not only bore swords, but made decisions at the prince''s side.


    Further behind - the Sotniks(100), aligned like in battle formation.


    And behind them - the Desyatniks(10), and finally, the rank-and-file. Their dark cloaks merged with the shadows at the entrance, but within that shadow - there was strength.


    The hall trembled - not in sound, but in movement.


    Someone tensed, as if the prince''s step had drawn too near.


    Someone bowed their head - not too low, so as not to lose face.


    Someone stayed too still - unnaturally so.


    The senior boyars watched - assessing, waiting.


    The Byzantines - tense, as if they knew: here, words could turn to blades.


    Khan Tugorkan remained motionless, but his companions exchanged glances.


    The Poles and Hungarians fell silent, sensing that this rite of power was no formality, but a trial.


    The merchants sat nearby - gold beneath their nails, fear beneath their hearts. Their wealth meant much, but not before one who held the right to execute without bargaining.


    The junior boyars glanced at one another - none moved, but tension passed through them like wind through wheat.


    The hall did not roar.


    The hall adapted.


    And then came those who bore no sword - but carried the Cross.


    They were not guards. Not vassals.


    They were the ones before whom oaths are sworn.


    The clergy entered.


    Metropolitan Illarion - tall, in vestments heavy not with gold, but with memory. He moved slowly - as the law moves, with no need to hurry, because it is already everywhere.


    In his hand - a staff. Not merely the shepherd''s crook, but the axis upon which power turns.


    Behind him - Bishop Luka of Chernigov. In his hands - the Cross.


    No less than a sword. No lighter than guilt.


    He bore it like a weapon never drawn - because it is already raised before all.


    The hall did not greet them with applause.


    But in this hall, where every motion meant more than words -


    many heads bowed.


    Not from faith. From memory.


    The Cross required no gestures.


    But reminded of every one ever made.


    And only then - he entered.


    Alexander.


    No wind turned. No doors slammed.


    Simply - the prince was in the hall.


    Like a verdict already passed, yet not yet spoken.


    Behind him - two figures.


    Mstislav and Mirnomir.


    Two blades, two shields.


    The first who would walk behind him.


    The last who would fall with him.


    Their steps made no sound, but the hall felt their presence - like steel, sensed even when sheathed.


    They didn''t look around. They needed no appraisal.


    They were not there to represent - but to sever.


    Alexander didn''t walk - he moved like floodwater: silent, unstoppable.


    His steps didn''t echo - they resonated.


    As if authority itself was listening.


    The first step - and the air thickened, like before a storm.


    The second - and glances drew toward him, as if pulled.


    The third - and it was clear: no matter who had entered before, everything now revolved around him.


    On his chest - a grivna, flaring in the torchlight.


    Reflections slid across the clasp, the goblets, the eyes.


    The light didn''t illuminate - it marked.


    The prince didn''t glance - he absorbed.


    Seeing without effort.


    Some watched - openly.


    Some - sideways, as if by accident.


    And some - turned away just a moment too soon.


    Recognition isn''t in the nod. It''s in avoidance.


    And somewhere in the hall - those who had seen him before. Not long ago. At the audience.


    And they held their breath.


    - He even walked differently then, - muttered Sviatoslav Polovetsky, without taking his eyes off the prince. - As if he carried not power, but guilt


    Not a prince - an heir. Not a decider - a waiter.


    Slow. Heavy. Eyes to the ground. Shoulders drawn forward.


    He entered not as will - but as its shadow.


    And now - the same figure. The same man. But the stride was different.


    Not a supplicant. Not a son.


    A Predator.


    Back then he entered as doubt: restrained gaze, clenched fingers, stifled voice.


    Now - not a trace remained.


    He wasn''t searching for certainty. He carried it.


    He didn''t enter as a man.


    He entered as a decision.


    - There he is, - someone whispered by the wall, - the real one


    And the hall responded. Not with sound - with attention.


    By the far wall, in the half-shadow, Gavriil the Chronicler paused his pen.


    He caught Polovetsky''s words - and not he alone. Many boyars, who had seen it then, exchanged glances without speech.


    The one who had once shown veiled weakness now stood in strength. And they knew: this wasn''t the same face.


    This - was another.


    Gavriil made his mark.


    History was being written. Not later. Now.


    And in that moment, the hall''s attention, as if by an unseen command, shifted - to those who were not looking up, but from the side.


    Not judging - observing.


    Not choosing - weighing.


    Among the Byzantines, there was no confusion.


    They didn''t turn away, didn''t fidget.


    They watched - like one watches a tsar not yet acknowledged, but already feared.


    Leo Komnenos tensed his jaw - like before a duel, when one cannot strike first.


    Sophia Lakapene did not stir, but her fingers clenched the hem - a movement noticed only by one man.


    Nikodimos Doukas didn''t look away.


    He stood nearby - and saw everything.


    He didn''t need to turn to know: his intuition hadn''t failed him.


    Not fear - but something shifted under the skin.


    That was why shadows behaved differently in negotiations.


    That was why this young prince''s silence seemed weightier than words.


    He hadn''t yet made a move - but was already changing the arrangement.


    Nikodimos noted to himself:


    One does not negotiate with such a man.


    With him - one bargains for time.


    Neither the Byzantines nor the Western envoys remained indifferent.


    The Polish and Hungarian delegations held themselves differently.


    They didn''t bow - but neither did they rise.


    They tilted their heads just a moment slower than they should have - just enough not to offend, yet not to acknowledge a power not yet proven.


    And from the other end of the hall - a steppe gaze.


    Tugorkan''s face remained unchanged, his body motionless.


    But his stillness was not emptiness - it was an ancient waiting force.


    He looked at the prince like one looks at a rival not yet touched - because the hour has not yet come.


    But in his eyes flashed a glimmer - not of respect, not of fear. Recognition.


    He had seen such men. In the steppe, they were called otherwise. Not lawmakers. Not heirs.


    - Those who begin with silence, - Bagatur Aigazi once said, - are the ones who end the loudest


    And among all those gazes, there was one that didn''t search - it knew.


    Unmoving. Not out of respect. Not out of fear.


    But because all had already happened. The board revealed. The game begun.


    It was him.


    Alexander didn''t notice the gazes - he read them.


    He saw the hall like a field. Not of battle - of claims.


    Each glance - a dice thrown.


    Each breath - a wager.


    Who stands by one they avoided yesterday.


    Who meets a gaze - and who hides.


    Who affirms loyalty - and who probes for weakness.


    He walked.


    Each step - like a line on the scroll of fate: already written, already read - and not to be erased.


    All that remained - was to sign.


    The torches flickered. The light clung to his torque, to the clasp, to his eyes.


    He stopped.


    At the table.


    Like a storm that reached the border - and stood still.


    Before the line.


    Before the beginning.


    A moment - heavy, echoing.


    Someone drew breath through their teeth. Someone lowered their eyes. Someone clenched their cup - as if holding onto the last thing.


    As though the hall itself waited: would he be accepted - or rejected.


    And then he sat.


    Not heavily. Not ceremoniously. No gesture.


    As one leaves a signature - that cannot be erased from the map.


    And in that moment, silence did not return - it swore allegiance.


    Someone flinched. Someone held their breath.


    As if the earth itself judged: to accept or reject the one who dared sit at its head.


    But it did not reject.


    No one moved.


    Not a single person.


    Not a single gaze looked away from him.


    But then - movement began.


    Like water bursting from a dam: slow at first, but with growing force, sweeping away stillness.


    Everyone took the place assigned to them in advance.


    There were eleven seats at the princely table.


    To the left of the Prince, the first to sit was the Princely Voivode Stanislav the Great - the guardian of power, the one who holds it by the sword.


    Next - Supreme Voivode Ignat Slavyansky, senior over all the warriors of Kievan Rus.


    Then - Olga Strumenskaya. She was neither a voivode nor a retainer, but her influence over the lands and senior boyars made her place beside the prince natural.


    Closer to the edge - Boris Stalnogorsky and Gleb Turovsky. Both - rulers of lands, both - players whose weight could not be ignored.


    To the right of the Prince, the first to sit was Metropolitan Illarion - the voice of the church, the one who sanctifies the prince''s power.


    Next - Dobrynya Vsevolodovich Ognishchanin, the princely majordomo, keeper of order in the terem, and a man whose word within the court weighed no less than that of a voivode in the field.


    Beside him - Miroslav the Wise, advisor and diplomat, the one who knew when to speak and when to remain silent.


    Behind him Oleg Vyshgorodsky, steward of the lands, and Igor Rostislavich, posadnik of Novgorod, the one who held the North in control.


    Further, two long tables stretched perpendicular to the princely table.


    The left table - for foreign delegations.


    The Byzantine delegation took the places of honor closer to the princely table.


    Magister Nikodim Doukas, who headed the embassy, sat first. Next to him were Lev Komnenos and Sofia Lakapina. They were accompanied by Sebastianos Phokas, a trade representative, whose presence emphasized the importance of economic ties between the states.


    The Polish delegation was seated next.


    At the head sat Stanislav of Ratyn, a renowned voivode. Beside him - Bishop Wladyslaw, representing the clergy of Poland, and Castellan Kazimir of Krakow, responsible for the defense of the kingdom. Their presence underscored Poland''s desire to strengthen diplomatic relations.


    The Hungarian delegation took seats further on.


    Gy?rgy of Eger, an experienced diplomat, headed the group. With him came Chancellor Laszlo and Knight Miklos, representing the royal court. Their restraint and attention to detail reflected respect for the host side.


    At the end of the table sat Khan Tugorkan with his retainers. His independence and confidence were felt in every movement, emphasizing the status and power of the steppe rulers.


    The right table - for the senior boyars of Kievan Rus.


    Closest to the princely table sat Mikhail Podolsky, Vasily Svyatopolkovich, and Rurik Pechersky - those whose lands and retinues were inseparable from the power of Kiev.


    Behind them - the senior boyars of Pereyaslavl and Chernigov: Svyatoslav Polovetsky, Boris Dneprovsky, Dobrynya Pereyaslavsky, Artemy Chernigovsky, and Yaroslav Ladozhsky.


    Further - the senior boyars of Turov and Pinsk: Vsevolod Pinsky, Davyd Mozyrsky, Stanimir Luninetsky, and the boyars of Volodymyr-Volynsky.


    The last of the notable boyars at this table was Mikhail Sofiyevsky - one of the influential representatives of Kiev.


    At the end of the table sat Mstislav Belsky from the land of Peremyshl and Ratibor Slovensky from Novgorod.


    No randomness.


    Here, place - is not convenience, but weight.


    What you mean. What you risk. What you can lose.


    This is not a feast. This is a map.


    And everyone who sat at this table was a piece on it.


    The farther from the princely table - the quieter your name becomes, the less often your word is heard.


    But a place at this table still meant more than a bench by the wall among the junior boyars and merchants.


    Along the tables passed a murmur of breaths - as if the walls had finally let go. Someone exhaled, as if just returned from the depths.


    Someone quietly gripped their cup, hiding the trembling of their fingers. Others - on the contrary, tensed even more, as if in that moment realizing that now the main part begins.


    But the silence did not vanish.


    The Prince raised his cup.


    The light of torches flared, as if picking up the gesture.


    The voice rang out evenly, but with weight:


    - May Kiev be strong, and Rus glorious


    The clang of cups spread through the hall like steel against steel.


    As if by that clang, power was not proclaimed - but sealed.


    And only then, for the first time that evening, the strings trembled.


    The gusli players, who had stood in the shadows until then, touched the gusli - cautiously, as if testing whether the very fabric of tension would shatter from the sound.


    At first - a barely audible tone, like breath before a storm.


    Then - a rippling sound, as if water flowed over stones.


    The music did not intrude - it wove in, dissolved the clots of silence, softened the stone of stillness.


    But did not carry it away - left it in the depths, like a memory that everything is only beginning.


    One of the junior boyars - very young, with a face not yet hardened - exhaled slowly, almost in relief. He did not even notice that he had spent the entire evening with fists clenched.


    It was not the end of tension - but the first crack in it.


    The feast began.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who''s reading.


    I''ve been a little under the weather and still haven''t fully recovered, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


    Moving forward in the plot - after the coronation - politics, intrigue, and court struggle will fade into the background. Volume II: Reformation will begin. In it, the focus will shift to the economy, urban development, and everyday life. I want to portray this beautifully and in full detail, without losing the rhythm of the narrative.


    I''ve slightly changed the book''s description and reworked the prologue - if you have time, take a look. It''s not very long.


    I''m continuing to work on a more balanced style: less overload with facts, fewer excessive descriptions - more rhythm, depth, and clear delivery. If you have any comments about this style, let me know. I''m always open to criticism - if it''s well-reasoned and really points to a weak spot, I''ll take it into account.


    I lean toward a detailed approach: I see every scene - the movements, the glances, the balance of power - and I try to capture it right away down to the smallest nuances. But at the same time, I understand it''s important to maintain accessibility, expressiveness, and keep the reader engaged. So I''m looking for a balance between richness and rhythm, between depth and pace of perception.


    In this chapter, I tried to convey the festive atmosphere, to show the traditions of Rus and how feasts were held in that time.


    After Alexander''s coronation, I''m taking a short break and starting to edit the entire material - from the first chapter to the last.


    I''ll divide the overly long chapters into more compact ones, bringing everything into a unified style that we''re gradually developing now.


    Yes, I understand - there are many boyars, voivodes, governors. It''s hard to remember each one - but without that, it''s impossible to portray the living political web of such a vast power as Kievan Rus.


    It''s comparable in scale to the Holy Roman Empire or Byzantium.


    This is not just a chronicle of power.


    This is the management of an empire - in an era when the ruler''s word determined the fate of entire lands.

 Chapter 36. Silence and Bone

    Music flowed through the hall like meltwater over ice - softly, yet with a crunch beneath. It didn''t disrupt order but pressed upon the silence - like a wind stirring flags before a storm. And everyone in the hall understood: now - it was permissible.?


    Not everything. But to begin - it was permissible.?


    The prince said not a word. He watched - and that was enough.?


    The boyars began to move, as if each had received a secret sign. But cautiously. And not only they.?


    At the distant tables, where the younger ones sat - merchants, untitled voivodes, deputies'' subordinates - spoons also began to move.?


    The speech of the boyars resounds loudly. But a feast is built not only on words.?


    Even those who were not supposed to speak now ate as if they were deciding something.?


    Because decisions were being made - in every glance, in every silence.?


    Alexander did not eat. Did not drink.?


    He simply watched. For a long time. Without gesture.?


    But in that gaze, the hall felt weight - as one senses the approach of thunder, even before the first strike.?


    And they ate differently.?


    Stanislav of Ratyn, the Polish voivode, ate as if memorizing the taste of each piece - not for himself, but for a report to the king.?


    Beside him, Bishop Wladyslaw ate almost beatifically - slowly, with concentrated detachment, as if the food required approval from the heavens. Castellan Kazimir ate differently - precisely, quickly, restrained. He ate like a warrior, for whom tomorrow on the road - there is no feast, but concern.?


    A bit further, the Hungarians.?


    Gy?rgy of Eger ate with a slight squint, as if weighing each piece. Laszlo, the chancellor, hardly ate - but watched. He awaited, not food, but the moment when eating would become an occasion.?


    And the knight Mikl¨®s ate quickly, like a man accustomed not to ceremonies, but to the road, meat over a fire, to rough hands and understandable hunger. But even he restrained himself - because he felt: here they observe, not entertain.?


    Khan Tugorkan barely ate.?


    His movements were slow - not from fear, but from intention. He seemed to weigh not the taste, but the meaning of each piece brought to his lips.?


    He ate not for satiety, but for observation.?


    As if tasting not the food, but the feast itself - for flavor, for weight, for power.?


    His fingers glided over the food like claws over stone: no haste, no greed. He chose, examined, brought it up. But hardly ate.?


    His gaze did not fall downward. He did not watch the food - he fixed on those who ate.?


    The prince. The boyars. The entire hall.?


    As if he ate - with his eyes. And decided: does this feast acknowledge strength? Or merely pretend at it.?


    Sophia did not avert her eyes.?


    Not because she was afraid - but because she was reading.?


    The Polovtsian ate silently - but ate as one who judges.?


    And she saw - not only him.?


    Her gaze slid across the table like water over a blade.?


    There - her uncle, Nikodim Doukas: almost motionless, as if every movement needed prior approval from the throne.?


    Leo Komnenos - ate strictly, with that dignity in which even a piece of bread cannot be accidental.?


    Sebastian Phocas - did not eat, he listened: to the hall, to hands, to others'' pauses. He bargained - without words, without goods.?


    Only then did Sophia take the spoon.?


    She did not eat - she held it.?


    Where she grew up, food did not touch the skin. Coarseness was covered by cloth. Even among barbarians - in a decent house.?


    But here - fat ran down fingers like bronze. Bread cut fish, the spoon scooped stew from a common bowl, and no one considered it shameful.?


    Here it was strength. Simplicity, grown from the earth.?


    And she - watched.?


    To get used to it - means to become a part. And she had not yet decided if she wanted to.?


    For now, she held the spoon as a symbol. Not food. Not hunger. Decision.?


    The first spoons touched the food with such delicacy, as if applied to a sacred object, not to stew.?


    No one took knives - not because there was no need, but because there was knowledge: a knife on the table - is not a sign of a feast, but a sign of war.?


    Someone - one of the younger boyars, with a face still immature, but with movements honed in the hunt - out of habit reached for his belt. Fingers touched the hilt.?


    He froze. And quickly let go, as if he had touched coal. No one said anything - but several glances lingered on him.


    Longer than necessary.


    They ate with their hands and wooden spoons - as they had been taught in houses where someone always listened from behind.


    Even the turnips in clay bowls seemed part of a ritual.


    The pike, baked with horseradish root, steaming softly on thin cabbage leaves, vanished not greedily but steadily - as if following an oath.


    Sofia watched their eyes.


