The second floor reeked of soot. The walls - damp. The air - like night, left behind in the corners, waiting.
There was no light. No morning. Only dampness and darkness under the ceiling.
Alexander sat at the table. In front of him - planks. Parchments. Pieces of cloth - marked with signs. An inkwell. A stub of a candle. His fingers smelled of wax. The quill slid - reluctantly.
He was not writing for order. For power. So that every word pulled something behind it. So that under one stood a man, under another - a pit.
He was not keeping record. He was holding the possible.
Each line - not a number. A movement.
Peasants. Merchants. Guards. Roads. Boats. Bridges.
Who feeds. Who steals. Who trembles. Who already whispers in the dark.
He looked at Rus' - not as a map. As a spine. Where it cracks - there everything collapses.
From the writings of Elder Monk Boris and from memory he understood: Rus' is not a military power.
Land. Trade. Route.
Which means - power must come not through fear, but through use. Through calculation.
He searched for weak spots. Bent corners. Where to press. Whom to move. Where a word is lighter than a sword.
The boyars dislike cunning. They take it for weakness. They respect - the one who stands. Who does not bend. Who looks straight. To such a one he was going.
Even if he had never killed.
But the body - had killed. Many times. The hand knew how. The neck - how to hold. The back - how to fall. Memory not in the head. In the muscles. In the pain.
- Whoever does not obey - falls out, - he thought
And in that very second he realized: the phrase was not his. Someone else's. The one before him had spoken so.
But he did not change it.
Let them fear.
He clenched the quill - and in his pinky, pain shot through. As if the skin remembered an old burn. Training, the stick, the smell of damp leather and snow. Was it truly his - he no longer knew.
The boy Igor stood nearby. Handing him parchment, he glanced - by accident.
He knew the letters. Knew them all.
But...
The princely alliance... Kiev... the road to Novgorod...
A chain... of villages?.. Links?.. A command... Three days...
A new market... Trade...
He read it again.
Understood nothing.
Everything - in our tongue. But as if not about us.
The words - foreign. As if about tomorrow. And he - still in today.
His fingers suddenly turned wet. He clenched a fist.
Almost got scared. But did not know of what.
He turned away.
Alexander reread what was written. Inhale. Slowly. Exhale. As if each name - a stone, that must either be built in or cast out.
First - from the list.
Then - from memory.
Then - from life.
A knock. Two strikes. Short.
Cold crept in from under the door. As if on the other side stood someone - not just a man. Pressure. Weight.
Alexander raised his eyes. Heavily. As if even the air resisted.
- Come in, - he said.
Igor flinched. Only inside. In the word come in there was something - like a sentence.
Stanislav entered first. Calmly. Evenly. Like one who comes not to ask - but to stand beside.
Behind him - Yaroslav Lebedinsky. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Not heavy - used to bearing weight.
The dust of the steppes in the folds of his cloak. On his chest - iron, darkened by sweat, not by time.
He walked like one who had already decided. All that remained - was to speak.
He stopped at the threshold.
Hands behind his back. Eyes - on the prince. No bow. No request. No condescension.
- Prince. We are in Kiev. Now - the word is yours
Alexander wanted to rise at once. Could not - the wounds reminded him. But he clenched his teeth and stood up.
Without groans. Without pause. Like in battle - when pain is not a reason to fall, but a reason to go.
He straightened. Looked at Yaroslav. And understood: before him stood not merely a voivode.
Before him stood Rus'. In the body. In the voice. In the right.
The boyars did not adorn their words. Did not lead you by the ear to the meaning. They spoke - like they struck. To the mark. Without preludes. Without embellishment.
And he had to speak the same. Not smarter. Not subtler. But - like them. At ground level.
- Welcome, Yaroslav. Chernigov - is not a name. It is a path. You know that
Yaroslav did not sit. Walked slowly. Like a cloud without thunder, but already smelling of storm. The entire hall knew: he had not come to plead.
- I have come to see, - he said. - Who remains. Who you are. A son who survived - or a scrap Rus' could not gnaw through?
Alexander did not blink. Stood as if before a frontier.
- I am no heir. I am a shard. What Rus' failed to finish. And now - it is on me. Either I - or it will crack
The hall did not fall silent - it tensed. Silence stood. Like a shield. Close.