    Where a gaze lingered - there was an attempt to seize power. Where it paused - there lay cracks, hesitations, desires for too much. And where eyes darted - there, fear or betrayal had already begun.


    Olga Strumenskaya raised a cup to her lips, looking at no one, but in that instant - precisely, deliberately - glanced at Turovsky.


    One moment, a fraction of a second. Enough.


    Gleb answered with a glance, expressionless. Then lowered his eyes again.


    He didn''t eat. He only drank, very slowly.


    Water with honey and elecampane root - not mead, but no less bitter.


    The drink of those who wish to speak - but dare not yet.


    They were not the first to speak.


    Illarion''s voice sliced through the gentle weaving of the gusli, not clashing, but hovering above it:


    - Blessed are those who seek peace. But let none forget: peace without order is an illusion. And may everyone eating here tonight remember - their shadow watches each bite


    A pause. Not a toast. A reminder.


    The younger boyars exchanged glances. Someone coughed - not from food, but from the weight of words.


    Then Nikodim spoke.


    He did not rise. Nor did he speak loudly. Yet everyone heard.


    - When the Empire dines with allies, it grants more than bread - it grants equality. Who knows, perhaps one day these tables will be joined not merely by gifts, but by names. History, like a feast, favors those who can wait


    He took a sip. That was all. Neither a toast nor a threat. But beneath the skin of several boyars, blood chilled.


    Elder Boyar Mikhail Podolsky stood up slowly. His movements carried no flourish, but conveyed the confidence of someone accustomed to holding power - not through the sword, but through the weight of silver.


    - It''s good when the table is full. But far better when no one hides to whom and for what they are indebted. - He paused, slightly inclining his head. - For nothing binds an alliance like clear accounts. And nothing destroys it faster than promises abandoned


    He raised his cup.


    - To everyone who calls himself an ally of Kievan Rus - may he know the price of his words and pay without delay


    He drank slowly. Then sat without looking at Nikodim or the prince. But many eyes already rested upon him.


    Three toasts - like three hammers striking different edges of the table.


    The first - by faith.


    The second - by blood.


    The third - by coin.


    The hall still echoed, no longer in ears - but in fingers, spoons, and furtive glances.


    The pause stretched but no longer held the hall in its fist. It flowed between tables like wine from an unsteady cup.


    Someone laughed - not boldly, but as if air had returned. The sound of gusli grew confident, spoons louder, conversations freer.


    And Alexander knew that if he did not rise now, the hall would breathe without him.


    The boyar with the chestnut beard - the one who controlled half the river tariffs - nodded to his neighbor, as if agreeing: Elder Mikhail had struck true.


    Younger boyars near the walls began exchanging whispers. Someone feigned talking about food, yet their eyes remained fixed on the prince. Another scooped up broth but never raised the spoon: waiting.


    Two servants walked along the walls, pouring kvass from clay pitchers. One slipped on a smear of fat, the jug wobbled - but didn''t break. A guest caught it quickly, lightly, as if by hunting reflex.


    The gusli whispered no more - they began narrating. Yet not freely: as if an invisible ear still hovered behind the sound, reminding - this was still a feast, not a tribunal.


    Alexander didn''t move.


    Only his gaze - seemingly casual, yet precisely measured - slid across the hall, noting:


    - Illarion had not commanded but blessed quietly, a prayer before the storm; Nikodim had already placed pieces - marriage, power, shadows; Mikhail had spoken for himself but accounted for everyone. And in that accounting already hung a question: - You, Prince, how do you pay?


    Alexander gave no answer.


    He merely placed his palms on the table - not forcefully, just precisely.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The gusli ceased not by gesture - but by gaze.


    As if silence itself had decided continuing would be dangerous. One musician lifted his eyes - not understanding why he had stopped playing.


    But the hall understood.


    Alexander stood.


    The air in the hall thickened suddenly - like before a storm.


    One younger boyar, soft-faced, straightened involuntarily - as if awaiting command. Nearby someone coughed - not from cold, but to slice through silence.


    Further back, closer to the wall, a spoon touched the table prematurely - not from fullness, but because the hand sensed everything had changed.


    Now every movement was not a gesture - it was an answer.


    Alexander did not raise his cup. He simply stood. Everything in his figure was silence - and authority.


    - Many words. Powerful words. And as Elder Mikhail reminded us - each word has its cost. But silence does too


    His gaze moved from Nikodim to Illarion. Slowly, without sharpness.


    - Rus remembers friends. But she remembers even better those who decided she owed them


    A pause. No further words were needed.


    - Tonight I drink to those who don''t just await the future - but take responsibility for it. Who build instead of calculate. Who pay - not just in silver


    He took a cup. Drank - steadily, without drama. Set it back on the table.


    But he did not sit. He stood another moment. Allowed the hall to breathe.


    And as the hall inhaled - he walked. As if choosing for himself whom not to fear.


    Not along the main table - but across the hall.


    Silence did not return - but the sound diminished.


    As if space itself watched his passing.


    Past the torches, past those still eating. Yet each person he passed froze for a moment - as if unsure whether the prince might stop at them.


    Alexander did not look into faces - just out of the corner of his eye. That was enough.


    He moved like one not seeking the loyal - but the ready. And the hall could feel it: the prince was no longer gathering allies. He was choosing those with whom tomorrow would begin.


    At the eastern column, he slowed. His fingers brushed the stone - not by accident. Not a gesture. A sign.


    Mirnomir slid along the wall - precise and silent, like a hunter who knows: the prey is marked, only the closing remains. His steps were soft, but carried the certainty of someone who already knows the answer.


    Mstislav remained by the arch, silent. A moment later, he began walking. Not toward the center. Around it. Like a scout in an unfamiliar forest. His pace was unhurried, but his fingers brushed the swordbelt - not out of fear, but memory.


    Gleb of Turov did not rise - he was already standing. As if he knew: no need to summon. Just don''t get in the way. He met the prince''s gaze - nodded. Briefly. Precisely. Not like a vassal, but like a man tired of waiting, now ready to speak.


    And he walked. Without words.


    Mirnomir approached Radimir of Turov. Bent close, whispered:


    - The prince awaits


    And walked on. Without looking back. As if he were speaking not of a circle of power, but of a missing cart.


    Vsevolod of Pinsk stood later. Took his cup - as if to drink. Sipped - did not finish. Set it down. His fingers ran along the rim, testing its weight. Then - stepped forward. Slowly. Without hesitation. The kind of step made when the decision was already taken.


    Jaromir did not rise - he vanished. Between a phrase and a sip, between a glance and a gesture. As if he had never been there. Gone from speech, but inside the movement. The air shifted slightly - and he was no more.


    Dobromir of Zhitkovichi walked beside Radimir. At first - casually. Then - quicker. Mirnomir only turned his head. That was enough. Their shoulders tensed. Their steps quickened.


    Mstislav moved between the tables. Not hurried. As if merely surveying the room. But his gaze scanned, caught on the boyars of Turov-Pinsk. Each one - a test.


    He laid a hand on Stanimir''s shoulder - firmly, but without force. His gaze weighed more than words. Stanimir stood. Without hesitation. Without a word. Just stood. The way one rises when silence means retreat.


    Mstislav did not slow. Past - Bronislav. Davyd. No words. Only a hand adjusting his belt. Out of habit. But too precisely.


    Bronislav stood as if tearing free of a rope that bound him. Davyd - slower, but steady. His face showed no doubt. Only accepted inevitability.


    Oles of Svetlogorsk was the first to rise. Not because of words - but because of a shift in the air. He felt it on his skin - like a change in pressure. Miroslav of Ptichsk followed - not as an invitee, but as one who knows how to read silence.


    The stone walls did not echo - but seemed to absorb the names of those who rose.


    They moved - not in formation. But toward a single point. Some - alone. Others - in pairs. The movement was not to the doors - but to the center. Where the prince stood.


    Somewhere behind the tables, a boyar of Turov leaned back - as if just now realizing: he would not be called. Not forgotten. Excluded.


    The feast did not stop - but the heart of the hall shifted. Not toward the meat. Toward the place where silence became an event.


    Not toward the tables. Toward silence.


    Words were still spoken - but differently. Softer. Sparser. As if tasting the air before a storm.


    The gusli trembled - as if aware their sound might now disturb the order. The strings fell silent - not stopped by fingers, but by a gaze.


    Heads didn''t turn - at first.


    But then - one by one. Slowly. Not to the sound. To the meaning.


    Nikodim did not look directly. His gaze drifted - lazy in appearance, sharp in purpose.


    He noted who stood first, and who - after. Who moved - and who remained. He knew: on nights like this, the course of things changes.


    Not on paper - in reality. And this was one of them.


    Tugorkan didn''t move. Only his fingers touched the table''s edge - a little too firmly. He wasn''t participating. But he knew: this wasn''t a feast. It was positioning. And the one who called - was not calling for merriment.


    Stanislav the Great watched - not the prince.


    The boyars.


    His gaze, calm and heavy, passed from one face to another. He saw the board assembling anew.


    Not out of whim. Out of inevitability.


    - Alexander is no lesser than Yaroslav. And perhaps more dangerous. For the Grand Prince ruled by loyalty. But he - by understanding


    Stanislav had no doubt: Alexander was building order. But who was he gathering? Allies? Subjects? Or¡­ pieces he would later move?


    At the Hungarian table, Gy?rgy of Eger didn''t eat. He leaned slightly toward Chancellor L¨¢szl¨®, whispered something. The other didn''t turn. But his cup almost cracked in his grip. They heard - and they understood: within Rus'', weight was shifting.


    Mikhail of Podolia finished his kvass slowly. And did not rise.


    Alexander stood in the half-shadow. Waiting. But not for everyone. Only for those who realized: they''d already been chosen. All that remained - was to respond.


    They became six. Then nine. Then more.


    They didn''t form a circle. That would be too obvious. They gathered in small clusters. A little off. As if simply stepping out - for air. To talk. To make it seem accidental.


    But their eyes - all drew to the center.


    Mirnomir, without glancing, slid toward the gusli-player.


    One look - and he understood: silence now is forbidden.


    Moments later, the strings stirred, and the voice rose - steady, calm. But in that calm was something final: what happens now, happens forever.


    Song "To the One Who Keeps Silent"


    Not by word, not by cup - the will is decided.


    Not by thunder - by silence comes law.


    Where the prince does not eat - there is no feast, only bondage.


    Where the gaze calls - there the throne is judged.


    A man stood among oaks, without a crown.


    They came not for bread - but for the choice of pain.


    He did not call, he was silent - and the capital rose.


    Not for gold, not for fear - but for order and share.


    Where strings tremble - it is not music in the hall.


    But a shadow above heads, like a sign without face.


    And whoever eats - let him hear what the sounds said:


    - Not for all will the rightful cup of end be given.


    Not to the first - glory. Not to the fastest - fullness.


    He who sits - does not mean he stands with the prince.


    Where the spoon shakes - there truth is decided.


    Where gusli sing - there one speaks.


    Where they are silent - they prepare. Where they rise - they believe.


    Who sang - has covered. Who heard - is no longer a guest.


    And though the hall is merry, though the door whispers -


    Tonight in power is silence. And bone.


    Who fears the gaze - will leave before dawn.


    Who has heard - is in the circle. Who stayed - is in the game.


    Not the shout is remembered by the people, not advice.


    But the moment they choose who shall be on the mountain.


    The hall didn''t immediately understand what it was about. Some listened. Some ate. Some pretended not to hear at all.


    But as long as the song played - the boyars walked.


    And the gusli covered their steps.


    Alexander said nothing. He just stood. And that was enough. A single word could have changed everything. But he gave no word, no question. He waited - for silence to speak for him.


    And then Gleb of Turov took a step.


    He did not bow. Did not ask. Simply came closer.


    His eyes narrowed - not from mistrust, but from trying to see the move that had not yet been played.


    That morning, the prince had already taken away his old power. Broken the old arrangement, pulled his stewards away, pushed not only him but Olga, Boris, and Vasily to the wall. Back then, Gleb thought Alexander had taken what he wanted.


    But now - he understood: the morning had not been the end. It had been the first move.


    Now the circle gathered not those who ruled Rus'' - but those who held the land of Turov and Pinsk.


    All of them.


    The elders. The young.


    Those who once whispered behind backs, who bargained for furs, for pastures, for the right to be called by a name.


    Alexander called them not into submission. Into something new.


    And that - was more unsettling than anything.


    Gleb didn''t know what the prince was drawing them into. What tomorrow would bring - an agreement, a union, dependence, or a trap.


    But he felt it: if he didn''t step forward now - tomorrow he wouldn''t be invited to rise. He''d be ordered to fall in line.


    - If we''re here, prince, - he said quietly, - it means we want to listen. Not to believe. Not to swear. To listen


    Alexander nodded. Not like a ruler. Like a man who had just tied a knot - and now held it in his hands.


    Behind him, steps crunched - Rostislav of Dubrovitsa approached. Then - Stanimir. Then - others.


    The feast was in full swing. Music played - the gusli didn''t stop, cups clinked, speeches flew as toasts. But all of that - was in one part of the hall.


    And in another - something else was being born.


    Here, no one laughed. No one rose to toast. Here, footsteps sounded different. Here, power moved.


    The music still played - but it didn''t perform. It was present - but in another time.


    Nikodim didn''t move. But in the depths of his eyes, understanding flickered.


    - The prince is gathering a hand, - someone thought.


    No. He wasn''t gathering a hand.


    He was gathering order.


    - Then listen, - said Alexander. - Because from this evening on, everything said - begins to build


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who read this to the end.


    I intended this chapter to be in my usual style - expansive, dense, saturated. But it turned out to be more. Too tense, too dramatic, too intricate. Even the most attentive readers will find it hard to take it all in at once.


    The next part will shift the tempo. Negotiations will grow harsher, new economic systems will be dissected, and the rhythm will change - more direct, at times sharp.


    That''s why I cut the chapter here. Not out of mercy - out of calculation. To avoid overloading. Maybe it won''t be just two parts - perhaps three. We''ll see how it flows.


    To be continued soon.


    Song "To the One Who Keeps Silent" (poetic English adaptation)


    Not with a word, not with a cup - the will is decided.


    Not with thunder - with silence, the law is invited.


    Where the prince does not eat - there''s no feast, only chains.


    Where the gaze gives the call - there the throne is at stake.


    He stood among oaks, a man with no crown.


    They came not for bread - but to choose their own wound.


    He called out to none, yet the city arose -


    Not for gold, nor for fear - but for order and share.


    Where the strings start to shake - it''s no music you hear.


    But a shadow above - like a faceless sign near.


    And the one who partakes - let him hear what''s been said:


    - Not for all will be poured the true chalice of end.


    Not to the first - the glory. Nor the fastest - the meal.


    He who''s seated - may not with the prince truly stand.


    Where the spoon starts to shake - truth begins to reveal.


    Where the gusli are singing - it''s one who commands.


    Where there''s silence - they''re forging. Where they rise - they believe.


    Who has sung - now conceals. Who has heard - is no guest.


    And though the hall laughs, and the doors softly breathe -


    Tonight at the head - is the silence. And bone.


    Who fears a mere glance - will be gone before dawn.


    Who has heard - is encircled. Who remains - joins the game.


    It is not the loud cry that the people pass on -


    But the moment they choose who shall rise to the flame.

 Chapter 37. The Seal above the Stream

    Alexander did not wait for an answer. He simply stepped forward - like one who had already opened the door, and now showed what lay beyond it.


    - The land of Turov and Pinsk is strong. Not with swords. Not with walls. With streams


    His voice was even, without pressure. But in it there was a density, like in water before the flood.


    - Here, everything flows. Honey. Wax. Timber. Fish. Caravans go to Poland, to Hungary, to the lands of the Czechs. What passes through you is not goods - it is life


    He took a step. Not as a threat, not as a call - as if merely shortening the distance between himself and the future.


    - But each holds his own part


    In their part of the hall - not silence, but restrained movement. Someone straightened. Someone leaned slightly forward. One boyar took a ring off his finger - and did not put it back on.


    - One owns the crossing. Another - the road. A third - the workshops. The fourth gathers furs. The fifth purchases salt. Everything - scattered


    He stopped. But did not freeze.


    - That makes you strong. But apart. Not together


    Now the silence was dense. Not in the ears - in the shoulders. In the chins that had stopped moving.


    - While you divide, others gather. While you count - someone is already building a network


    He shifted his gaze from one to another. He did not ask. He looked as if offering.


    - I do not demand that you give. I call you to invest


    The fingers of one of the younger boyars clenched on his belt - as if holding back a word better left unsaid. Another averted his gaze, but then returned it - as if, for a moment, frightened by his own weakness.


    Senior Boyar Stanimir moved slightly to the left - shielding Boyar Davyda with his shoulder. Micro-movements - like a crunch beneath snow. People were not whispering. They were already reading the air.


    - In one direction


    Alexander did not raise his voice. But the air shifted - as when hooves approach on a bridge.


    And then a voice sounded. Quiet. But firm. It came from Senior Boyar Rostislav Dubrovitsky - a man with the face of a merchant, and eyes as if carved from an abacus.


    - Very well, prince. Let us suppose. But how do you see it?


    And now everything paused.


    Because until now there had been hints. Half-shadows. And now there must be meaning. Without "invest," without "move." What. Do. You. Propose.


    Alexander shifted his gaze - and nodded. Slowly. As if opening a shutter.


    - Start with furs


    He did not lead to the answer. He drove it in - like a knife.


    Alexander knew: furs were not merely wealth.


    They were currency, equal to silver. They were power - but not in the hands of the prince. Yet.


    Every day furs went west and south: to Prague, Constantinople, Krakow. There they were exchanged for solidus, dirham, denarius - for gold, cloth, spices, weapons. Caravans returned with full carts.


    But bypassed Kiev. Bypassed the prince.


    Boyars grew rich. Merchants grew rich. And the prince watched.


    Beavers, squirrels, martens, sables, foxes - each pelt was silver. But that silver did not pass through the prince''s scales.


    Novgorod bought furs from the north. Turov and Pinsk traded with Hungary, the Czechs, Poland, Byzantium. And they were harvested in Suzdal lands, in southern hunting grounds.


    Each moved alone. No one coordinated. It was not rebellion - simply no one thought otherwise. That was how it had come to be.


    So it was under Yaroslav. Under Vladimir. Under the Rurikids.


    His father, Yaroslav the Wise, had tried. He placed his men in Novgorod, fortified Kiev, tried to pull the streams toward himself.


    But wars tore him apart, marriages, the struggle of sons. He ruled broadly - but not deeply. The furs slipped away.


    They became background. Not a priority.


    Alexander would not repeat that mistake.


    He would not let furs be one of many concerns.


    He would make them a system.


    A system where every fur does not go to market - but to the princely scale.


    Where the merchant trades not by will, but by permission.


    Where the hunter knows: the catch - already the prince''s, even before the trap.


    Yaroslav ruled through people. Alexander would rule through mechanism.


    People betray. The system - does not.


    He would not forbid. Prohibition is a dead end. There would be dependency.


    Like in China.


    Where silk and tea - are not goods. A chain.


    Not a single worm, not a single bush - without the emperor''s will.


    Not a single brew, not a single roll - without him.


    Others buy - and pay not only in coin. They pay in need.


    They possess silks.


    But truly they are owned by the one who holds the origin.


    Alexander wanted the same.


    With furs.


    With Rus''.


    Rostislav frowned, the words coming out as if through his teeth:


    - Furs?


    Alexander nodded. Calmly. Without pressure - but precisely.


    - Yes. Because furs are what leave this land every day. Silently. Evenly. Without a trace. This is gold - without coin. Wealth that is unseen, because it flows apart. Not as a stream. But as rivulets


    - I will not forbid you to trade. I will not impose duties. I will not close the roads


    He spoke not as a ruler - as a man certain that the truth was already in the hall. It did not need to be proven. Only named.


    - I propose a Fur Union. Not a collusion. Not a decree. A union in which each receives more than one alone


    The boyars did not answer. But their part of the hall stirred - not from fear. From attention. Like a ship upon which wind has fallen.


    - The Princely Fur Union, - said Alexander. - A simple thing. All who enter - remain masters of their lands, workshops, caravans. But work not separately - under a single seal


    He paused. But not for effect. To choose the words.


    - The furs go under one charter. Through a single account


    Senior Boyar Davyda of Mozyr narrowed his eyes. In them flashed calculation - and a slight unease.


    - And whose account will that be?


    Alexander did not avert his gaze.


    - Mine. The princely one. But yours as well. In shares. I take fifty-one (51) percent. Not for silver. For order. The remaining forty-nine (49) - to those in the cause. By contribution. By strength


    He stepped forward - exactly one sole''s sound. Calmly. Without pressure. But the air in the hall seemed to shift.


    - Fifty-one is not a bridle. It is a lock. So that neither you. Nor Podolsky. Nor Novgorod - can seize a hundred. Cannot buy it out. Cannot crush it from within


    He spoke not as a chieftain - as one who knows how unions collapse: not from the sword, from greed.


    - Without this account - whoever first gathers a chain of caravans, warehouses, and people - that one becomes master of all


    He shifted his gaze - and struck precisely:


    - I will not allow furs to lead not to the prince - but to Podolsky. Or to you


    - One decides - when the others argue. One answers - when the others are silent. One holds the weight - so it does not become a burden on another''s neck


    - This is not power. This is guarantee


    Several heads turned - not to Alexander, to Rostislav. In his face flickered not resistance. Suspicion. Or loneliness. Because now all understood - the prince does not speak against the boyars. He speaks against them one against another.


    The silence stretched. And then, with cold precision, a voice cut through the air:


    - And if one disagrees with such order? - asked Rostislav Dubrovitsky. He did not shout. He drove in a nail. - Princely account. Princely control. Princely path. And where then is our strength?


    He did not argue. He drew a line. Words - like stakes around the perimeter.


    Alexander allowed a pause. Short. Just long enough to show he did not fear it.


    - Alone - each is strong. While all is calm


    - And in the storm? Who answers? Who pulls the others along? Who holds the line, when the caravan is cut down by the woods? When foreigners conspire? When rumors spread - and the market collapses?


    He stepped forward. Not toward the boyars - toward their future.


    - Those in the Union - do not pay. They receive. Roads. Protection. The shoulder of the retinue. A seal with which the gates of Constantinople, Prague, Saxony open


    - Those alone - pay everyone. And for everything. Themselves


    He looked straight at Rostislav. And added - quietly, but in a way that made the hall seem pressed to the floor:


    - You lose half - so as not to lose everything. So as not to pay for your neighbor''s foolishness. So as to know that even if one runs - the Union remains


    - Because the account - is with me. And as long as it is with me - no one will break it from within


    He did not wait for an answer. He simply fell silent. Like a man who had already built - and now offered to enter. Not asking. Not calling. Opening the door.


    - And those who do not enter? - asked Boyar Miroslav Ptichsky cautiously. Already softer.


    - Trade - as before. Pay duties. Wait. Travel without protection. Without the seal. Without me - if something happens. When the road is closed. When your men are cut down in the woods. When a foreign merchant stands behind you - and says he is in the Union


    He was not threatening. He was outlining.


    - The Union - is not a decree. It is a choice. Who comes first - takes more. Who comes later - catches up. Who stays out - watches how others become the main ones


    Alexander lowered his gaze to the cup:


    - I do not pull. I gather


    - Not because I want everything for myself. But because I have seen how even the strongest collapses - when no one knows where the stream is going


    - Order - is not power. It is that without which power dies in chaos


    - And he who is beside - goes first. And he who goes against the current - either drowns, or remains on the shore. Too far to cry out later


    Then all understood. Those outside - will be able to trade. But not to grow.


    They stood - not in silence. But in stillness.


    Their part of the hall seemed to remain outside of time.


    Around them - the feast roared. Somewhere a new song was already playing, the guslars plucked their strings faster than needed. Laughter splashed like wine in overfilled cups. One of the boyars struck the table - whether from joy or to drown out a strange feeling.


    There - everything was alive. But here - tense.The air had thickened, as before a storm. Words no longer carried. They fell.


    But not all who stood nearby held furs. There were those whose strength flowed not in pelts - in people, in clay, in roads. But now it did not matter. Now - what mattered was who stepped forward.


    Senior Boyar Rostislav did not answer. But his gaze grew heavier. He understood - this was no longer a matter of power.


    For a moment they simply stood. Some thought - aloud. Some - to themselves. But the scene was no longer mute. It waited.


    And the first to speak was Miroslav Ptichsky. Not loudly - but so that all heard.


    - And if not an image - but a matter? What is this princely fur union - in essence?


    The eyes in the hall stirred slightly - not with glances, but with hesitations. Those who a minute ago had been silent - now listened differently.


    Alexander did not answer at once. First he lowered his head. Then - raised it.


    - This is not a promise, - he said. - A mechanism


    - Explain, - threw in Senior Boyar Vsevolod of Pinsk. Not with challenge. With interest, already tinged with a measure of gain.


    Alexander nodded. He cast his gaze - from the silent Rostislav to Gleb, whose hand lay on his belt, as if weighing the words.


    - Let us begin with the Charter


    - A princely one? - someone clarified from the right, a low voice with a rasp. It was Boyar Vseslav of the Crossing, a ferryman, a man who counted versts better than laws.


    Alexander confirmed:


    - A new one. The charter of a union member - a sign by which furs pass without duties. Without intermediaries. Through direct contracts with princely caravans, and through princely markets. It is - both shield and key


    He made a slight motion with his hand - and from the half-shadow stepped a young man.


    Yaropolk, son of Dobrynya Ognishchanin. He was already standing near - as though waiting.


    In the cloth in his hands lay narrow scrolls with seals - not ordinary ones. Red wax with a double sign: princely and personal. And beneath it - a third imprint. Small. But recognizable.


    Ecclesiastical.


    The union came not only with the prince. With God.


    Not merely a commercial thing - a rightful one. That was how it was conceived.


    Alexander did not explain - he showed.


    - To those who enter now - the First Charter will be given. The Charter of the Founder. This is not mere participation. This is foundation


    - What does it give? - asked Senior Boyar Yaromir of Stolin briefly. In his voice - not doubt, calculation.


    Alexander did not reply at once.But when he spoke - he no longer spoke as a prince, but as one who holds the key to doors.


    - To those who enter first - not just a charter. Advantage


    - Access to the best places in the warehouses and markets - fixed, not by favor. By decree


    - Exemptions on duties and taxes - for the first years. While the union is still rising, they rise fastest


    - Access to princely convoys and guards - without queues, without delay. Their goods go first


    - And weight in the fur council. Those at the source - do not merely execute. They decide. They form the rules. Their word will carry more weight


    He swept his gaze across them all. He no longer spoke to the hall - to each.


    - This is not a list. This is a difference. Between one who builds - and one who later asks for a place in a house already built


    He paused.


    - Those who enter now - are written into the foundation. And the foundation is not forgotten


    For a moment the hall seemed to exhale. Without sound. Without motion. But the air had changed.


    All understood: these were not words. This was a moment.


    And if they did not enter now - they would enter later.


    But not as partners.


    As the needy.


    As those who were late - but still knocked.


    And waited to be let in.


    Some boyars already knew - their answer was ripening inside. But to agree at once would mean revealing oneself. To admit: I bought in. I believed.


    And in such a hall, one does not make a step - locks click into place.


    That is why they waited. And the next to speak was not an ally. Cautious.


    - And the warehouses? - asked Senior Boyar Bronislav of Turov quietly. He did not argue. He clarified. Gave others a chance to listen - under the cover of interest.


    Alexander looked - and nodded.


    - The second step - warehouses. Princely. Not just anywhere, but near key cities. Guarded. With a new accounting system


    - Accounting for what? - Boyar Yaromir of Stolin threw in at once. - As if we do not know we have furs? Or you do not know we are transporting them?


    Alexander did not flinch. He answered clearly:


    - I know. But now those who buy will know as well. Everything will be entered into account: who gathered. Who passed on. Who transported. Where it was sent. Where it was sold. And even - who bought. And how much returned


    - And if it did not return? - squinted Boyar Yaroslav of Lelchitsy.


    The prince looked straight at him. Not softening by a degree.


    - Then the guilty party is known immediately. There will be no more saying: "it was lost along the way."Now, only what is recorded - travels the road


    He stepped forward. Slowly. But each sound of his sole was like a countdown.


    - And not a single pelt will disappear without a trace


    Alexander did not fall silent. He let the silence stretch - like a drawn bowstring. And then struck home:


    - He who loses - answers. He who hides - pays double. He who covers - stands beside. And answers with him


    Several gazes hardened. Without objections - but with understanding: you can no longer hide behind "not mine."


    If it goes missing - all will be questioned.


    This was not a threat. It was a rule. And it would begin the day the first caravan set out.


    In this was order. And order - is currency.


    - Ah. And one more thing, - Alexander added calmly. As if until now he had not spoken of penalties, but of weather. - Markets will begin to be built at the new warehouses. New. Central


    - What markets? We already have them in the cities, - someone threw out from the back.Half-loudly, but without challenge - more to stretch the pause


    Alexander did not reply at once. He took a few steps, as if he had not heard.


    But he had heard. And he looked - not at the speaker, but at the hall around.


    The feast went on. Servants carried dishes, guslars plucked strings. Laughter rang - at times genuine, at times too loud.


    But those who understood - were no longer merry. Nikodim - still, like an icon painter in prayer. Tugorkan - no longer chewing, watching. Olga - not drinking, calculating. And the senior boyars from time to time cast glances not at the food - but at those who now stood with the prince.


    As if asking - without words: - Are you already with him?


    Alexander simply turned to them - and continued:


    - Ordinary markets exist. But in every city - a jumble. Goats next to cloth. Grain next to blood. Furs - wherever. Trade - on grievance. And now it will be otherwise


    - There will be a Central Market. One. In each city. Sectors - separate. Salt separate. Grain - separate. Meat - separate. Cloth - by itself. And furs - their own


    - By what right? - asked Senior Boyar Stanimir of Luninets at once. - You will divide the land?


    - I do not take land. I issue a decree. Where the new princely market will be - there will be the center. Who wishes - comes. Who does not - trades where he is used to. But the flows will go where there is order. And thus - where the prince is


    He did not raise his voice. But several boyars lowered their eyes. Not in fear. In calculation.


    - And the places in these markets, as in the warehouses - are not sold. They are assigned. To the first - the first


    He did not turn around. He simply spoke, looking forward:


    - Gleb. You heard


    Princely governor Gleb of Turov did not ask for clarification. He only nodded - briefly, without ceremony.


    - If everything were this centralized¡­ - he said. - Trade would rise twofold. And revenues - along with it


    The words sounded simple. But the weight in them - was like a signature on a treaty.


    One of the boyars exchanged glances with another. A second - tightened his lips, as if wanting to object, but thought better of it. A third - bowed his head slightly lower than needed. As if already considering: - And what if we really are first?


    Alexander knew: loyalty cannot be bought, but it is possible to make it so that growing rich without the prince becomes impossible.


    He who governs wealth has no need of oaths - they submit not by words, but by life.


    He had already begun to seize the Turov-Pinsk land.


    But if furs were gold, then Novgorod was the one who held the scales.


    The first matter was to decide what to do with it.


    That city had held the fur market of Rus'' for centuries, not because its furs were the finest, but because it controlled the key trade routes.


    The merchants of Novgorod conducted business with Saxony, Frisia, Scandinavia, and Europe directly, bypassing princely authority. Any attempt to impose a monopoly there would only drive them into smuggling.


    The veche system gave them too much freedom.The local boyars would never allow Kiev to take the city under control.


    But acting head-on was foolish.


    To engage in conflict meant to waste strength in a war with a city that had lived by its own laws for centuries.


    Alexander chose otherwise: to take everything else.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    The lands of Turov and Pinsk, Rostov and Suzdal, Vladimir-Volhynia, Smolensk - the extraction, the processing, the caravans, the markets.


    Unite them - and Novgorod would be left without roots. Without supply. Without leverage.


    Unless, of course, they struck first.


    Novgorod did not come with war.


    They acted more quietly. They bought off the needed men. Disrupted deliveries. Said that all was as before - but acted to make the new unable to take root.


    Alexander saw it.


    He knew that if he gave in even slightly - the whole system would collapse before it was even born.


    Perhaps even in Turov.


    Stanimir of Luninets already held a grudge against Gleb. One step - and he would take Novgorod''s silver,as one takes a blade: not to keep, but to put to use.


    Novgorod offered freedom. Familiarity. Calm.


    But the prince could offer more.


    He had the markets. The routes. The system. Fur - not a commodity, but air. Without it, one cannot survive.


    If Novgorod tried to shake his power - the system would snap shut like a trap.


    Without noise. Without war.


    But order - is currency.


    Only while it is believed in.


    One crack - and instead of a system, only a whisper remains.


    And a whisper - is the beginning of anarchy.


    Alexander did not look at them. He stood slightly to the side. Not like a tsar - like a center of gravity. He had already taken the step. Now - it was theirs.


    - He who first signs beneath the order - will inscribe his name into tomorrow, - he thought. - And he who remains silent - will stay in yesterday


    Yaropolk stood by the wall. The scrolls in his hands were like lamps above water: visible to all, but not everyone would dare to reach out first.


    In the hall - not silence. But what was heard had nothing to do with what was happening. Laughter - nervous. Songs - off-key. The feast lived its own life. And here - another was beginning.


    The first to speak was Senior Boyar Vsevolod of Pinsk. His voice was not loud - but in it was no question. Only choice.


    - If the goods are to flow in a single stream, I will not allow them to be torn apart in trifles. The routes must be protected, the account - precise, and the word - weighty. If you give this, prince... - he stepped up to Yaropolk. - Then give the charter


    The step was taken. Not into shadow - into the knot.


    Yaropolk silently stepped to the far table - long, narrow, pushed to the wall between the columns. There stood dishes, and sat those not called to the center. The table was a backdrop: no one counted it a seat of power.


    But now - it became the axis.


    The food remained on it, but as if vanished. No one chewed, no hand reached for a cup. They were silent. As if in that corner the feast had paused - and yielded to another rite.


    This table was not there by chance.


    It stood by the far wall, beneath the columns, as if in shadow. But that shadow - was not rejection, but choice. It had been placed beforehand. For business, not for food. For those who do not clamor - but remember. Who do not speak - but record.


    There were already four seated there. Each - not merely a figure, but a function.


    Ladislav, assistant to Dobrynya Ognishchanin, with a heavy leather satchel - which held not reserve, but order. Scribe Velemir, with a bent back and a gaze as if ink mattered more than words - because the word fades, but ink remains.


    The senior keeper of charters - grim, with a casket at his feet, like a guardian of keys to the future. And the monk Yefimy - with fingers that held wax like flesh, and a gaze that read souls, not lines.


    This was no longer the table of feasters.


    It was the table where power was written.


    Yaropolk unrolled the scrolls upon it. Three identical ones. One - already with him. The other two - Ladislav drew from his satchel, tied with linen thread, carefully, as a warrior draws a sword.


    Scribe Velemir opened a case of ink and wax. He nodded - silently, with the precision of a man who already knew: today, this table would sign not a contract, but an era.


    Yaropolk took one more scroll from the satchel - wider, more tightly rolled. He untied the ribbon, lifted his gaze - and spoke quietly, addressing not the hall, but those who stood beside the prince:


    - Charter of the Princely Fur Union. Adopted in the spring of 6562(1054 y.). Sealed by the prince and the Church. The Seals of the Founders - will be the first to complete the circle


    He did not read everything. Only the core. Dryly, without embellishment - as a warrior recites an oath, not for beauty, but so that it may be heard.