Stanislav slightly turned his head. Looked at the prince. For the first time - not as one to be protected. As an equal. A dry, brief glance. But in it was a sign: "this is how the land is held."
And then - at Yaroslav. Squarely, directly. And saw: the man had not expected it.
Not this. Not now. His face did not change - but something in his chin quivered. Like in a man who walked first - and suddenly found himself second.
The boy Igor swayed. Not from fear. From the silence that had become heavy. As if the air in the hall had turned to lead.
Yaroslav did not let the pause fall. He struck while the edge was hot.
- And if those beside you falter? All of them. Even him, - he nodded toward Stanislav. Not with mockery. With challenge
As if striking at the root with an axe: flesh - or rot?
Stanislav did not move. Not with his pupil, nor his shoulder. Only straightened. Slightly. Like an oak that, when struck, does not fall - but tightens its branches.
He did not reply. He endured.
Alexander lowered his gaze. Not in fear - so the flame would not break free too soon.
- If they falter - I will remain. If even Stanislav falls - I will rise. Not for victory. Simply - so that not everything collapses
Because if not I - then no one.
Because Rus' does not seek princes.
It seeks those who do not leave.
Silence thickened.
- And if I remain alone - so be it
The last.
Not a prince. Clay, upon which the structure still holds.
Let it creak. But it holds.
The pause did not break - it pressed into the chest. Not silence, but weight.
Yaroslav did not recoil. Did not nod. Only looked - like at a stone they did not expect to see still standing. He had expected anything. Words, certainty, bravado.
But not this. Not such silence.
Not a phrase - like an oak that did not crack, but resonates.
He stepped closer. Quietly. But the air grew thicker. The smell - fur, wine, road.
From him - no softness. Weight.
- I believed in Yaroslav the Wise, - he said. Low. Without pomp.
Because that one did not shout. He held - the land, the cities, the roads. Not with the sword - with order. Not with fear - with laws.
Under him the merchant knew he would reach his goal. The peasant - that sowing was not in vain. Even the steppe-dweller - that the border would not yield.
He knew - the best may leave. The faithful - will remain.
He spoke little. But when he did - all rose.
Lebedinsky faltered. His hand jerked - to his chest. To a medallion. It was not there. Burned. When Rus' cracked. When all went to fire, and he could not even save memory.
Stanislav - nodded. Briefly. And at once looked away. Not from fear. From pain. Like a warrior - from a scar that has not healed, but does not hinder standing.
- He did, - Yaroslav repeated. Dryly. As if laying a stone on a grave. - Not for glory. For the sake of holding. Land. People. River. Order. So that rot would not rise to the top
- And now - it rots. Because he is gone. And the sons, who should have preserved - drew their blades. Everything broke into pieces. Each - for himself. Each - against
- And now - one remains. You
He looked at Alexander. Not as at a boy. Not as at a son. As at a joint. Where everything holds. Or breaks.
- If you do not endure - I will be the first to leave
And the first to strike.
Not for dispute.
So that the rest - does not turn to dust.
Alexander was silent. His hand lay on the inkstain. He did not lift it. Clenched. And in that clench - another hand. A child's. Wet. Water. A brother.
He clenched harder.
- If I fall - let it be with a crash. Not for glory. So that they hear I held. To the end
Yaroslav laughed. Low. Hoarse. Without cheer. Simply - he recognized.
He extended his hand. Without pressure. Not strength - a sign.
- As long as you go there - we are with you. As long as you go into the fire - not alone
Alexander shook it. Not tightly - as if gripping not a palm, but something old. Like then. When he had not held on. And now feared - to let go again.
Yaroslav nodded and left.
The door - did not slam. It settled. Like a lid.
Alexander said nothing more. But Rus', in the room - already breathed with him.
Igor stood.
And did not know - what he feared.
Yaroslav. Or - this silence.
On the second floor it was quiet.
Not with the quiet of guard - with the quiet of tension.
Silence seemed to have descended after.
Everything was already decided. But no one moved.
At the doors - Mstislav and Mirnomir.
Not standing at attention. Tense. Like wolves. Without growling - but they knew who was coming.
Yaroslav stepped out.