    - He who enters - receives the charter. He who bears the charter - is exempt from duties, with access to warehouses, protection, markets. Responsibility - collective. Accounting - triple. Violation - penalty. Council - highest authority. Decisions - by majority. The first - receive advantage. The last - catch up. Outside the union - outside protection


    He closed the scroll. No question. No pause. Simply - concluded.


    - The full text is available to all. He who enters - has the right to read, to ask, to clarify. But not here, not now. Here - is the essence. Here - is the choice


    And that was enough.


    Yaropolk did not roll up the charter. It was not completed - it was begun.


    The scroll remained on the table, unrolled. Between the charters. As a center, to which hands would now reach. Not for the text - for confirmation.


    Here, they were not reading history. Here, they were writing it. With a seal.


    Yaropolk knew he was part of something important. But he had not expected - just how important.


    Until this moment, he had been an assistant.


    Quick. Precise. Reliable.


    Now - he had become the prince''s eyes. They reached for the charter - but looked at him.


    Because it was he who held the door they were to walk through.


    The mechanism that could change the course of the whole land. And beside him - not elder boyars, not his father, not teachers.


    Beside him - a peer. A prince. A friend.


    Yaropolk suddenly realized: he was twenty-one, Alexander twenty - and these numbers would now become a mark.


    Because at that age they usually learn - and they were shaping.


    He did not show it. Did not tremble, did not exhale. Only slightly lowered his head. Not in submission - in respect.


    Senior Boyar Vsevolod of Pinsk listened - and nodded. Not as a sign of agreement. As a warrior before a frontier.


    He drew from his belt the family seal - massive, silver, with an angular emblem. Brought it to the opened scroll with the Charter.


    And placed it - not as a signature. As a lock upon the new order.


    First - upon the Charter. As a key.


    Second - upon the charter for himself. As an entry.


    Third - into the prince''s coffer. As a pledge.


    Fourth - upon the church copy. As an answer before God.


    Click. Click. Click. Click.


    The wax lay soft, like an oath. Four drops - like four pillars: law, will, honor, faith.


    The ribbons - dark, scarlet, white.


    Earth. Blood. Law.


    The scribe sealed the scrolls without delay:


    The first - for the boyar. Placed into Vsevolod''s hands, as a token of his participation.


    The second - into the princely coffer. To be kept by authority, as a pledge of the union.


    The third - handed to Yefimy. The church scroll, under the seal of the temple. Upon it - not only right, but responsibility before God.


    Yefimy only nodded and carefully placed the charter into a bundle, where other seals already darkened.


    All - in a matter of minutes. Without words. Without grand gestures.


    But at the far table, where laughter still rang, a gulp suddenly halted. One of the boyars standing aside, still undecided, witnessed the moment - and for the first time understood:


    What was being created was not a union.


    What was being created - was a register.


    And those who were written first - would walk first.


    Alexander did not turn. But his shoulders straightened slightly.


    History was written by the monks.


    Order - was written here.


    Not with a quill. With a seal.


    And each seal - like a new stone in the road.


    Boyar Miroslav Ptichsky moved second. He did not look around - as if the others did not exist.


    - I do not lead a caravan - I lead a stream. And if the prince gives a riverbed, I will not wait for someone else to step into it first


    He approached the table without slowing his pace and placed his seals - quickly, precisely, without hesitation. One after another: on his own charter, into the princely coffer, beneath the church scroll - and upon the Charter, which now became his order.


    Without superstition. Without doubt.


    Senior Boyar Gleb of Turov was already standing nearby. He did not sign - he affirmed.


    - All that is spoken - will be fulfilled, - Gleb''s voice was steady, but it rang. - He who takes the charter - walks the princely path. He who does not - is answerable for his own trail


    He did not sit. Did not move. He remained standing - like a seal unto himself.


    Boyar Yaroslav of Lelchitsy stepped toward the table. In his movement - weight and intention.


    He looked not at the prince - at Yaropolk, at the charter. Then - quietly, but distinctly:


    - We are hunters. We brought in the catch - passed it on. Appointed our men. Sent it with the caravan. All as always. And then - the pelt was gone. No silver. Who carried it? Who handed it over? Who sold it? No one is guilty


    He waved his hand - not as a gesture, but as if brushing away rot.


    - We tried. Appointed men. Swore oaths. Checked. But if the fur disappeared - all we could do was shrug. No one saw. No one heard. One says - the goods were bad. Another - it was the wrong batch. A third - sold it, but cheaply. Every year - like walking through a bog. Wherever you step - someone sinks


    He looked into the prince''s eyes.


    - And you say: everything - in the record. Who handed it over - is visible. Who carried it - is responsible. Who sold it - shares the gain


    He nodded. Not to the prince. To himself.


    - Then I am with you


    He stepped up. Took his seal - and placed it four times.


    Quickly. Without pomp.


    Because he understood: he was paying not only in silver - but with peace of mind. And, at last, with the certainty that the fur would not vanish on the road to nowhere.


    Boyar Dobromir of Zhitkovitsy stepped forward sharply - as if he had just weighed and decided.


    - Craft is no toy. If the charter gives us workshops, processing knowledge, a market - I am with you. I will not trail behind


    He spoke - like a hammer''s strike.


    And walked.


    To many he was "the potter." But it was his craftsmen who made vessels for furs, jars for pickled goods, building tiles for markets, tiling for the princely warehouses. His clay held trade no less than others'' caravans.


    He approached. Signed.


    Not as a boyar. As a master who understood: the union was being built - and would not stand without him.


    Boyar Vseslav of the Crossing stepped forward in silence. Without judgment. Without theater.


    He did not bargain. Did not inquire. Caravans passed through his crossings - he knew the price of the stream.


    He looked at the prince. Nodded once.


    Approached the table, took the charter. Checked the seals. And - placed his own. All four. Without delay. As one marks a map: one after another.


    Vseslav stepped back. Not a glance behind. All as on the road: clearly, without a word too many.


    Senior Boyar Yaromir of Stolin moved last. Slowly. As if walking not to the table, but to a bridge beneath which the stream already surged.


    He took the charter in his hands. Held it a moment longer than necessary. And did not place the seal at once - but reached for the Charter scroll, as though preparing to read it all, from beginning to end.


    But Yaropolk coughed - quietly, but precisely. Without mockery. Like a man who knows: now - is the moment.


    Reading will come later. Now - the step.


    Yaromir lifted his eyes. Met Yaropolk''s gaze. Gave a short nod. Not offended - aware. He was no fool. He simply did not like to rush.


    He placed the seals. All four. Without fuss. As one sets markers not on paper - on one''s own life.


    The air seemed to shift.


    No one spoke a word.


    But in the register - there were now seven names.


    And from this moment, they were no longer merely boyars. They were those who had opened the gate to a new system.


    The others began to stir. Not at once. But it had begun.


    Boyar Oles of Svetlogorsk stepped forward - not to the table, but half a step, as if only to be closer. His gaze - swift, sharp. But he did not approach. He only asked:


    - Term of the charter?


    - Three years. Then - a review. With the participation of all council members, - said Yaropolk.


    Oles stepped back, into the circle''s depth. But he did not turn away. He remembered.


    Senior Boyar Rostislav Dubrovitsky did not move. Not toward the table. Not away from it. He stood - like a stone in water, around which the waves had already begun. But inside - not calm. Tension. Like a warrior who knows: if he hesitates - he will lose the battle without a fight.


    In his fingers - the seal. He did not grip it. He weighed it. Not the metal. The responsibility. The weight of power - without gloss, without flattery.


    - A bit more than half the income, - he said. Not with a toss. Like a verdict. - That is not a share. That is control. Even Grand Prince Yaroslav did not allow himself so much - not while we were still alive


    Alexander lifted his gaze. No defense. No challenge. Only dry clarity.


    - If you still do not understand what the fifty-one is taken for, then - you did not listen. Or did not want to hear


    He did not speak loudly. But it became quieter even at the nearest tables.


    - I am not here to repeat. I proposed. I revealed. I showed. That is enough for one who knows how to count not only furs - but time


    He took a step - not toward Rostislav. Past him. As though he was already behind.


    - If you do not believe - do not enter. But do not pretend you did not know what refusal meant


    A pause. Direct. Cutting.


    - No one here is persuading. Here, they choose


    Rostislav looked not at him. At the wax. At the charter. At the line that now divided not merchants - but eras.


    He understood: furs under seal - were no longer a stream. They were a network. He who is in it - holds sway. He who is out - begs.


    Before, they came to him. He gave the route. Set the price. Held fear.


    Now - all of it was leaving. Without war. Without a shout.


    Clenching his teeth, he stepped forward.


    One step - not rushed. Not submissive. Like one who knows: they are watching him. And will remember - he did not enter at once. But in time.


    He approached the table. No bow. No words.


    Took the charter. Set the seal on the Charter. The second - on his copy. The third - into the coffer. The fourth - beneath the church scroll.


    Each movement - like a step on ice. It holds - so long as you go straight.


    Click. Click. Click. Click.


    - The eighth, - said Yaropolk. No approval. No verdict. Only a fact. Like a line in a chronicle.


    Silence. And in it - understanding. Not of the moment. Of the consequences.


    And then, quietly but distinctly, spoke Boyar Miroslav Ptichsky:


    - In three years... we will not merely keep the fur. We will set the price


    No one answered. Because everyone understood - it was not boasting. It was a vector.


    Fur - not a commodity. It would become a rule.


    Alexander did not smile. But in his gaze flickered what is shown only to equals: the tension that fades when a stone has settled into its place.


    He did not become an ally.


    He became a knot.


    The one upon whom the weight now rests.


    Beside Gleb, Senior Boyar Davyda of Mozyr seemed ready to take a step. His shoulder shifted, hand moved forward - and froze. Not from fear. From memory.


    He remained standing. As an oak stands, when the wind bears new banners.


    He did not believe - not from foolishness. From memory.


    A memory in which unions began with words - and ended with a noose.


    A charter for three years. Then - a review. A new council. A new prince. A new turn. Today - gain. Tomorrow - a decree. Today - union. Tomorrow - rupture.


    He had seen it. Too often.


    Had seen how princes promised profit - and sent collectors. Swore equality - and raised a hand. Had seen how "temporary" became a chain. How a union - became a reason to rewrite names. And strike out yours.


    - It all sounds too good, - he thought. - Which means it will end badly


    He did not believe in Unions. Unions break.


    It is people who hold. And people - are weak. Corruptible. Flexible where they should be straight.


    He believed in iron. In an oath given without a charter - and held without a seal.


    He did not envy. And did not scorn. He simply knew: they were led not by words - but by leverage.


    "With us - profit. Without us - duties. On the side - you are unnecessary."


    Clever. Not by pressure. By structure. The prince did not say "stand beneath me." He said: "Or be passed by."


    He was not against.


    He was outside.


    And not alone.


    In the shadows of the hall stood others as well. Silent. As if not listening. But each thought:


    "Let the prince build. And I - my own. The union does not make me. I - my own weight."


    It was a choice. Not loud. But firm, like a stump beneath snow.


    Invisible.


    But in spring - it will give growth.


    Boyar Miloslav Bortnik whispered something to his neighbor. Perhaps a question. Perhaps a price.


    And Radimir did not move. He stood slightly ahead, hands lowered, but palms pressed to his belt, as if checking - was he holding? Not the body - balance. Like a merchant who does not sit down, but feels with his weight whether the counter will tip beneath the pressure of the deal.


    Boyar of Kalinkovichi and Boyar of Petrikov averted their eyes. They lacked resolve. Or furs. Their trade was elsewhere - honey, fish, grain. For now - outside the system.


    But not outside attention.


    Alexander did not expect a step from them. Not yet. They had been invited - not for the furs, but for the next circle.


    - The land of Turov and Pinsk is strong not with swords. With streams, - he had said at the very beginning.


    And those who remembered now felt: this was no figure of speech.


    It was a map.


    Today - furs. Tomorrow - salt. The day after tomorrow - wax. Honey. Livestock. Lands. Everything that flows - as a stream, not by the hand of one.


    For now the prince was gathering furs. But the net was already reaching further.


    And everyone standing around now knew: if today - you pass by, tomorrow - you wait your turn.


    Streams go where they are held. And now - they had begun to be held.


    But Senior Boyar Stanimir of Luninets did not look at the prince. Only at Gleb. For a long time. As if weighing not the weight of parchment - but the force of a blow.


    He did not move. Did not rise. His name was not called. His charter was not here.


    But now he knew: If he does not come - they will come for him.


    He could live without the prince.


    His pastures, livestock, meat caravans - were solid. Self-sufficient. But if the Fur Union rose - within a year, a Salt Union would follow. A Honey-Wax one. A Fish Union. And - one for livestock.


    Which meant, not only furs would come under seal. Everything.


    He turned slowly.


    There, at the end of the right table, where the most influential sat, closest to the princely circle - sat Senior Boyar Ratibor of Slovensk. One of Novgorod''s Pillars.


    Silent. Courteous. Dangerous.


    Stanimir did not nod. Did not beckon. Only held his gaze - as if by accident, as if it slid across the hall.


    But Ratibor noticed.


    He was already watching in that direction. Already observing. And when Stanimir''s gaze caught his - he smiled slightly. Almost imperceptibly. And nodded. Once. Slowly. As a sign that needs no words.


    They both understood.


    If the prince gathers one side - someone must hold the balance.


    Stanimir was not thinking of the charter.


    He was thinking how not to become the one written last. Or not written at all.


    Alexander did not speak. Did not move. He only watched.


    Not the charters.


    Not those who had left - or had not stepped forward.


    He watched Yaropolk.


    Because everything that begins - must pass through the hand.


    And if a fall comes - it will begin with him.


    But for now - it holds.


    ¡­and they began to disperse.


    Not loudly. Not all at once. Like waves receding from the shore - slowly, with friction. But each carried weight.


    Some held the charter in hand. Like a key. Tucked beneath a tunic, hidden in a satchel, left on the table as a sign of defiance. Some held it openly, like a shield. Others - concealed it, like a sin.


    Those who did not take it stepped aside. Without command. But with clarity: the hall was no longer theirs.


    The atmosphere had shifted, and now they felt like guests who had arrived late - and realized it too clearly.


    Alexander said nothing. And by that, ended everything.


    He did not say "that''s all," did not raise a cup, did not offer thanks.


    He simply fell silent. And that was enough.


    The feast continued - but the sound had changed.


    Music no longer cut through - it spread.Laughter became rare, brief. Words were spoken - but no one listened. People ate, but did not remember the taste. Drank - but counted the gulps.


    Those who had argued - now glanced sidelong. A glance too direct could become an admission. And here, admissions were like oaths.


    - He is no longer a prince, - someone whispered, - he is a stamp


    And in that silence, Alexander was louder than in any speech.


    Stanimir of Luninets did not approach the table, did not move. But his fingers slid along the edge of his ring - not as a gesture, as a signal.


    Someone at the far table rose. Another set down his cup. A third gave a barely visible nod, as if stretching his neck. These gestures were not coordinated. But they were understood by those who knew: Luninets was already gathering his own. Not for the union. For the balance.


    He was not playing against the prince.


    Not yet.


    He was playing on another board.


    Igor Rostislavich, posadnik of Novgorod, had remained silent all this time.


    He had not risen. Had not spoken. But his eyes - had not let Alexander go.


    He had never met the prince before. Knew everything from rumors. From orders. From other men''s words. But now - he saw for himself.


    And in this silence, in this ordered quiet, he understood: everything would change. Not tomorrow. But soon.


    Novgorod lived by its own law. By the veche. By the voices.


    But this prince - was creating not power, but a net. And a net, once it tightens, does not ask for voices.


    It simply catches.


    Alexander did not look at Igor or the others. But the posadnik felt it - already under weight.


    And in that moment, when all seemed to settle, one man rose.


    Not one of those who had feared. Not one of those who had stayed silent.


    Senior Boyar Mikhail of Podolsk stood.


    And walked forward. Through the hall. Straight.


    Not to the table. Not to the feasters. Not to the allies.


    To the prince.


    He walked unhurriedly, but with certainty. He knew exactly where he was going. And everyone who saw - froze mid-word. Because this path - was not a mere gesture.


    It was the beginning of something new.


    And all in the hall knew:


    The storm had passed.


    But perhaps it had only shown where the next strike would fall.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who read this far.


    This chapter is one of the quietest. But also one of the most important.


    No one died here. But here, a new kind of power was born - not through fear, but through structure.


    Alexander built a mechanism that changes the very nature of strength in Rus.


    He doesn¡¯t beg the boyars. He creates conditions where refusal becomes a loss - and participation brings profit, protection, and order.


    What is the mechanism?


    It¡¯s simple: control through charters.


    Whoever signs - enters the register. And the register gives access to the main thing: the fur trade. And from there - to warehouses, protection, roads, shared duties, and the markets of Europe.


    But the key - is the central account, through which all the silver flows.


    Alexander takes 51%.


    This isn¡¯t greed. And not just control. It¡¯s a resource - without which no change is possible.


    He knows: to change the country, you don¡¯t need words - you need money.


    Reliable. Centralized. Functional.


    Through fur, he takes what flows.


    Through the account, he makes it flow through him.


    And then - he redirects that stream into what was once full of holes: roads, storage, defense, courts, schools, salt, honey, wax, grain.


    He¡¯s building not a market - an economy.


    Not power - a system.


    Because a prince who wants to change the country must first change the flow of wealth.


    .


    CHARTER OF THE PRINCELY FUR UNION


    Adopted in the spring of the year 6562 from the creation of the world (1054 from the Nativity of Christ), under Grand Prince Alexander Yaroslavich, in the city of Kiev.


    I. ON THE ESSENCE OF THE UNION


    The Princely Fur Union is an agreement, bound by charter, word, and seal, for the establishment of a common order in the collection, storage, transport, and trade of furs across all Rus''.


    The Union is founded for the benefit of the entire land, the strengthening of order, the multiplication of wealth, the protection of trade routes, and the provision of justice in commerce.


    The Union is not coercion, but choice. Each enters of his own will, but, having entered, submits to its rules.


    II. ON THE CHARTER


    All who wish to be in the Union receive a charter bearing the princely, personal, and ecclesiastical seals.


    The charter grants the right to:


    - Trade without duties on princely markets;


    - Use princely warehouses, protection, and caravans;


    - Participate in the Union Council and take part in decisions.


    The charter is issued for a term of three years, with subsequent review.


    The first charters, granted to the Founders of the Union, possess privileges:


    - Assigned spaces in warehouses and markets;


    - Exemptions from duties and taxes during the initial years;


    - Priority in caravans and protection.


    III. ON THE SYSTEM OF ACCOUNTING


    Every fur entering the Union system must be recorded:


    - Who obtained it;


    - Who passed it on;


    - Who transported it;


    - Where it was delivered;


    - Where and for how much it was sold.


    The record is kept in triplicate:


    -By the participant;


    - By a princely official;


    - By an ecclesiastical scribe (at the monastery).


    For loss, concealment, or deceit - the penalty:


    He who lost - compensates with the fur or twice its price;


    He who concealed - forfeits his charter and place in the Union;


    He who covered for the guilty - answers alongside him.


    A single princely mark of registration is introduced - a tag affixed to each fur at every stage of circulation. All furs within the system are subject to record and tagging.


    IV. ON THE COUNCIL OF THE UNION


    The highest governing body is the Council of the Princely Union.


    The Council includes:


    - The princely governor (chairman);


    - The Union treasurer;


    - Representatives of hunters, carriers, craftsmen, merchants;


    - A representative of the Church;


    - A representative of the senior boyars among the Founders.


    The Council:


    - Establishes general rules of trade and distribution;


    - Reviews disputes and complaints;


    - Appoints authorized officials and officers;


    - Declares the admission or removal of participants.


    - Decisions are made by majority vote.


    Rotation of the head of the Council - every two years. The right of replacement is enshrined in the Charter.


    The heir to the prince, in order to assume authority, must confirm the Charter and accept its terms.


    V. ON FINANCIAL TRANSPARENCY


    Mandatory audit of the princely account every 6 months, with a report to the Council.


    Establishment of the Princely Trade Chamber - an independent body composed of trusted figures, including merchants, for oversight of finances and settlements.


    Maintenance of a unified debt register among participants, to eliminate hidden influence and shadow control.


    VI. ON VIOLATIONS AND SABOTAGE


    Temporary suspension of a participant for violations: concealment of profit, delay of furs, falsification of records.


    Introduction of a penalty-point system: for each violation - one demerit point. Three points - loss of benefits and voting rights in the Council.


    The Council has the right to vote for revocation of a violator''s voice in the event of systematic violations.


    VII. ON MARKETS AND WAREHOUSES


    Central markets are established in princely cities. Spaces in them are reserved for participants.


    Spaces are not sold. To the first - the first. To others - according to order of entry and contribution.


    Warehouses are built at the markets. Every fur is stored under inventory and seal.


    The princely retinue guards the warehouses, markets, routes, and caravans.


    A network of princely stations is created along trade routes.


    VIII. ON REGIONAL BALANCE


    In the Council and during votes, quotas are established by lands, to prevent dominance by any single side.


    Participants from smaller volosts may unite into blocs, whose vote is counted as equal to that of a major boyar.


    IX. ON LONG-TERM DEVELOPMENT


    A Development Fund is established: 3% of profit is directed into it.


    The Fund is used for:


    Construction of new markets and warehouses;


    Reinforcement of protection;


    Training of craftsmen and scribes;


    Acquisition of strategic lands.


    An educational program is introduced for new participants: "Trade by Princely Model" - courses in commerce, accounting, and management.


    X. SECRET PROTOCOL ON THE PROTECTION OF TECHNICAL SECRETS AND FUR QUALITY


    All craftsmen admitted to the technologies of princely processing sign an Oath of Silence. Breach is equated with treason to the Union.


    Each stage of fur production is separated from the others. Craftsmen know only their portion of the craft and may not teach others without princely permission.


    The best craftsmen work only in princely workshops. Departure from the system without permission is forbidden. The violator forfeits status, property, and the right to work.


    Unprocessed hides do not leave the princely warehouses. Export only of finished goods, under seal.


    All elite-quality furs receive a mark that cannot be counterfeited. Trade without it - is an economic crime.


    The secret knowledge of the princely workshops is deemed part of state security. Its disclosure is punishable by exile or death - by decision of the prince.


    XI. ON THE FORCE OF THE RULES


    Violation of the Charter - is a crime not only against the prince, but against the entire system.


    Punishment - by decision of the Council and ecclesiastical court.


    All participants pledge to uphold the Charter, seek no loopholes, bypass no order, and not abuse trust.


    XII. MISCELLANEOUS


    The Union is not a temporary agreement, but the foundation of a new system.


    He who is in the Union - is under protection. He who is outside - stands alone.


    He who entered first - laid the foundation. And his name will not be forgotten.


    This Charter is sealed by princely will, ecclesiastical blessing, and the assent of the Founders.

 Chapter 38. Not a Prince. An Architect

    The feast in the great hall thundered: the braziers smoked, goblets rang, the gusli wove a drunken pattern, and the old voivodes ate loudly - as if warding off the night.


    But the silence kept thickening. Not in the hall - around the prince. Like smoke curling above the fire, not leaving.


    Alexander was not seated at the head of the table - he stepped into the hall himself. Not as a guest, not as a host. As one who held not a goblet - but motion.


    And it was already underway.


    The boyars approached, spoke with him. Some listened intently, absorbing every word. Others - reservedly, as if weighing it. But none left empty-handed.


    Some carried away a charter. Not a scroll - a stone laid in foundation. Weight, not word.


    Others left with empty hands. But their faces spoke louder than parchment: there was no agreement - there was acknowledgment. Or a silent "yes." Or an unspoken "not yet."


    Sophia watched.


    She did not hear the words - but saw how he held himself. Without fuss, without bows. He spoke evenly, briefly. And they listened to him. Not out of reverence - by weight.


    The faces of the boyars changed. Some nodded - as if they had long awaited these words. Others grew grim, lips pressed. And still others looked away - as before something that could no longer be stopped.


    Sophia did not know what he was proposing. But she saw: this was no pose. No game. Everything - exact. Held within. Like a root beneath stone: unseen, but immovable.


    He was her peer. But felt older. Not by face - by weight. As if in him all was already formed - and did not waver.


    She understood: beside such a man, a title is no adornment. With such, one must stand not by blood. By strength.


    He was no longer a measure - a standard. None sought favor from him - they departed, having compared themselves: whether their path aligned with his weight. Or in fear - that they would not endure beside him.


    And she knew: with such - either beside. Or in shadow.


    And at that moment - another rose.


    The elder boyar Mikhail of Podolsk.


    He sat where those closest to the center usually sit, yet are not themselves the center. The first seat at the right-hand table - not at the princely table, but closest to the Prince''s hand. Such a seat is not given.


    It is held.


    When he stood, the tables did not fall silent - but words suddenly began to echo hollow. As if someone had stepped into the middle of the street, and the entire city slowed its pace.


    Not from fear - from reflex. Like before a storm: you do not know if it will strike, but everything inside already retreats.


    A tower does not rise for beauty. A tower is what others measure their height by. Not because it is taller - because it stands.


    He was one of those who did not need loud words. He was known not by name - by markets. Respected not for bloodline - for duty. Feared not for wrath - for calculation.


    He walked slowly, as if measuring the floor beneath him - not for confidence, but so the ground would remember. His step demanded no space - he simply occupied it. It was not he who returned - it was the weight that had been avoided.


    His belt was tightly drawn. Shirt stretched clean, without folds. Face - stone. He did not move toward power. He walked to where they had already tried to build - as if he could be dispensed with.


    Mikhail approached. Directly. No bow, no hint of deference. Only a light, precise lift of the cup - as to an equal. At a feast, this is permitted. When half the city stands behind you.


    - Prince, - he said. His voice was calm. But it was heard. - Today you sign much. Tomorrow you shall ascend the throne. Then let the evening be strong as a word. Not shaky, like spring ice


    He took a sip. Without display. Like a man who knows how to drink - not for taste, but for sign.


    Alexander responded with a nod. Not loudly. Not ostentatiously. Simply - a nod. Barely noticeable. But in it was everything.


    Mikhail silently placed the cup at the edge of the nearest table - like a sign needing no deciphering. His voice was quiet - like a hook that pierces not ears, but intent.


    - I see the Turov-Pinsk boyars did not leave light-handed. The scrolls - as if not charters, but seals in three weights. I do not know how many there were - but their faces looked as though they were holding not parchment, but a decree. So, you now grant favor not with words, but with weight. And I see, that weight is new


    Alexander smiled faintly.


    It was exactly this he had awaited: for Mikhail to come forth himself. For it all to begin with his step - not the prince''s. So that even here it would seem that Mikhail was asking, not being offered.


    - Not just charters. A beginning. The Turov lands have entered the Fur Circle - a sectoral union. First stone. Without masonry yet


    Mikhail narrowed his eyes. Cautiously. He knew: "union" - is not an assembly. It is a web. And if it is woven by the prince - the knots are already drawn somewhere. He did not believe in lone steps - a second always follows the first.


    - Circles, seals... And I thought - a feast. But I see, you''ve not taken a seat - you''re pouring foundation. Not for a stall - for a hall. More than an agreement?


    - Not for gold, - Alexander replied evenly. - For order. So that weight comes not from thunder, but from deed. That the step be one - and not each his own way. The beginning is laid. Next - the vault. Without frailty


    Mikhail did not smile. But in his eyes flashed something - a tally, not assent.


    - So, the design is already in your mind? Or have you already carved me a place in the masonry?


    Alexander did not answer right away.


    Not because he searched for words - because he weighed whether he could reveal what was already ready.


    - If I had drawn it without you - the wall would not hold, - he said at last. His voice was even, but within it a taut string could be felt. - I do not call for apprentices. I need load-bearers. And I am not building a stall. I am building the Princely Trade Union


    He gave Mikhail no time to react - neither with praise, nor with jest. He folded the pause into a dense step.


    - The first circle (Fur Union) is laid. And I need not a spectator. I need one who knows how to bear weight


    Mikhail nodded slightly, then glanced at the Turov-Pinsk boyars.


    - Is it the same union you offered them?


    Alexander shook his head. Without pretense.


    - No. The Fur - is just a brick. Above it - order. Everything: furs, salt, grain, timber, cloth. All that moves through markets. Each union - a piece of the wall. And above them - a dome. One charter. One seal


    Mikhail leaned forward slightly. Not from interest - from calculation.


    - And who decides under the dome? Or again a circle - and you at the center?


    Alexander did not avert his gaze.


    - Those within. Governors. Merchants. Boyars. In each city - its own trade circle. Above them - one Council in Kiev. There you will sit too, if, of course, you enter. I - am the first in the Council. One voice. No more


    Mikhail exhaled. Briefly. Without irony - like a man who understood: the game is already on. And he - stands at the threshold.


    He did not hurry to answer. Time - too is a merchant. Sometimes the price rises precisely in the pause.


    Alexander was younger. Not only in body - in his way of acting. But in this young prince there was no emptiness. He did not flail.


    He had already built what most boyars could not even describe. Not with a crown - with a blueprint. Not with ambition - with a structure.


    Mikhail had not seen many like him. Young, but not reckless.


    Recklessness - is a cheap commodity. But with this one - everything carried weight. He did not test strength - he already led it.


    And this frightened not by age. It frightened because it worked.


    Yes, Alexander still seemed a boy - in appearance, in how others looked at him. But this boy was already building not beneath himself, but above himself.


    Mikhail knew: if such a structure rose, it would outlast prince, merchants - even Kiev itself.


    He squinted. Everything was familiar: charters, councils, seals. But for the first time, it was not for the sake of power - but for the sake of weight.


    Not to hold others down - but to hold together.


    He knew this path.


    Markets collapse not from enemies - from indecision.


    Unions rot not from time - from the absence of a center.


    And princes who cry of order cannot hold even the street beneath their windows.


    But here...


    Here was an attempt to hold all. Not by fear - by balance. Not through submission - through mutual binding.


    Alexander did not ask for favor. He placed a stake. And the stake - was himself. Mikhail.


    He understood: if he said "yes" - others would follow. Not out of loyalty. Out of calculation. Out of fear of being the last.


    But if he said "no" - Alexander would find another. And then Mikhail would become the one who missed the blueprint of the future.


    This was no boy with an idea. This was a prince with a web.


    And the web was already tightening. Not around the throat - around the heart of the world.


    Whoever ended up within it - would breathe a new air. Whoever remained outside - would fade into dust.


    But Mikhail was not stepping into air.


    He was stepping into a charter. Everything looked well-ordered - and precisely for that, it raised doubt.


    Too precise not to conceal a second bottom.


    He knew: a blueprint that allows no correction - is not order, but a cage. And he had no intention of becoming the first stone pulled once the vault closed.


    Mikhail raised an eyebrow. His voice grew softer - but within it sounded the weight of an old merchant, accustomed to seeking meaning not in words, but in the voids between them.


    - And if I sign - what then? Two summers will pass, you''ll raise another, say the term is up. I - out. And you - with free hands, as if the vault never rested on me


    Alexander did not avert his gaze.


    - The statute lays it down: each who enters the Council, every two summers presents a review - what was done, what benefit was brought, where the weight lay. Passed - remains. Did not pass - leaves. Myself as well


    Mikhail narrowed his eyes slightly.


    - So if I bring no benefit - they''ll toss me out, like any common member?


    - All by merit, - Alexander nodded calmly. - But you - are not common. You''re in the first charters. With you - the title of Senior Advisor. That - is the foundation. Like the Prince, like a head of a sector. A pillar, not a brick


    He spoke not for grandeur - for clarity.


    - Such are not removed by the decision of three by lot. But neither are they kept out of gratitude. If the time comes to depart - all will decide: the Council, the sectors, the merchants, the Church. Not in secret - openly. That is order, not a plot


    Mikhail remained silent. In his eyes - not doubt, but tallying.


    He had already seen the essence: in the union, one is not held by title.


    Held by weight. He who carries the work - remains. He who drags down - departs. Without noise, but precisely.


    All simple, like trade: bring profit - keep the stall. Become a burden - the stall passes to another.


    No intrigue. By logic. By efficiency.


    - So if I do no harm and carry the work - I remain?


    - Not merely remain, - said Alexander. - You yourself will hold the circle. Report, contribution, trust. This is no adornment. This is weight. If you can bear it - you will. If not - the measure will leave of itself


    Mikhail did not answer. But he understood everything.


    Here, place was not granted forever - not even to the Prince. But nor was it taken from those who held the cause.


    Here, power was not asked for. It was reaffirmed. Again and again.


    He exhaled - not heavily, but precisely. Like one who had shifted a slab in his mind.


    - Then speak plainly, - he said. - You call not only me. You call all that stands behind me: the merchants, the convoys, the credit lines. The workshops that rest upon my goods. The stalls that open by my word. Do they enter the Union through my charter - or each on their own, and tomorrow already without me?


    Alexander did not delay. The answer was ready - as though he had awaited this question first, not last.


    - By statute - each joins on their own. By charter, with a signature, under their own seal. That is the rule. But if you enter as Senior Advisor - your network comes not as a crowd, but as a line. You - are the connecting link. For them, the path opens - not around, but faster. Not without rules - but with your word as a pledge


    He paused. Not long - but clearly. Like a cut mark.


    - But with this - comes responsibility. While they hold to order, they use your weight. If one among them causes harm - and you failed to restrain - the answer lies with you. Not for their sins - for the weakness of the bond. The Union is not about power. It is about weight. If you lead - hold


    Mikhail gave no reply. Only his palm tensed slightly - as if reaching toward a burden already felt.


    The essence was simple: lead them - and remain their master. Let go - and by tomorrow, the merchants and boyars will be no longer "yours," but simply "in the Union." And they could be kept only by deed, not by debt.


    And while Mikhail stayed silent, in thought, the hall - on the contrary - began to speak without words. The space around them changed.


    The air in the great hall grew denser.


    Especially where they stood - the prince and Mikhail.


    No one came close. But more and more boyars, merchants, craftsmen began to pass by - as if searching for someone. As if on business. Yet each lingered half a step longer than needed.


    The men of Ignat Slavyansky - did not move. But one of them, holding a pitcher, suddenly began to pour. Not into a cup. Off to the side. And his gaze was not on the vessel - but on Mikhail.


    A junior advisor from the circle of Miroslav the Wise reached for bread - slowly, lazily, like a man seeking a reason not to rise. But the hand moved further than needed. And in the next moment he was already standing closer to the table around which the structure of the hall had begun to form.


    He had not approached - he had been drawn in.


    Several senior boyars exchanged glances. Not in words. In looks. Sharp. Like strikes upon a map.


    No one interfered. But the hall was already listening not with ears. It listened to weight.


    Alexander and Mikhail spoke not loudly, but clearly. Their words spread through the hall like incense smoke - not for hearing, but for perception. They were not caught by ears - they were felt, like heat on the skin.


    This was not a conversation one could enter - not by right, not by weight. But it was already being heard. By those who could calculate.


    Closest stood two. Not at the center - in the shadow. But the shadow did not conceal whom it held.


    Senior boyars: Rurik Pechersky and Svyatoslav Polovetsky.


    They did not whisper. Did not glance at each other. Did not clench fists. They simply stood, as if resting.


    But Rurik''s fingers gripped his goblet until it rang - not by accident, but with a breaking note. As if the hand itself sought something to hold onto. And Svyatoslav''s shoulders were slightly drawn forward - not in threat, in anticipation. Like a beast before a leap, which may not happen - but is possible.


    They were no spectators. An ambush. Not on Mikhail - on the course itself. On the very possibility of a shift.


    They did not need to listen. They had already seen everything. And they understood: if they did not interfere now - there would be no next chance. But to interfere - was to expose themselves.