He walked differently. His face - as if released. But only slightly. His gaze - direct.
Like a soldier who has understood whom to follow.
But did not say so. Not yet.
Passing by, he looked at both. Not as at juniors. As a warrior - at warriors.
Mstislav did not move. Only his face grew harder.
Mirnomir nodded. Without gesture. Simply - understood.
At the staircase - the gridni Tverdoslav and Vladimir.
Their hands - on their axes. Not clenched. Just where they belonged.
Yaroslav walked past.
Did not look. Did not count. Like one who already knows - if it comes to battle, these will stand.
He descended. Evenly. Step by step.
On the first floor they were already waiting for him: elder brother Vladislav and close friend Dmitry Volynsky.
They had arrived in Chernigov first, when it seemed all was going according to plan - the princeling wounded, Kiev cut off, the capital growing mute, and so, soon, the land could be taken into their hands.
All that remained was to wait.
- Well? - Vladislav stepped closer. - What did he say?
Yaroslav stopped.
He did not look into his eyes, but past - like a man who already has a new map in his mind. The wagers placed, the coin fallen. He saw: Vladislav still hoped.
- We are late, - he said. - He is already standing. And not alone. Stanislav - beside him
Dmitry twitched. Almost stepped forward, but halted half a pace in.
His shoulders tightened. Fingers trembled and then settled at his belt - as if needing to hold onto what remained. He looked upward, to where there should have been no power left. Where, by their reckoning, there should have remained only a vacuum.
- Stanislav? - Vladislav repeated. Voice slightly hollow. - He stood first?
- He did not ask the prince. He simply stood, - Yaroslav answered shortly.
Nothing moved on Vladislav's face, but within - the grip began to crack. They were meant to be the first to gain trust. And now - only catching up.
Yaroslav moved toward the exit. In silence.
Dmitry did not move. He stared at the ceiling, as if trying to discern what was happening above. As if he heard a new axis forming overhead.
- We expected him to die, - he said. - But he lived. Remained. As if he knew they would try to go around him. And still he remained
Dmitry did not expect an answer. He already knew: now every word - a wager. Every awkward move - a minus. A misstep - everything.
Vladislav was silent. He only glanced at Dmitry - quick, brief, with a shade of a future order. Dmitry looked away. In silence. Without explanations.
Upstairs it was quiet.
But no longer empty.
Everyone understood that now - was no longer the past.
In the princely courtyard it was nearly the same.
Only the air held traces.
Senior boyar Miroslav Borichevsky walked through it - as if nothing had changed.
But everything had already changed.
The smell of fresh wood struck the nose - too clean. Too early for feasts, too late for change. The chainmail on the Druzhina men glinted like a reminder: no one here trusts anyone.
He walked straight. As he was taught. As he was used to. But inside - a hum.
Not fear. Tension. A pressure that does not leave, but presses at the neck.
From the windows - gusli, voices, the sounds of an evening being prepared.
Everything seemed peaceful. Everything seemed peace. But in those sounds there was no joy. Only the sound of a structure that had not yet realized it had collapsed.
When he had departed - Rus' still held. Like a shaky, but whole plank: Novgorod traded, Chernigov grew rich, Kiev kept count.
Everyone was playing something. But the game was clear. There was - structure.
Now all is broken. One remains. Alexander.
Young. A hot head, quick hands. And all around - only teeth. Whoever is fastest - will bite through. And he, Miroslav, must live with that.
He remembered Izyaslav. Not as an ideal. As weight. Smart. Restrained. With him, one could build. And now - it was as if all was erased. Not just princes. Everything - balance.
And Stanislav.
That one would not leave his thoughts.
The very one. Head of the Druzhina. Swore the same oath. Had stood beside Izyaslav. Was meant to be. And now - alive. Standing. And not just standing. At the side of the new prince. Beside him. Rooted.
Coincidence?
Miroslav clenched a fist. No. He had been taught: there are no coincidences.
Not when all others perish. Not when one - not only survives, but ends up where power is gathering.
Miroslav suddenly realized: all this time he had not held on to strength, nor to order - but to a ghost. To something that seemed a foundation, but had long since died.
He thought he held the formation. But it turned out - he had dragged the corpse-form of power, an empty shell. The structure had already collapsed, and he had kept believing he still bore it.