    Alexander, evenly and without haste, was pulling to his side the strongest boyars of the Turov-Pinsk land. Gleb of Turov. Vsevolod of Pinsk. Even Dubrovitsky. One after another - not as allies, but as stones set into a new vault.


    But that was not the main thing.


    The main thing was not those who had already entered. The main thing - was the one who still stood on the threshold.


    Mikhail of Podolsk was not merely a heavy weight. He was weight itself - the very point of balance.


    The pillar upon which rested the inner equilibrium: of markets, of credit, of supplies. He did not play at power - he was one of its foundations.


    If he stood beside Alexander - it would not simply mean support. It would mean a center.


    And then everything would collapse.


    Not with thunder. Not with a decree. But through action.


    The old axis - the one Rurik and Svyatoslav held by fear, by debts, by neutrality - would not withstand the new mass.


    And there would be no struggle. There would be absorption.


    They understood this. And knew: to resist - was to reveal fear. To wait - was to lose.


    And so they stood. Not because they did not wish to move. Because they could not.


    Rurik looked at the prince the way one looks at the impossible. He sought behind him a shadow - an advisor, a senior, someone who had traced this web. But behind the prince - there was no one.


    And that frightened more than a conspiracy.


    Because if there was no one behind him - then he had built all this himself.


    And if by himself - then this was no flare. This was a blueprint. An architecture calculated for centuries.


    It meant: there would be no collapse. No chaos. There would be continuation.


    And the hall understood it. Even those who stayed silent. Especially those.


    When Alexander fell silent, a stillness thickened at the Byzantine table. Not from confusion - from analysis. No one applauded. No one stirred. All were counting - not coins, but consequences.


    Nikodim leaned forward slightly. But between him and Sophia sat Lev Komnenos - and that barrier was not only physical, but of character.


    Nikodim said nothing directly. He waited for the moment when Lev turned his head, preparing to speak his own thought, and calmly, almost lazily, threw out a phrase - as if into the air between them:


    - Tell her


    Lev frowned but leaned toward Sophia. Reluctantly. Without theatre.


    - Look at him, - he said, quietly but firmly, like one delivering a command, not a thought. - He is not playing. He is building


    Sophia did not reply. Only her gaze shifted - grew more focused, quieter, sharper. Her fingers passed along the rim of the goblet - not from nerves, along the line, like across a blade.


    Nikodim sat still, as if uninvolved. But a few moments later he once again threw out, curtly:


    - More


    Lev exhaled through his nose, irritated, but again relayed:


    - If he succeeds - he will be more dangerous than any who have worn the crown here. Not to her. To us


    Nikodim took a dried fig. Slowly. With cold precision - like one setting a seal, not taking a snack.


    Sophia looked at the prince again. But now - differently. Not as an ally. Not as an enemy. As a structure.


    She nodded, barely noticeably, so the gesture stayed within the bounds of courtly composure. But within - a thought flared:


    - If he truly is dangerous to the Empire, it means near him lies a center of power. And where there is power - there is freedom. Not by blood. By action


    Nikodim glanced at her. Not expectantly - like a master who has finished an engraving and checks the blade''s gleam. But in that glance flickered: - did she read the essence too quickly? And that was either good. Or dangerous.


    Nothing sounded between them. But everything had already been said.


    And Sophia, without lowering her gaze, thought:


    - If he builds it himself - then in this structure, there will be a place for me. Not as an ornament. Not as someone''s "highness"


    But as one who chooses for herself whom to walk beside. And when - to become the axis.


    At that moment, Nikodim slowly raised his cup. Not for a toast - for the count.


    The feast still continued. But the tally had already begun.


    And Miroslav the Wise knew it.


    He did not eat. He did not drink. He absorbed.


    Not with gaze - with hearing. Not with words - with the arrangement of pauses.


    He sat close to the prince, but was himself like an indent. A place where nothing stands out - but through which everything is read.


    When Sophia nodded - he did not turn his head. But his lips moved slightly. Not a word - an intent. As if reflecting the nod in a mirror, but in such a way that no one noticed but himself.


    Sophia''s nod was not a courtly gesture. It was a recognition of a new axis. And Miroslav understood it.


    He needed no notes. All that had to be fixed - had already settled in his mind.


    - She understood. The Byzantines too. It has begun


    He set down the goblet. Not with noise. With a movement only the table would remember.


    - If the prince holds the rhythm - not only power will change. The very form of influence will change, - he thought.


    And just when many boyars were catching only the first wave - Miroslav already saw the third crest. He did not build strategies for tomorrow. He was shifting the grid of coordinates.


    He did not summon a scribe. The order already existed - in the very direction of his gaze.


    But on his lips appeared the faintest fold. Those who had known him for decades understood: he had already chosen a direction. Not a word. A vector.


    And in that moment, the space between the prince and Mikhail - grew dense.


    Without clamor, without gestures, without fanfare.


    Mikhail stood as a fulcrum. Alexander - as force, ready to rest upon the shoulder.


    He understood: the name the prince needed - was his. Not as ornament. As code. As a lock that would click - and behind it, others would follow. Even those in shadow.


    He was not merely a senior boyar. He was the trigger.


    Mikhail looked at the prince. Not out of habit. By weight. That is how one looks - not upward, but level.


    - So you want me to become the face of this wall, - he said quietly.


    Alexander looked as if the decision was already in his gaze. And no word from Mikhail could shift it - only affirm it.


    - No, - he said. - The face is at the gate. And I need the one upon whose shoulders it stands


    He did not press. But the words carried the weight of a vault.


    - I need not a signatory. A stone. A load-bearing one


    Mikhail nodded. Not in agreement - in recognition of the cost.


    - Do you have a statute? - he asked. - Not words. Parchment. Hide. Seal. If I am to enter - I want to see what I hold. Not a tale - a charter


    Alexander nodded shortly.


    Behind, in the shadow, Yaropolk opened the satchel. Not a simple one - leather-bound, reinforced, with a thickened flap and coiled cords.


    He did not draw a scroll - but a charter. Dense hide, reinforced seams, ribbons not for adornment, but for rite. This was no shopkeeper''s paper.


    This was the "Foundation."


    The Turov-Pinsk boyars exchanged glances. The charter stood apart - in form and in presence. Unlike their own, issued for entry into the Fur Union.


    That one held calculation. This - intent.


    Rurik''s eyelid twitched. He knew: such things are not discussed. They are affirmed.


    Yaropolk leaned forward, but Alexander intercepted the charter. Held it aloft - like an object not simply handed over.


    - This is not the full statute, - he said. - Only the first word. The Charter of Foundation. Upon it - the goal, the seals, the names of the first. All else - is in the Codex of the Statute. That is not read in the hall. It is read by light. Alone. If you sign - you will be the first within it


    He did not raise his voice. But in those words stood the weight of the codex.


    - If you look - there will be no choice. Either you will sign. Or you will withdraw. But to rewrite - you will not be able. This is no merchant''s sheet. This is a key. The first stone of the laying


    The feast still moved: the gusli rang, goblets touched, voices spoke. But that part of the hall - had stilled. As if someone had struck out sound and time.


    Around Mikhail and the prince - all had thickened. Even the smoke from the braziers drifted slower.


    Mikhail watched. Long. Without trembling. Without play.


    - I will look at it, - he said at last. - But if I sign - it will be once. I will not be a second. And if I leave - it will be by my own will


    Alexander said nothing.


    He stepped closer - and held out the charter.


    But he did not place it into the hand. He did not bestow - he allowed it to be taken.


    And Mikhail took it. Not as parchment. As stone. As beginning.


    And in that instant the hall contracted.


    The air between them grew denser. Like in a forge, where conversation dies when the hammer is raised.


    Not a single gaze wandered. All - only there. To one point. To the moment where the new foundation converged.


    There was no rustling, no turning of heads. Only the gaze - drawn together, like a vault under pressure.


    For a moment all was still.


    Even the gusli, while playing, seemed a background, not a sound. Even the braziers crackled as if quieter.


    Someone was pouring - and froze. Someone raised a goblet - and did not drink.


    There was a sense that a movement was coming - a single one. Defining.


    Alexander and Mikhail held not a charter - but a point of convergence. And the hall - was held not by words, but by the balance between them.


    Two could not reconcile with this.


    Rurik Pechersky and Svyatoslav Polovetsky stepped forward. Almost at the same time. Not in haste - in an attempt to mark themselves.


    One raised a goblet, the other - his head. Seemingly intending to come closer, to ask what sort of charter this was, perhaps to suggest they, too, ought to take a look. Or at least - drink to the fact that "nothing is done in secret."


    But they didn''t make it.


    The scales tipped - but not in their direction.


    Not because of a word. Because of weight - foreign, uncoordinated, but already received.


    Someone in the hall whispered - not loudly, not directly:


    - Chernoyorsky...


    And only then did they realize someone had entered.


    Not with a herald. Not with thunder.


    Like all others - through the side doors left open, where the air was fresher, and the smoke of the braziers pressed less against the temples. Someone was always coming in or out there - for a breath, for a word, for a need.


    A feast - is movement.


    And that is why Chernoyorsky''s entry was not noticed at first.


    He did not enter - he occurred, like an old law, forgotten, but suddenly come into force. Not loudly, not to the center - along the edge, through the shadows, between those standing.


    Like a second, late, but decisive weight on the scale.


    At first - only a passing glance. Then - a pause in motion at the table. Someone nearly spilled while pouring, someone set down a goblet askew. One man straightened. Another turned.


    The feast continued. But everything in the hall - shifted. Not at once. As if not a man had arrived - but a rule had been broken.


    Because he was not on the lists. He was not expected. And not expected precisely because they knew: he does not come. Never. Almost never.


    And on such a night - even less so.


    He lived too far. Was too secluded. Too weighty to simply appear.


    And yet he had come.


    Senior Boyar Stepan Chernoyorsky.


    Lord of the salt roads. Master of the eastern transfer points. Nearly a recluse. He lived beyond palace halls and outside the timing of the capital. His arrival was never part of the plan. It was always - its derailment.


    If Podolsky held the markets, then Chernoyorsky - held what passed through them. Salt. Flows. Debt. His appearance was neither assent nor challenge.


    It was - a shift in space.


    He did not walk in alone. Four more boyars followed him. On their cloaks - the dust of unpaved roads. On their boots - the warmth of the saddle. They had not entered. They had not yet dismounted.


    No one called to them. No one nodded. And yet - everything shifted.


    They were not hasty. But neither did they dawdle.


    As those who arrived late not from weakness, but from distance. And still came in time.


    And it was then that the gazes in the hall - slowly, as if by an invisible signal - turned.


    Not by noise. By weight.


    Alexander and Mikhail did not avert their eyes. But not from each other - from the figure moving through the great hall toward them.


    The prince did not know who it was. The face - unfamiliar. The name - unknown. But the hall knew.


    It responded not with words - with weight. As if a foreign stone had been placed into a structure already measured to line and angle - and it fit perfectly. Without a gap.


    And Alexander understood: this man - was not part of the scene. He was as if the scene itself had changed.


    Mikhail looked at him once. And looked no more. Not out of indifference. Out of calculation. That is how one looks at a map where a new pass has appeared.


    Some boyars did not stir - not out of pride. Out of understanding that any movement near him would seem like an attempt to measure up. And measuring up - was foolish. He was not greeted. He was marked.


    Meanwhile, Chernoyorsky walked - not in a straight line, but by weight. Like water - not where ordered, but where slope leads.


    And the slope led toward the Prince and Mikhail.


    He did not call attention. Did not seek eyes. He simply moved - like a burden that needed no words.


    But order stood above silence.


    He had entered the hall - and thus had to acknowledge who held it.


    He had nearly come to a halt when - in another part of the hall - another rose.


    Princely voivode Stanislav the Great.


    He had not planned to rise. They had agreed beforehand: Alexander would manage. No aid was needed.


    But this weight - was not in the equation.


    Chernoyorsky was no guest. No witness. He was a factor.


    If he stood nearby - even without entering the conversation - the axis would shift. Not toward the prince.


    Stanislav stepped forward. Without haste. Without shout.


    As in battle: not to intercept - to cover a flank that had suddenly been left open.


    He did not seize the word. Did not rush to the center.


    But the very fact of his movement - changed the density.


    Now, toward Alexander and Mikhail, came two pillars. Two centers of gravity.


    And everything in the hall shifted - not by strength. By axis.


    Stepan, however, stopped. Not near. Not far.


    Like a pause before a boundary - not out of deference, but of calculation: will the vault bear the weight of a new load-bearing stone?


    He stepped closer.


    Not quickly. Not slowly. As if he was not walking - but movement beneath him carried forward.


    And when the distance became permissible - not for equals, for those who acknowledge a center - he stopped.


    He looked straight ahead. Without challenge. Without tilt.


    - Prince, - he said. No more, no less. Straight. Like a measure laid upon the table - not for trade, but for alignment.


    Alexander nodded. Precisely. Without flourish. Like one not surprised - but aware of the weight of the moment.


    Stepan turned his gaze. Slowly. As if he was not turning his head, but shifting the vector of pressure.


    - Mikhail, - he said.


    Not as a friend. Not as a foe. As if a new marker had appeared on the map - and needed to be fixed.


    Mikhail smirked. Not broadly - at the corner of his lips.


    - So what is this? You too, Stepan, have stepped out from your salt? I thought you''d not emerge till autumn


    The voice was light. But in it ran a subtle jab: not of malice, of old habit. As between heavy stones - where a jest does not amuse, but tests the strength.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Stepan did not react. Did not smile. Did not look.


    He merely let his gaze drop - to the charter in Mikhail''s hands. It paused a moment. Not from interest - by the inertia of the eye. The parchment was dense, reinforced, sealed. No merchant''s scroll - a foundation.


    But Stepan asked no questions. Made no comparisons.


    He had already seen all he wanted. And that - was not his concern. He was too detached.


    The gaze returned to the prince.


    - There are five of us, - he said. - All tables, I see, are taken. If possible - place a new one for us. And benches to it


    It did not sound like a request. It was a motion: we are here. We will place. We will sit. We will leave when we decide.


    Alexander nodded. Evenly. Without surprise - like one who understood: this one needs no explanation, only no obstruction.


    Behind him, Yaropolk had already stepped aside. Without words. Without question. He knew what to do.


    Stepan nodded slightly - curtly. As a sign: received. And moved off - toward where a table would soon appear.


    Not into the shadows, not into the center. Simply - into the space beyond the game.


    He was no spectator. But neither did he become a participant.


    Alexander watched him go and understood: that man, perhaps, had already grasped what was being built here.


    But it was - too far from his interests. And thus - irrelevant.


    Not far off, in the half-light near the pillars, stood the princely voivode Stanislav. He did not interfere. But he saw everything.


    He knew: had Stepan taken even a step into the conversation - he would have had to enter. Not for a word. For balance.


    Alexander was strong. Not by rank - by weight.


    He held the discourse without yielding. But against two pillars at once - even he might have bent. Where he should not. Where now he could not.


    Stepan did not do it. And in that - preserved the balance. Or perhaps, simply passed by. He had his own equations.


    A little off to the side, at the right edge of the hall, still stood Rurik Pechersky and Svyatoslav Polovetsky.


    They did not move. Said nothing. But between them - the silence thickened. The kind that does not birth stillness - but restrains irritation.


    Rurik held his goblet - fingers clenched so tightly the vessel rang. Not loudly. But audibly.


    He had seen everything. And understood everything.


    Stepan had not merely broken the momentum they had begun - to interrupt the conversation between Mikhail and the prince. He had entered - and withdrawn, without saying a word about what was occurring. Had not stepped into the center. Had not reached out. Had not struck.


    He had absorbed attention - and given nothing in return.


    This was not participation. This was displacement without seizure.


    And in that lay the danger: he had not entered the game - he had made the game impossible.


    - Empty, - Rurik exhaled. Not aloud. Into the essence. That is not said of the weak. That is said of those who do not yield to calculation.


    Svyatoslav did not reply. But his shoulders were slightly drawn forward. Not for a step. For holding.


    He felt: one more such entry - and the stage would vanish completely.


    Not because someone had won.


    Because everything had come to rest on others.


    And the silence - once again settled upon Chernoyorsky.


    But he did not move. Did not approach the prince. Did not step into the center. He stood in his corner, like a stone long lain by the roadside - and only just noticed again.


    The servants were already bringing the table. One, then another - hurrying, but without fuss. Everything was under control.


    He waited - not for a command. For a table.


    And that was his stake: not to enter - and thus not allow anyone to use his entry.


    And so everything returned - to the point where it had begun.


    The Prince. Mikhail. The charter.


    The irritants were gone. All excess - had settled. Mikhail returned to what mattered.


    He took the charter.


    Not with his eyes - with weight. As a merchant looks at a sack of gold: not to admire, but to know - is it real.


    His fingers rested on the edge of the parchment - not yet a signature, but already a choice.


    He did not rush. The words entered like stones into an arch: slowly, but forever. Word by word, before him was forming not an agreement - a structure.


    He did not read aloud.


    But the weight of his silence - spoke.


    Even those who turned away felt: something was being decided now that would soon be spoken.


    He finished reading, exhaled - briefly. And spoke.


    Not loudly. Not like a tribune. Like a man speaking his calculation aloud - but so that others would hear.


    Not a commentator - an architect, naming for the first time the design by which life would be shaped.


    - So this is how it is built...


    A pause. Stillness - like before the aim.


    - The sectors - like a vertical. Furs, salt, grain... Each with its own head. Each trade circle - in its own city. Local - but with a voice in Kiev. Cities - along the horizontal. Each with its own circle. Its own square. Its own demand and its own measure. But all - under one vault


    And then the hall began to listen - not because it was called, but because the words began to form a doorway.


    Mikhail spoke - as if to himself. But all around him heard.


    Even the gusli - sounded quieter. Not because they were muted, but as if they themselves stepped into shadow - not to interfere.


    Someone raised a goblet - and did not drink. Someone laughed - but the sound faded at once, as if retreating beyond the threshold.