And the thought did not frighten him, but drove in - like a nail into old wood. Not to pull out, not to forget.
He stood, but inside nothing stood. All swayed. Quietly. Without a crack. Like a roof where the beams have rotted.
And Stanislav - did not fall. Stands. As if untouched.
Miroslav looked - and did not understand: how?
He had sworn the same. Been there. Seen the same. And now - different.
And suddenly understood. Perhaps he had not changed. Perhaps he had always been so. Simply, beside another prince, he played another role.
He had not changed. He had unfolded.
Stanislav had not betrayed. He had stepped forward. While Miroslav held balance - he became the support of the new.
While he preserved the remnants of structure - that one built his own.
Stanislav had not won. He had gone around. Silently. Without force. Simply stood where all others still thought it was too early.
And the most frightening thing was not that he could not be stopped.
But that, perhaps, no one had even tried.
Miroslav exhaled. Slowly. Without sound. The balance within trembled - and became a gait. He had arrived. Had not even noticed when.
Before him - the princely terem. Log to log - old, dark, as if time itself had layered over it like bark. Warmth came from the wall - not heat, but memory.
These walls had heard oaths. Had heard deaths. Betrayals. They listened even now.
And before them - Gleb.
At the entrance stood not merely a man. Senior boyar Gleb Turovsky.
Governor of the Turov-Pinsk land. Not merely a boyar - a knot in the southwest.
His word went beyond borders. One of those whose loyalty held not a house, but an entire region.
An ally of Stanislav. Closer - only blood.
Now he was not in council. He was at the door. And that already meant more than words.
Steam rose from his mouth - thick, short. The wind was northern, with a metallic taste of damp. Gleb stood as if it did not concern him.
- Miroslav Borichevsky, - he said, not raising his voice. - Returned. Quickly. Did the Byzantine winds push you that hard in the back?
At the side - a junior boyar. At the door. Heard everything. And understood: this was no greeting. This was a jab. A test. The air thickened instantly. As if the word had struck a seam.
Miroslav did not answer at once. His gaze slid over the chainmail of the gridni, then - to Gleb himself.
- If you had heard what I've heard - you would not be standing. You'd already be preparing. I need to see the prince. Urgently
- Order of Stanislav: no one enters without word. Not even you, - Gleb said evenly. - Especially you
Miroslav did not move. The dust beneath his feet did not scatter - it had settled.
The junior boyar thought: now Gleb will yield. But Gleb only exhaled. The warmth vanished - and it became even colder.
- Then tell him Miroslav has come not with words. With weight. Let him decide for himself if the floor will hold
Gleb did not stir. Only froze - like an arch struck by a blow. But in his gaze, for a moment, flashed something extra.
He looked at Miroslav - and as if saw another. Himself. A year ago. With that same look. Before that same door.
Only then he had waited. And now - decided.
This was not pity. This was the cost.
The junior boyar felt - the skin on his shoulders tighten. He feared it was the end. But understood: this was only the beginning.
- You think they'll believe you? - Gleb finally asked.
- I think I'm not asking
Pause. Behind the doors - not a sound. But both knew: behind them, they already knew.
It happens so when a conversation enters the air. Someone is already standing. Waiting. Uninvited - but heard.
- Then say it plainly. What do you want?
- To be let in, - said Miroslav. - Before I break in
- If you break in - you won't come out
- If I don't - no one else will
And in that same second behind their backs came a strike: the heavy oak door slammed into its frame.
- CRACK!
The sound rolled across the yard like a split, and all flinched.
Gleb even tensed his knee - an involuntary twitch.
The dust rose - the world changed.
They fell silent, but it was no longer silence: it was the echo of the blow, still beating in their chests.
The junior boyar jerked. Not a step - a break. He exhaled aloud. Sharply. Almost a sob. He heard it - and paled.
His heel slipped on the stone - dull, with a dull clank. He wanted to step back - but no longer knew where to. The air tilted.
Gleb looked. Straight on. Without words. Without condescension.
The junior boyar did not fall. But everything in him - already lay down. He remained standing - not as a guard. As a shadow of himself.
They said nothing.
Gleb looked away. Slowly. Without yielding, but measuring.
He nodded to young Igor. The boy disappeared behind the doors.
He did not run. But inside - it beat. Not fear. Not trembling. The expectation that something - is about to crack.
Miroslav and Gleb remained at the doors. And Igor had already crossed the threshold.
The corridors stretched in shadow and stone, his steps echoed through the vaults as if he were running not forward, but into the very heart itself.
To the left flickered the servants' doors, to the right - hollow arches leading to the refectory. The air carried the scent of wax, cabbage, and old ash. But he smelled nothing - only the heat in his chest and the dull throb in his temples.
The staircase - narrow, steep. Stone steps worn soft like wounds.
He ran, and only on the second flight did he feel his breath tearing. But he did not stop.
He ran not because he hurried.
But because he feared being late to where everything had already been decided without him.
The light above - dim, from a narrow window. But he walked toward it like toward the edge of hope.
The second-floor landing - one step, like a blow to the chest. He froze.
- Where to, friend, without asking? - a voice, dull, like a pommel against a helmet.
Two stepped out of the half-dark. Mirnomir - slightly to the left, nearby. Mstislav - directly ahead, blocking the way.
Shield at his back, sword at his side. The light from the window slid across the chainmail, the brow, the breath.
- I... - Igor forced out, but his throat tightened like under a noose. He clenched his fists - not for bravery, but so as not to shake.
He feared not refusal.
He feared vanishing.
Mirnomir and Mstislav were not merely Gridni. They were part of the force that lived at the throne - like fangs in a jaw.
Words did not stop them. Only the prince's will - and not always. Of such as them they said: if someone vanished and no one asked - they were nearby.
He feared that now - snap, and he'd be gone. Simply no more. Without a trace. Without a name. Without explanations.
Because they could.
- The princely advisor Miroslav... returned from Byzantium. With news. Gleb Turovsky ordered... - he swallowed. - Ordered me to deliver. Urgent audience
Mstislav was silent. Mirnomir stepped forward. Without threat - but each step struck the chest.
Mirnomir's fingers rested on the hilt. Evenly. With habit. But for a moment - he froze.
The name Miroslav - something clicked in him. Old. Familiar.
- Turovsky sent you? - voice without pressure, but with poison. - Pawns die first. Are you one of them?
- It was his... - the voice faltered again. Igor was gasping. - His order. Miroslav just arrived. Gleb said: urgent. Very urgent
Silence. A press. Mirnomir did not avert his gaze. Mstislav - just as motionless, but a vein on his cheek twitched. He had not expected this. Not the haste - the essence.
Gleb, usually cautious, suddenly - sent a boy?
It could only mean one thing: he himself did not want to go.
Igor felt that beneath his feet - not floor, but shifting ground. As if the princely house had become sand.
- Gleb stayed in the shadow, - said Mstislav. - Seems the prince is... a test for him. And you?.. - he wanted to say who are you anyway, but his tongue curled softer. - Think you'll endure?
- I... am the closest. Gleb said - only I'd make it in time. He trusted me
Silence. Emptiness.
- Because... - he swallowed. - I run faster
Mirnomir lowered his eyes for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched - either in a smirk, or from boredom.
- Fleet-footed envoy... - he drawled, almost good-naturedly. - All that's missing is a scroll on your forehead, like in a children's game
Mstislav didn't laugh - but one brow rose. A light smile flashed across his face, like a flicker before a blow.
- Faster, - he repeated. - That's good. Then don't be the first to fall
And then again - the cold.
Mirnomir glanced at Mstislav. A nod - not a reply. A signal: alive for now.
Mirnomir's fingers loosened. But the sword - not forgotten.
- All right, - dully. Like metal against stone. - But lie - and you'll regret making it to the threshold. Clear?
Igor nodded. Sharply. Too sharply. He tried to let go of the cloth. But his fingers were already something else. Not his. Only holding on, because they no longer knew what else to do.
- Mirnomir, watch the order. I'll report to the prince myself
He stepped to the door. Knocked - not like a guest, but like an executioner: three times, precisely.
From a crack in the ceiling, water dripped. Three drops. In rhythm with the knocks. Igor flinched. Even the roof remembered order.
The sound spread. Went inward.
Igor stood.
But somewhere deep - he had already retreated.
He did not know who would come out.