    Even the noise - began to listen.


    Perhaps he knew it.


    Perhaps he spoke - not for the prince.


    For the hall.


    Not to summon. To show: the entrance is open. And he was the first to step in.


    Mikhail lifted his gaze.


    - And in Kiev - not a throne, but a knot. Not power, but a statute. Not a shout - a seal. The Central Council. Everything flows there - not to press down, but to keep from coming apart


    He ran a finger lightly along the edge:


    - This is no stall. This is a network. He who has not entered - trades alone. He who has - holds together


    He fell silent. The charter in his hand did not rustle. Only weight.


    - This is not about trade, Prince. This - is about Rus


    He paused - and spoke more quietly:


    - One sheet, one charter - but behind it, I see, a whole wall. The Book of Trade. The Book of Shares. The Book of Investments. The Book of Courts and others. And each - like a ship: moves on its own, but under one sail. It is not all in this sheet - but this sheet holds it all. Because it is - the foundation


    He sought no flourish. He simply spoke, like one who is used to dissecting by layers.


    - This is how one builds not a fair, but an order. Not for a year - for a century. If it continues this way - you are not a Prince. You are the Architect of a new market


    He raised his eyes from the charter. Looked straight ahead.


    - And if I sign - I do not simply enter. I become part of the foundation. If you break - I fall with you. If you fall - I will crack


    He sighed. Without theatre. Simply - like a man who has made the tally.


    - But if it holds... then yes, then it will not be a princely union. It will be a trade order. Not a whim - a structure


    He ran his finger along the edge of the charter - as if evening its line.


    - I will sign


    - But know: this is no longer only yours


    He lifted his eyes:


    - Now it is mine too. And if I hold - then so must you


    Alexander listened - without pomp, without a shadow on his face. Only the corner of his brow shifted - as if he accepted not agreement, but weight. He did not nod. But in his gaze was: "I see it, I take it, I hold it."


    He stood - not above, not opposite. Like one who had waited for this very answer.


    Like one who now must hold not power - a vault.


    The charter did not rustle.


    The hall - did not stir.


    The foundation - had been laid.


    But the hall did not breathe easier.


    Not from the signature. Not from the words.


    Because everyone knew - Mikhail was not alone in that hall.


    And the weight placed on the prince''s side was already drawing a counterbalance.


    Beside them - the same figures.


    Senior Boyars Rurik and Svyatoslav. Until now, they had remained silent. But now - they no longer could.


    Rurik stepped forward first. Not sharply - like a man tired of waiting. He did not cross the hall - he simply entered the core. Into where the structure already held.


    The feast lived on: the gusli rang, goblets clinked, someone leaned toward a neighbor. But this step was foreign - like a note that slipped from the choir. It did not seek - it asserted.


    Svyatoslav moved after. Not in step - with a shift. Not repeating - closing the gap. Like a flank that waits while the gaze is fixed on the center.


    He did not move toward words. He took position beside. Not beside Rurik - beside the moment. Silently. By weight.


    They had been here all along. But only now - entered the move.


    A little off, at the same table where the fur seals had been placed earlier, space was already being cleared. Ladislav did not wait for a command - he acted by rhythm.


    Mikhail stood as part of the structure. In his hand - the charter. Not a document. A weight.


    Yaropolk, without asking, stepped toward the table. From his satchel - the same leather, the same stitching - he drew two more charters of Foundation. He laid them out slowly, like seals into masonry - not for display, for fixation.


    Alexander watched. Everything was converging. Three seals remained. And then - the vault.


    But at that moment - the air changed.


    Not with noise. With tension. As if the fabric of the hall tore along an inner seam. Alexander did not flinch. Only his gaze shifted - almost like a hand to the hilt: not for show, but from a sense of weight.


    Someone approached. Not into the feast - into the meaning.


    It was not a step - it was a vector. A direction. A shift in the structure.


    Alexander turned his head sideways - not sharply, but precisely. And at once he knew: what had been on the verge of closing would now be shifted. Not broken - tested.


    Rurik Pechersky and Svyatoslav Polovetsky.


    The very ones who had almost intervened - back when he allowed Mikhail to take the charter. But just then, Chernoyorsky had entered the hall - not a guest, not a participant, but weight.


    Stepan had spoken not a word. But everything had shifted.


    And they had stepped back. Not out of fear. Out of calculation: the moment had been disrupted.


    And now - they returned. Because the system had closed. And if they did not enter now - it would be too late.


    Rurik stepped forward.


    Raised his goblet - not in honor, in marking.


    - Prince, - he said, almost lazily, but with precision. - A splendid feast. As is its host


    Alexander gave no reply. Not out of pride. Out of accuracy. Rurik - was not in the structure. Not yet needed. For now - noise.


    And a vault does not answer to noise. It waits for weight.


    Rurik sensed this. His eyes narrowed slightly, a crease twitched at his lips - not mockery, defense. But still he smiled. Gently. Like a priest who sees the faithless, but still hopes to bring them back.


    He understood that if Mikhail stood with the prince - all his network would become a bridge. And then they would no longer control the flows. But the prince, through him.


    He leaned forward just slightly.


    - As I passed by, I heard... - he dropped the phrase like a coin, not large, but ringing. - A Trade Union. Princely. Has a fine sound


    And then - the tone changed. A slight chill in the voice - like wind before a storm.


    - Walls, Prince... But who holds the land beneath them?


    Rurik did not raise his voice. But each word - seemed to cut through the vault.


    - You speak of seals, of circles, of statutes... But who gives those circles roots, if the boyar land lies not beneath them?


    His gaze swept the hall - not seeking support, but reminding: every man here is not just a merchant or a scribe. A landholder.


    - A trade union is good. Beautiful. But you lean on markets, forgetting: without land - there is no salt, no honey, no fur. Nothing


    Mikhail turned slightly. But said nothing.


    Alexander met his gaze. Calmly. Without a smile.


    - The land is yours. But the roads - are mine. The warehouses - mine. The guard - mine. And those who carry your salt, do not pass through your fields. They go through the market. Which means - through me


    The silence thickened.


    And into that silence - a second voice. Soft. Almost cheerful. But within - ice.


    - A splendid network, - said Svyatoslav Polovetsky, coming closer. - Markets, seals, courts, privileges...


    He inclined his head - as if in acknowledgment, as if in appraisal.


    - But tell me, Prince... how soon before you decide someone is "outside the network"? That my shops - are redundant? That my caravans - are in the way? And you say: "So says the statute"?


    There was no threat in the words. Only fear. Fear that order might become a chain. And close - not in protection, but as a trap.


    Alexander did not avert his gaze.


    - Do not wish to take part - then do not. But when caravans begin to bypass your lands, and goods grow twice as costly - you will ask for the charter yourself. And it will wait. Until its time


    He paused.


    - I do not forbid freedom. I offer an alternative to chaos


    Svyatoslav did not answer. Only bowed his head - not in submission, in calculation. Like a beast that senses: a cage might be a passage, or might be a snare.


    Rurik remained standing. His gaze - not on the prince, on Mikhail. Not defeat, not challenge. Weighing. He had made his move - but understood: the next figure was already moving beyond his will.


    Alexander did not argue. He simply shifted the frame.


    Answers were no longer required - anything they said now would become an admission of weakness. Not refutation - adaptation to another''s blueprint.


    And so they fell silent.


    Not because they yielded. Because there was no other move.


    Mikhail listened - calmly, to the end. Without interruption. But at some point, his lips pressed slightly - not from emotion, from the tally. As if the numbers had aligned.


    He stepped forward. Not to the side. To the core.


    He approached the table. Took the seal.


    Click. Click. Click.


    Three strikes. Not a gesture. A foundation.


    He did not wait. Did not seek effect. He simply placed the period - in the moment when others were still arranging commas.


    The seals were laid down. The Union - was not proclaimed. It had begun. Not with a shout. With an act.


    Mikhail took his charter. His gaze - to the prince. To Rurik. To Svyatoslav. In their eyes - not emptiness. Embers. Not agreement - motion. Not reaction - shift.


    Alexander smiled. Not broadly - precisely. Like a man who had awaited not confirmation, but the locking of a structure.


    And he extended his hand - not toward the throne, not to the table, not for show. Straight - to Mikhail.


    Not as a ruler. As one who seals a vault. Who knows: now it can be held.


    Mikhail smirked. Briefly. Without play. And grasped - firmly.


    Not as an oath. As a reckoning. Merchant''s. Measured. With such a grip, hands are struck not for theatre - for terms.


    And that compressed moment - became the point of convergence.


    Those who saw it - did not believe it at once. Mikhail of Podolsk. Now - with the prince. Not only Stanislav with his retinue. Now - the stalls. The markets. The merchants. The weight.


    Metropolitan Hilarion did not intervene. But watched. As one looks at a church whose foundation is laid not only in the shape of a cross, but in faith in justice.


    He had already given his seal. Not for power. For truth. Because he knew: Alexander built not for glory. For order. Where strength - serves structure. And structure - serves grace.


    Where there were markets, there will be shelter. Where there was dispute - form. Where there was barter - foundation. And that - is already a path.


    Alexander knew: he had only begun.


    But the vault was laid.


    The Princely Trade Union.


    ***


    Thank you to everyone who read to the end.


    This chapter is not about intrigue. And not about victory. It is about construction.


    About how a network is created - one not pulled together by force, but assembled by weight. Where each step is not merely movement, but a vector of pressure. Where every word is not for beauty, but like a stone in a vault.


    I understand: this chapter is heavy. And vast. But it cannot be light - because it speaks of power not as throne or title, but as a point of balance. There are no villains here. No heroes. There is structure. System. An order that is built not by desire - by weight.


    If it seemed there were too many glances, pauses, weighings - that''s how it must be. This is politics. Not a stage. Not a battle. A knot. A place where a single misstep collapses everything. And a single precise one - binds cities.


    If not everything was grasped the first time - that''s natural. This text is not written to "hit." It''s written as it would happen in truth. Not "for effect," but to show: yes, this is how a new form of influence might be built.


    Alexander does not triumph here. He assembles. He does not entice. He holds. He is not at the peak - he is at the foundation. And that is why he cannot be overthrown. He is what something else already rests upon.


    This style - is not an experiment. It is the foundation. And I will remain in it, continuing to raise the level.


    There will be no more chapters this heavy. Not because things have become easier - but because now, action can begin.


    Reforms are coming: water, famine, roads, tax, trade. Decisions - not words. Transformations - not plans.


    Alexander will stop speaking. He will begin doing.


    And everything you saw in this chapter - is not for weight. It is for stability.


    So the next blow does not bring collapse.


    But deflection.


    (If you want to understand what holds this structure:


    The vault - is the Princely Trade Union.


    Its bricks - are the sectoral unions: fur, salt, grain, timber, and others.


    And the walls - are those who entered. People, cities, shops, roads.


    Everything that came under one seal. And everything that now stands not on fear - on weight.)


    .


    In this and the previous chapter, I showed you not a dream, not inspiration - but the foundation.


    How Prince Alexander gains money. Not by miracle. Not by birthright. By deed.


    Here is the Turov-Pinsk land.


    At the moment, their fur trade yields 1000 - 1200 grivnas a year. Half - goes to the prince. He spends it on roads, security, fairs. But the base - is his. And most importantly: the income is growing.


    Now - 1000 grivnas. In a year - 2000. In ten - 15,000. From furs alone. This is not fantasy. This is calculation.


    To understand how much this is, reread Chapter 8 for the treasury.


    (1 grivna equals approximately 200 - 210 grams of silver. For those who wish - count it in tons. Though of course, it doesn''t mean that much pure metal sat in chests. The grivna is a count. An equivalent. In reality, they paid with everything: furs, cloth, honey, grain. In kind. But the weight - was tallied in silver. To have a standard for reference.)


    Furs bearing the princely seal - are like coin. They are known from Scandinavia to Baghdad. This is not just clothing. This is status. Style. Brand.


    A pelt without a seal - is not merchandise. With a seal - it is a mark of quality.


    How did he achieve this? Read.


    Now multiply furs by everything else: wax, salt, honey, cloth, timber, iron, stone. All - by a single model. Each union - under one statute. And all - under the Princely Trade Union.


    What does that mean?


    It means: every good - under control. Every craft - like furs. Alexander takes his share - and develops the sector. This is not a raid. This is a system.


    Money flows easily - but because it is built heavily. Not pillaging. Order. Accounting. Responsibility.


    The entire model - with numbers, calculations, turnover - I have it. But this is not bookkeeping. This is a novel. I show the essence.


    Those who want specifics - they will come. Further along in the story: how workshops operate, how furs are processed, how production grows.


    But for now - the core is laid.


    Prince Alexander now has economic power. Not on parchment. In action.


    And it is precisely on this that he will build reforms. Not with slogans.


    With weight.


    Next comes Chapter 39: Ascension to the Throne


    And Chapter 40: Ash and Oath - the conclusion of Volume One.


    From here on - it only gets better.


    .


    If you''ve read this far - it means you''re interested not only in the plot, but in the mechanics of the world. And that''s exactly right. Because in this book, there is no "good enough." Everything holds by weight.


    For the sake of the story, it''s not necessary to know how the Princely Trade Union is structured.


    But so that no foolish questions arise like "where does the money come from?" or "how does it work so quickly?" - before you is the full statute. Yes, it''s long. Yes, there are many words. Because order - is not magic. It is structure.


    I anticipate the reaction: "Where would you get that much parchment? Who would write all this down?"


    Here is the answer: in the beginning, the cost falls on those who trade. Your goods - your mark, your parchment.


    Then - paper production. Alexander launches the manufacture of paper sheets from rags. Not for elegance, but to free himself from chance. Everything is accounted for. Everything is secured. The system will function - exactly as described.


    Because if I was able to describe it - I would be able to build it.


    But this book is not about numbers. Not about tables. It''s about people. About an era. About the clash of old and new.


    It''s just that here - everything is real. The world lives not on smoke. But on what has weight, rules, and price.


    You wanted realism?


    You will have it. In weight. In seal. And in right.


    .


    Notice.


    The statute - is not a leaflet. It is a foundation. Over three thousand words. (Much of the text has been removed here, so as not to overload you.)


    More than six Books: On Trade, On Shares, On Investments, On Court, On Weights, On Exceptions, and more.


    .


    THE CHARTER OF THE PRINCELY TRADE UNION


    Adopted in the spring of the year 6562 from the creation of the world (1054 from the Birth of Christ), under Grand Prince Alexander Yaroslavich, in the city of Kiev.


    I. ON THE ESSENCE OF THE UNION


    The Princely Trade Union (PTU) is an overarching union, established in the name of order. It gathers under one seal all the sectoral trade and craft circles of Rus'' - not as a fair, but as a system.


    It is founded in order to:


    strengthen trade between lands;


    arrange markets not by whim, but by right;


    protect the path of the merchant and the craft of the master;


    institute a single weight, measure, and justice.


    The Union is not violence. It is not a chain, but a road. Whoever enters - stands under the seal, receiving protection, order, and honor.


    Whoever remains aside - trades alone, without the prince''s support. Without court. Without trust.


    The Princely Trade Union is not a union of people. It is a union of meaning. It binds lands not by sword, but by deed.


    II. ON THE STRUCTURE OF THE UNION


    The Princely Trade Union rests on three foundations:


    Sectoral circles - fur, salt, grain, honey-wax, and others. Decisions within are made by masters and seniors of the craft - those who know the weight of the work, not merely the price;


    City trade circles - composed of boyars, governors, merchants, and senior masters. Here it is determined how trade flows, who is entrusted with the square, and who shares the high street;


    The Central Council of the PTU in Kiev - the knot where all flows converge. Here they do not argue - they bring to order.


    Members of the Central Council include:


    The Grand Prince - first voice. He is the chair, not an autocrat;


    Governors from the lands that have adopted the Charter;


    Heads of the sectoral circles;


    The Treasurer and the Keeper of the Registers;


    A Representative of the Church - whose word is conscience, and in final dispute may impose a deferred veto until deliberation;


    A Representative of the merchant class;


    Senior Advisors - a title granted to those whose names are written in the first Charters of Foundation.


    ON TERMS, REVIEWS, AND PARTICIPATION RIGHTS


    Each member of the Central Council, including the Prince, is confirmed for a term of two summers;


    At the end of the term, a review is conducted - based on deeds, income, weight, and contribution to the order of the Union;


    All undergo review without exception - though by differing procedures:


    Ordinary members (governors, merchants, representatives): are reviewed by three Council members, chosen by lot from other cities and sectors;


    Pillar members (the Prince, heads of sectors, Senior Advisors): undergo extended review - with discussion in the full Council and a vote in the relevant circles;


    Only upon review may the term be extended. If the contribution is deemed insufficient - the position is vacated;


    Re-entry is possible no sooner than one year later, and only with the approval of the circle and the Council;


    In case of conflict of interest - the vote is temporarily suspended for the duration of deliberation;


    For sabotage of decisions - temporary suspension for up to one year, with loss of vote and access to the seal;


    Violators of order are entered into the register of dissenters. They lose the seal and the right to participate.


    ON SENIOR ADVISORS


    Enter the Council with special status as founders, enshrined in charter;


    Participate on general terms: a two-summer term, with subsequent review as for pillar members;


    Hold the right of vote, counsel, proposal, and veto - if the matter concerns truth, structure, or order;


    Upon loss of trust, dishonesty, or inaction - they lose their status and place, by result of extended review;


    Their place is not transferred automatically. To occupy the vacancy of Senior Advisor, another Council member must be recognized as equal in contribution - by decision of two-thirds of the Council and with the Church''s assent;


    The vote of a Senior Advisor is required for confirmation of amendments to the Charter and decisions concerning the spiritual and legal foundation of the Union.


    ON ADMISSION OF NEW SECTORS AND LANDS


    A new sectoral circle is established by petition from masters and merchants, with submission of its charter, list of seniors, and weighing rules;


    The circle is confirmed by the Central Council - with votes of no less than two-thirds;


    A new land joins the Union by agreement of the Prince and Council - with confirmation of its governor and trade order;


    Newly admitted circles receive voice and share only after one year of observation and reporting.