But he knew one thing: if it wasn't him who delivered - then he was the last one who tried.
If the door opens - then it is not yet too late.
Alexander stood by the window.
Silent.
As if he had heard - not a knock, not a step, but the air, trembling at the entrance.
His fingers moved along the windowsill.
It was sticky with moisture. But he gripped it - like a shield. As if, without holding on, it would tear him apart.
A name surfaced on its own: Magister Nikodim.
And the thought followed: Weakness is the end. If he sees it...
He did not turn:
- Sometimes it seems to me... this throne is not for me
Stanislav did not answer at once.
He simply stood. Heavily. As if he knew: now, a word is more dangerous than a sword.
He sat. Not to lean. To remain where needed. Not above.
Alexander turned. His lips twitched. Perhaps a smile, perhaps a habit of enduring.
He stepped to the table. His palm slid across the wood, as if testing - does it hold. Do I hold.
- I count on you, - quietly. - The Greeks and the boyars must understand: intrigue is wind. But Kiev is stone
- So it will be, - replied Stanislav. Dull, but like steel in its sheath.
A knock at the door. One. Precise.
- Enter, - said the prince curtly.
Mstislav entered. The wind stayed behind him.
- Prince. Lord. Senior Boyar Miroslav Borichevsky has arrived. Demands audience. Gleb Turovsky says - urgent
Stanislav rose. Slowly. Heavily. His fingers behind his back - clenched.
Alexander touched the dagger. The metal was cold. But not frightening.
The name surfaced before the words.
Miroslav.
His father's close advisor. One who spoke with the Polovtsy - and the Greeks. Who could build peace so that it seemed to arise by itself.
He did not teach - he sentenced.
Did not argue - he laid things out.
And once, in front of all, said:
- While he plays with the sword - Rus' loses language, land, and meaning
Alexander remembered not the words.
The silence that followed.
And how his father did not object.
- Miroslav... - he repeated. - He never forgave me indifference
- He doesn't listen, prince. He watches. Where you falter - there he strikes. - said Stanislav. - He didn't come to speak. He came to take aim
Alexander straightened. His eyes darkened.
- All the more reason. I must see him
- Bring him, - said Stanislav. - Let him not delay
Mstislav nodded. Left.
The door's click sounded like a countdown.
Alexander looked at Stanislav.
- What do you say?
Stanislav said nothing. He simply remained - closer than before.
Silence hung. Not a sound - a weight.
As if someone had pulled the air taut - and forgotten to let go.
Alexander sat. Slowly. His back did not bend - as if not a body, but a shaft driven into the chair.
Young Igor froze by the wall. He did not move - even his lashes stood still.
His hands with the parchments trembled - he gripped them as if holding balance with them. Not his own - the chamber's.
It was not a waiting that stood. It pressed. Like a shield under which there is no hiding.
And then - a creak.
Not a usual one. Not drawn-out. A single jerk. Like the step of someone who changed their mind - and entered nonetheless.
Mstislav entered first.
Steps - steady.
He stopped by the door and bowed his head - slightly lower than the norm demanded. Not just a sign. A position.
Young Igor stood by the wall. No one had told him to leave - he remained.
In his hands - the parchments. He shuffled them like a barrier. Did not interfere. Listened. Memorized.
He felt: something great was changing here, now.
Miroslav followed.
Not softly - deliberately. Like a man who enters not to power, but to conclusion.
He did not bow. Only nodded. Precisely, like a line.
"I acknowledge - but do not submit."
Miroslav turned his gaze to Stanislav.
The latter did not blink. But the entire hall understood: here - was a wall.
Alexander sat upright.
His fingers gripped the edge of the table - he didn't notice.
Igor did not understand what was happening. But he saw - the prince held on as if afraid to let go.
Not the table - something greater.
He did not know what. But he knew: it was important.
Miroslav did not study - he measured.
His eyes did not wander. They stood. He looked - like one waiting to see where the first seam would twitch.
Mstislav coughed. Not loudly - but precisely. Like a signal.
- Miroslav Borichevsky, - he said. Announced. Began.
Alexander raised his head.
His face - like stone. But in his neck - a spasm. It passed instantly, but Igor noticed.
- You did not hurry. Now - speak
Miroslav inclined his head slightly. A smile - a shadow. Not politeness, but composure.
- The road was long. But the news is heavier
The voice - even. Not soft. But not pressing. Simply the kind used with those who must hear.
- Your brothers are dead. That - is a loss. For you. For us. For Rus'
Alexander frowned slightly. Under the table - fists. He did not show it. But he held.
His nails dug into his palm. His face - calm. But the air - rang.
- It was a blow, - he said. Harshly. - But we stand. Kievan Rus' will not fall
And at that moment all understood: it still stood only because he had not yet stopped believing it.
Igor clenched the parchment. He did not know what trembled - the paper, his fingers, or the room.
But the tremble was there.
Miroslav remained silent. Not from confusion - from calculation.
He watched. Waited for the tremor to settle - in order to strike.
- You are right, - he said at last. His voice - as if a stone were being placed not in a wall, but in a foundation
- Rus' still has supports. But time cracks even stone. The crack is rarely outside. Usually - beneath the banner. Where no one looks
He looked around.
- Now Rus' - is you, prince. Alone. And around you - everyone will try to speak in your name. While you're still deciding whom to trust - they're already speaking as you. You don't notice
- But they've already begun
He did not raise his voice. But in Stanislav's body - a shift.
Not in the hands. Not in the breath. His whole face - for a moment became different.
As if someone had said his name - and spat afterward.
Miroslav cast a glance. Short. Not accusatory - revealing.
- And there are already such
Pause. Nothing said aloud. But the air - moved.
Stanislav straightened. Slowly.
He knew that Miroslav was not offering to rule.
But words - are weapons. They can be twisted. Especially in a hall where all are waiting to see who falters first.
- To guide, you say, - low. - Or simply waiting for someone to stumble, so you can rise?
He did not speak to the face. He spoke - as if aside.
But in his voice - already a choice. Already a fight without swords.
Igor did not understand all the words.
But he understood: something had just been turned inside out. So much so that even the walls had gone silent not from respect - but from fear they might overhear too much.
He did not know who had lost balance. But he felt: if he blinked now - he would find out.
And he would not want to know.
Miroslav did not retreat. His gaze - no longer a gaze. A sight. Not a shout. Not a challenge. A closing in.
- I serve Rus', Stanislav. We both do. Or do you mean to say we have different ways of holding the walls?
Stanislav did not answer at once. A step back. Not retreat - calculation. Like a warrior searching not for an enemy - for a weakness.
- I protect the prince. That is Rus'
The words - not persuasion. Assertion. A stone.
Miroslav stepped closer. Smoothly. But the world dimmed. As if the one who stepped was not he - but a shadow.
- The cracks are inside. They are not seen until they become a scream
No one moved. Even the lamps seemed to fade.
- Who would know that better than you?
The phrase entered not the ears. The chest. The past. The scars.
Stanislav locked his hands. Not for strength - for restraint. His voice - lower, but firmer:
- We hold. While we hold. If you want to break it - say so outright
- No, - said Miroslav. - But someone must look. Before it is too late
Igor looked at the prince. Alexander was sitting. But the face was already different.
The prince was no longer listening. He was waiting for the moment he would have to rise.
Stanislav leaned forward. As if about to strike - and the strike would be a word.
- Speak plainly, Miroslav. Or are you silent because you know there is emptiness behind your words?
And now Miroslav did not answer. Not out of fear. Out of refusal to waste.
He looked - not at the face. At the essence.
- Truth is dangerous, - at last. - Because it destroys what holds only by fear
A step.
Igor felt a drop trail down his nape. Sweat. Cold. Not from heat - from meaning.
- But you want truth? - The voice - without ornament. Without protection.
- Oleg is already gathering boyars around him. Pereyaslavl waits. And the Polovtsy… Khan Kirchan is already at our borders. They have not moved. But they are waiting for cracks
And now - Alexander stood.
Not noisily. But sharply. The chair creaked - as if it was not wood but air that protested.
- Enough
Not a shout. But in the word - steel torn from its sheath.
Miroslav and Stanislav turned.
- You speak of cracks. I do not lean on fear
Pause. The voice grew softer. But stronger.
- Bring proof. Or leave
Igor watched - and for the first time felt that the prince's voice struck like a blow.