    ON DECISIONS


    All decisions are made by simple majority;


    All votes are equal, but weight in affairs and shares - by term, contribution, and integrity;


    The chair in each sectoral and city circle changes every two summers;


    In case of tie - the deciding word rests with the Prince, but he may not amend the Charter without the Council''s general consent;


    The Church''s Representative holds a right of deferred veto, if the dispute concerns truth, morality, or divine order;


    In suspicion of collusion within the Council - the Prince or the Church may impose a deferred veto for up to one month, with right of deliberation in the general circle.


    III. ON CENTRAL MARKETS


    All key markets in princely cities are placed under the seal of the Union. Central trade squares are established, with sectors designated by goods.


    Conditions:


    Union participants receive preferential spaces, protection, security, and the right to take part in fairs;


    Spaces are not sold, but assigned - by charter issued by the Princely Council;


    Non-participants pay duties, trade outside central sectors, and have no right to hold warehouses, shops, or permanent stalls at fairs;


    A merchant caught three times attempting to bypass the rules is entered into the register of those barred from princely trade;


    All transactions outside the Union are not protected by the Charter. No dispute will be heard if one of the parties is outside the seal.


    IV. ON THE TRADE FUND AND THE RIGHT TO INVEST


    The Prince establishes the Princely Trade Fund - a state treasury from which resources are allocated for trade and craft initiatives within the Union.


    The Fund is divided into two parts:


    Working capital - for loans to merchants to expand trade;


    Credit to craftsmen - for the creation and strengthening of workshops, warehouses, caravans, and production.


    A loan or support may be received only upon joining the Union, in compliance with conditions and with approval of the relevant sectoral circle.


    Conditions for receiving support:


    Repayment - in money, goods, or a share of future profit;


    Collateral - property, products, guarantor, or word of honor;


    For false information, forgery, or fraud in the request - expulsion from the Union and entry into the register of dissenters;


    In case of non-repayment - collection, labor, or forfeiture of collateral.


    On the right to invest and profit-sharing:


    First right of investment belongs to the Prince or the Princely Fund. If they decline, other Council members, sectoral circles, or allied merchants may invest;


    Terms of investment: contribution in exchange for a share in the enterprise (usually up to 25%), formalized by charter and recorded in the register;


    The investor receives a share of profits and may hold an advisory voice in the sectoral circle on behalf of the enterprise;


    No person may invest without open notification of the Council; all investments go through the sectoral circle;


    Disputes regarding the right to invest, profit division, or investment priority are resolved within the circle.


    To prevent fund depletion:


    Replenishment - annually from the princely treasury and shares of profit from investments;


    Loans are issued by seasonal sessions, after approval by the sectoral circle and the Council;


    A limit is set on the number of applications per season;


    Controllers are appointed from the treasury, the Church, and the merchant class to maintain audit records;


    All reports on expenditures, returns, and shares are presented at Council meetings;


    Disputes on repayment and collateral are decided in the trade court, composed of three: a Council representative, a Church scribe, and a merchant trustee.


    V. ON INVESTMENTS AND PARTICIPATION IN ENTERPRISES


    If the Prince, the Trade Fund, or another Union member invests in the creation or expansion of an enterprise, a special participation agreement is concluded - defining share, conditions, and term.


    Terms of participation:


    The standard investor share - one-quarter (25%) of net profit;


    The enterprise receives:


    Funding (in money, goods, or support);


    An assigned place on the princely market;


    Protection during transport and sale;


    The right to the Union seal - a mark of trust, quality, and weight;


    Holding a share gives the right to an advisory voice in the sectoral circle (if another voice from the enterprise is already present).


    On buyout of shares:


    A share may be bought out if provided for in the agreement;


    The buyout amount is determined by a triple commission: the Treasurer, a sectoral circle representative, and a Church scribe;


    After buyout, the enterprise retains its charter and trade space, but loses the right to the seal and to protection;


    If buyout is not stipulated - the share remains permanent;


    The investor may demand buyout on the same terms, with Council approval.


    On inheritance of shares:


    Upon the owner''s death, the share may be transferred to an heir only with the approval of the sectoral circle and the Council;


    Without approval, the share returns to the circle, and the appraised value is paid to the heirs;


    An heir wishing to retain participation must prove capability to manage the enterprise and accept the charter''s terms.


    On transfer and control of shares:


    Transfer of a share to a third party without the knowledge and consent of the Council - is void;


    No individual, family, or house may hold more than one-third of the voting shares in a single sectoral union without special permission from the Council;


    The Council has the right to impose limits or demand division of a share if its concentration threatens balance.


    VI. ON SEASONAL TRADE


    Given the seasonal nature of many goods and trades, the Union introduces special measures to maintain order and prevent unrest during the annual transitions.


    On reserves:


    In every city where the Union operates, seasonal reserves are established - warehouses of grain, salt, honey, cloth, and other essential goods;


    Reserves are formed from a mandatory share contributed by sector participants - as set by the circle''s charter and approved by the Council;


    Responsibility for storage lies with an appointed warehouse-keeper, accountable to the city and the Council;


    In winter, an emergency fund operates - for distribution at statutory prices in case of crop failure or disaster;


    Access to reserves in urgent need is granted to Union members - first and foremost to suppliers and workshops engaged in chartered business.


    On fairs:


    Spring and autumn fairs are held by decree of the Prince and the Council;


    Trade spaces are allocated in advance - by charter and list;


    Violations of trade order, speculation, or substitution of goods result in fines and forfeiture of trade space for the season;


    Large transactions and deliveries must be registered with the city council or relevant sectoral circle.


    On reporting and oversight:


    All merchants and craftsmen are required to report stock and inventories to the circle - twice per season;


    For evasion or false data - fine, denial of access to warehouses, and for repeat offenses - expulsion;


    Prices for essential goods may be temporarily frozen by Council decision - in the event of sharp spikes or threat of shortage.


    VII. ON CONTROL AND ACCOUNTING


    Every good that enters the Union is subject to accounting and marking - not individually, but by batch: convoy, bundle, sack, barrel, or warehouse unit.


    Marking is applied based on the type of good:


    On convoy or cart - a tag with seal;


    On sacks, barrels, or bales - a summary label (tag, marker, wax or wooden seal);


    In warehouse storage - a tablet or wall record under an overseer''s seal.


    Each movement of goods is recorded in the register. The register is kept by three: the merchant, a princely official, and a Church scribe.


    Forgery of marks, tampering with records, false reporting, or double bookkeeping - is a crime against the order of the Union.


    On register maintenance:


    The main register is held at the Treasury;


    Copies are held by the Keeper of the Registers and the Church Chamber;


    Any change is permitted only with a triple signature: the Treasurer, the Prince''s representative, and the Church scribe.


    To prevent abuse:


    Governors and officials undergo annual audit;


    Secret inspectors are appointed - to audit trade without prior notice;


    For abuses - forfeiture of office, confiscation of property, entry in the registry of prohibition, closure of trade activity.


    VIII. ON COURT AND ARBITRATION


    All disputes within the Union are resolved by honor, charter, and weight - preserving order, not through quarrel, but through court.


    Internal disputes:


    Between members of the same circle (city or sectoral) - are resolved within the circle, within seven days of filing;


    The decision is recorded in protocol, stored in the Keeper''s register and duplicated in the Church Chamber.


    Disputes between lands, circles, and sectoral unions:


    Heard in the Princely Court, seated in Kiev;


    Term for resolution - up to twenty days from the complaint''s submission;


    The court consists of three: a representative of the Prince, a Church scribe, and a mediator, chosen by both parties or appointed by the Council.


    The Office of the External Arbiter:


    Established for especially complex or entangled cases;


    The Arbiter is appointed by the Church Chamber for a term of two years, and may not engage in trade, own shares, or participate in circles;


    His word is advisory, but if both parties agree, it becomes binding;


    The Arbiter has the right to initiate proceedings if evasion, collusion, or clear violation of the charter is found;


    The Arbiter is accountable to the Council and the Church, and may be removed by a two-thirds Council vote.


    Court outcomes:


    All rulings are entered into the register;


    The party found in violation must fulfill the judgment within the term set by the court;


    Upon refusal - the party is entered into the registry of dissenters, and loses the seal and rights within the Union;


    A second refusal - results in expulsion from all trade rights, and recovery of damages.


    Oversight:


    Court proceedings are monitored by the Treasury and the Church;


    All sessions are recorded, copies kept with the Keeper and the Church Chamber;


    Appeal of a ruling is allowed once and submitted to the Council - the Council''s decision is final.


    IX. ON THE RIGHT TO ENTER AND EXIT


    On admission:


    Entry into the Union is formalized by a charter, signed by the entrant, sealed by the circle, and countersigned by the Keeper of the Registers;


    Upon entry, the participant agrees to the Charter and accepts obligations in accounting, order, arbitration, and shares;


    First participants, whose charters are entered in the Chronicle of Foundation, receive advantages:


    the best trading spaces;


    priority access to court and fund;


    greater weight in voting for the first three years.


    The entrant receives the Union''s seal, is recorded in the register, and gains the right to address the circle and the Council.


    On withdrawal:


    Withdrawal is carried out by personal request, approved by the circle and the Council;


    With withdrawal, the following are lost:


    the right to the seal;


    access to the fund and fairs;


    the right to hold a seat in the circle;


    all assigned spaces, charters, and privileges.


    Obligations do not cease upon withdrawal: debts, trials, and agreements must be fulfilled to completion under Council supervision;


    Attempting to exit with unresolved debts is considered flight and is punished by property seizure and entry into the registry of violators.


    On reentry:


    Reentry is permitted no earlier than one year later and only with the approval of the circle and the Council;


    A returning participant forfeits former privileges and enters as a new member;


    A probationary period may be assigned upon reentry.


    On expulsion:


    A participant may be excluded from the Union by decision of the circle and Council for Charter violations, forgery, harm to the cause, or refusal of arbitration;


    In such cases, the charter is annulled, the seal revoked, and shares - reexamined or returned to the circle.


    X. ON PSYCHOLOGY AND TRUST


    Understanding that order rests not only on fear, but on trust, the Union introduces measures to strengthen faith in its rules and structure.


    To dispel fear and fatigue:


    Upon joining, each participant receives a "Brief Code of Trade Rules" - without excessive bureaucracy, with clear duties, rights, and principles;


    Twice a year, in spring and autumn, assemblies of merchants and craftsmen are held - with the announcement of news, reports, honors, and plans. Not only authority speaks - but peers listen to one another;


    Twice a year, in every city, an open gathering of the city circle is held - to announce reports, address questions, complaints, and suggestions from merchants, townsfolk, and craft communities. Each may speak, but with honor;


    Awards and marks of distinction are introduced: for honest trade, for aid in craft, for contribution to common order. Not in coin - in respect, charter, or mark;


    Each circle is required to maintain a Board of Trust - where the worthy are marked, not for fame, but as example;


    The princely successor, upon accession, must swear upon the Charter - publicly, before the Council, so that not only the prince''s name but the order itself remains unchanged.


    On rumors and fears:


    Each circle appoints a Listener - a person to whom complaints, concerns, or questions may be brought. Their word passes to the Council without hindrance;


    Announcements of decisions, reports, and changes to rules - are mandatory. Not in secret, not in whispers, but before all;


    One who spreads lies about the Union - is judged not as a fool, but as a saboteur: through trial, with the right to defense, but without leniency in case of malice.


    XI. ON SPIRITUAL ORDER AND SANCTIFICATION


    Understanding that true order stands not only on weights and parchment but on a higher truth - the Princely Trade Union affirms its foundation not only in deeds but in spirit.


    On the role of the Church:


    The Church is not only judge and keeper of conscience, but co-founder of the order, binding trade to the truth of God;


    The blessing of the archbishop or senior spiritual prelate is required for confirmation of the founding charters, the opening of central markets, and the convocation of the Grand Council;


    The Church Chamber ensures that the laws of the Union do not conflict with Christian truth, mercy, or peace.


    On the sacred meaning of the seal:


    The Church''s seal is placed not as a formality, but as a sign that the matter stands not against conscience and was not born in falsehood;


    Without this seal, no charter, contract, or judgment is considered complete - for what is sealed without conscience shall not endure.


    On spiritual rites:


    Upon entry into the Union, each participant swears an oath on the Psalter - in church, before icons and witnesses. The words of the oath are recorded and stored by the Church;


    The first gathering of each city circle begins with a prayer, read by the senior scribe or an invited deacon;


    The opening of a fair is accompanied by a short service - "for peace, good work, and righteous measure."


    On fasts and the sanctity of trade:


    Trade on great fasts and holy days is restricted - speculation, lawsuits, and open markets within or near church grounds are forbidden;


    Deceit in weights, counterfeit goods, or false oath - is not only a crime but a sin, punishable not only by court but by excommunication from the community;


    Every merchant and craftsman must know: a measure is not only a tool. It is a symbol of truth, and lying in trade is lying before God.


    On the protection of truth:


    If the Church determines that a circle or Council''s decision violates Christian truth, it may not only impose a veto, but declare spiritual excommunication from the Union - until rectification;


    The Union acknowledges: without repentance, there is no cleansing; without cleansing - no trust. Thus, a path of spiritual restoration is provided: a participant found guilty may, through Church petition and public penance, reclaim their name - but only once.


    XII. ON SPECIAL CLAUSES AND FORCE MAJEURE


    The Princely Trade Union is established for peace, but peace is not always at hand. Time brings calamities, wars, rebellions, plagues, and famine. To ensure order does not collapse in times of turmoil - special provisions are enacted for action outside the normal course.


    On extraordinary circumstances:


    Force majeure includes events beyond control: invasion, rebellion, pestilence, drought, famine, fire, epidemic, closure of trade routes, death of the reigning prince, or collapse of power in a member land;


    Declaration of force majeure requires the consent of at least one-third of the Council and is confirmed by the Grand Prince or the Church''s Representative;


    Once confirmed - special action rules come into force for no more than forty days. Afterward - review.


    On actions under force majeure:


    Trade collections and debts may be frozen for the duration of the event - but are not canceled unless specially ruled by the Council;


    Supplies of food, medicine, fabric, and essential goods are centralized - with priority for affected lands;


    The Council gains the right to appoint temporary commissioners to regions where connection or governance is disrupted;


    In the event of the Grand Prince''s death, the Council is temporarily headed by the Senior Advisor by seniority - until the assembly of a new Grand Council and the heir''s oath.


    On the defense of order:


    All actions under force majeure are to be recorded and later reviewed by the Council;


    If abuse during the crisis is proven - punishment is doubled;


    Anyone refusing to obey lawful orders in a time of upheaval - is deemed a threat to order and may be immediately expelled from the Union by two-thirds Council vote.


    On the temporary charter:


    In the case of prolonged crisis (over forty days), the Council may introduce temporary provisions - held in Council and effective only with triple approval: Grand Prince, Church Representative, and Merchant Head;


    After the crisis ends, the temporary charter loses effect, and all actions under it are reviewed within thirty days.


    XIII. ON EXTERNAL UNIONS AND FOREIGN CIRCLES


    The Princely Trade Union was born on Rus'' land - but trade knows no borders. If the bridge is strong, both sides may cross. Therefore, a system of relations with foreign lands is introduced: not for blending, but for coordination.


    On external unions and agreements:


    The Union may conclude agreements with merchant unions of other lands - Varangian, Polish, Volga, Bulgarian, Byzantine, and others;


    Such unions are recognized as "partner circles" - with limited access: no place in the Council, but with the right to trade under the seal, provided they comply with the conditions;


    The terms of each agreement are confirmed by the PTU Council and sealed with three seals;


    Foreign unions must agree to recognize the measures, weights, seal, and rules of the PTU within the bounds of shared markets;


    If the agreement is violated, the partner loses trade rights and is entered into the registry of restricted entities.


    On foreign merchants and their status:


    A foreign merchant may receive a "temporary trade charter" - valid for one season, with the payment of a duty and a commitment to follow the Charter within its term;


    A merchant engaged in ongoing trade must either join the Union or act under the patronage of a PTU member;


    A merchant without a charter is considered unlawful. Their trade is forbidden, their goods may be confiscated until judgment, and repeated violation results in expulsion and seizure.


    On external trade outposts:


    The Council may establish a field circle - a trade office in a foreign land, with the right to trade, store goods, and oversee rule compliance;


    Such an outpost operates under the PTU seal and is headed by a trusted individual - appointed by the Council and confirmed by the Prince;


    Outpost members are subject to the Charter, must report regularly, maintain a transaction register, and submit to the general PTU account.


    On the exchange of knowledge and craftsmanship:


    The Union welcomes the arrival of foreign craftsmen, provided their work does not violate tradition or disrupt internal balance;


    Craftsmen must obtain a "craft license" from the sectoral circle - without which their work is considered unauthorized;


    For espionage, subversion, or deceit - immediate expulsion and entry into the ban list.


    XIV. ON THE SEAL


    Every charter, contract, judgment, loan, and Council decision is affixed with three seals - for authority, integrity, and peace:


    The Princely Seal - a sign of power, affirming order and defending the word;


    The Personal Seal - of the one who accepts or executes, as a pledge of responsibility;


    The Church Seal - of conscience and spiritual approval, without which the matter is incomplete.


    No decision takes effect without all three seals. In case of dispute - that which bears all three is deemed primary.


    XV. ON THE STRENGTH OF THE UNION


    The Princely Trade Union is not a contract for a year nor a benefit for an hour. It is the foundation of a new order, in which power, commerce, and conscience are bound in a single knot.


    The Union is not imposed - it is entered. By will, by reason, by belief in the common good.


    Those who entered first - are not merely members. They are the root. Their names are written not only in charters, but in the memory of the Union.


    This Charter is affirmed by princely will, Church blessing, and the consent of the trade circles. Bound by word, seal, and deed.