Not into air - into the throne.
Alexander looked at Stanislav.
- And you. Not faith. Not fear. Only weight holds the walls. The rest - is consequence
Stanislav wanted to answer - but could not. His lips tightened. In his eyes - movement. A word rose - and did not come.
He turned his gaze to Miroslav.
And he - for the first time - wavered. The corner of the mouth. Not mockery. Understanding.
As if he had said to himself: now he is the prince.
- Miroslav, are you here to help? - sharply, but evenly. - Then help
- Fewer words. More action. Prepare what is needed. And show it
Miroslav bowed his head. Deeper than before.
But not in submission - in respect.
- As you command, prince
He turned - and walked out.
Without waiting for a gesture. Without looking into a face.
Like a man who had made a choice - not aloud, but forever.
Stanislav did not follow.
Alexander did not stop him.
Igor stood.
There were no voices. Only the silence that would not let go - in the body.
Alexander ran his hand over his face.
A second - and he removed it. The excess. The weak. But the gesture remained in the air - as if he had touched not his cheek, but the question that would not leave.
- He's playing, - he said. Quietly.
But the voice broke slightly. Not weariness - for the first time, there was fear in it.
Stanislav stepped closer.
- He always plays. But even a game has an edge. Sooner or later, someone missteps
Alexander nodded. His fingers clenched.
But not on the table - on himself. As if he wanted to grip his own skin, so as not to slip.
- And if he plays better?
Stanislav did not answer at once.
His gaze - deep, as if recalling a field where someone was left, someone he could not save.
- Then you play. Harder. Or you don't play at all - and simply hold
Alexander exhaled.
Evenly. Sat. But in this sitting - was a fall.
Not outward. Inward.
He sat - like one who had just understood: everything he had held - was no longer in his hands. But in someone else's mouth.
- I will hold, - he said.
The words fell - not like sound. Like the last thing that could still be placed between oneself and the shadow.
And only Igor - alone - heard: it was not said to them.
To himself.
Like a vow no longer believed.
But spoken - not to disappear.
The evening poured heavy gold over the courtyard. And in that gold - he sat, alone. Like in a throne chair without a throne.
The hall made no noise. It moved - like a warrior drawing a bow. Not for display. For the first shot.
The scent of wax, flatbread, and fish hung in the air - not like daily life, like a blow to the chest. This was no feast. This was before the storm.
The throne stood, yes. Alone. Like weight. Like a reminder: you said "I will hold." Now - hold.
In the chambers, a moment before the exit, he looked into a bronze disk. The reflection there trembled, as if it feared itself.
It was him. It was no longer him.
- War is simpler, - he thought. - There, the enemy is visible
The candle nearby wavered. The flame jerked, like a nerve. It did not know - from which side the blow would come.
And he - neither.
He turned away. His hand slid over the caftan. Not clothing - armor. And beneath it - a scar.
Old. Not painful. But present. As if there - a reminder. That pain may go. But fear - remembers.
- Just as well, - he thought. - Silence is better than words
- Stanislav, - without turning. - Will they see my weakness?
The voivode by the door did not move. He was like a part of the wall. But the voice - went forward:
- Only if you show it. The world sees what you give it. Show strength - they'll believe. Whoever does not see… we'll convince, - he paused.
- We'll force, - he said more harshly. Reclaimed the truth
Alexander nodded. Without looking. Eyes - on the bronze. The light struck it, broke the face.
- If they notice doubt... - he did not finish.
He wanted to say: "they will leave." But could not.
His fingers dug into the fabric. Beneath it - the wound. He pressed it. Hard. To pain. To bone. As if beneath the skin - everything he feared.
For a moment - he lowered his eyes.
And understood.
Let go.
Sharply. Like from a snake.
Straightened. His face became a face. The light in his pupils - dry.
- Let them think I am a wall, - he said. - And inside... anything. The main thing - that it does not crack outside
And at that moment - for no reason, without warning - he struck the table. Without swing. As one places a period, not a question.
A crack. Silence. Stanislav did not move.
- And now, - said the prince, - forward
Then - he walked himself. Without words. Without guard. Through the terem. As if walking not into a hall - into fire.
This is not courage. This is what's left when there's nothing else to be.