Goran stood tall, his face pointed high and proud as he looked towards the throne. A few boyars rang their agreement with hoarse calls and the pounding of their fists on the wooden rails. Others took up the drumming beat, and soon half her court was thundering with its approval. Vasilisa felt her skin crawl - in her dreams she had seen him first among those who had come from the mist, riding a horse as pale as the morning light. Was that the fate set out for him then? The beginning of the end? She could not resist the calls for his lordship over the army now - not with half her realm crying for the Young Griffon, and the other half unwilling to see a princess riding at the head of any warband.

“My lords!” She shouted as the stood from her throne, letting a small measure of the Apostles’ tone loose. The hush that fell upon the court was complete, as if a great blanket had fallen upon all the boyars at once. “I hear your calls, and they are wise. And let it not be said that I shall turn away wisdom when it is needed most.”

She fixed her gaze upon Goran, and spoke. “You speak well of your skill at arms, Goran of Gatchisk. My boyars think highly of you, and that is a rare thing for a lot as quarrelsome as they. So be it - as our fathers once took to the field together, let the houses of Belnopyl and Gatchisk march out once more against Pemil, and let us pray to the gods that we will know victory.”

The first rider, the last of the morning light. She thought to herself as the Duma roared its approval. The Young Griffon had been the first to ride out from the fog of the future, clad for war in golden plate. Was it so unwise to make him her voivode then, if such was the vision from the heavens above?

She studied the boyars carefully as they rose to bow and break from the Duma at her dismissal. There were three among them who had stood taller than the rest, those around whom clustered the cliques that once similarly dominated her father’s court - only now they were emboldened, and they would be made even bolder now that she had allowed a prince of Gatchisk to command. No matter what the Young Griffon’s role was in her destiny, those snakes in her court had no place.

She passed through one of the side halls, her steps echoing in the cold stone corridors. The light of the shortening day cast pale pillars against the floors, growing longer with the sinking of the sun. And in the lengthening shadows, Khariija waited.

“You handled that as best as you could,” Khariija said, stepping forward as Vasilisa approached. There was no warmth in her tone, only cool assessment.

Vasilisa’s lip curled into a faint, bitter smile. “The boyars seem to believe in victory more than I do. Perhaps I should take heart in that.”

Khariija’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. “Do not be flippant, child. You know exactly what they believe. If Goran leads, and this war is won, it will be him that they will rally around - and talk that might once be whispered in the darkness will surface to the open, and they will speak of the Grand Princess’ weakness.

“You have already seen the hands that begin to reach towards likely treasons.” Khariija continued, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “What do their thoughts betray? Tell me where they are weakest.”

Vasilisa closed her eyes for a moment, recalling the faces in the hall, the tangled mess of their minds. “The Clutchpurse,” she began, her voice steady. “He’s the weakest of them all.”

Khariija’s brow arched. “Gleb? His wealth is great, and he holds rights over a quarter of the gold mines in our land. But tell me, if he has such wealth, what does he covet?”

“Control,” Vasilisa replied without hesitation. “He desires control over the flow of coin itself across the realm. He wishes for power not just in riches, but in the very root of it. It’s the next step for a man like him.”

“And the mint belongs to the crown,” Khariija said, her tone thoughtful. “At least, when the Grand Prince still bowed to the khan.”

Vasilisa nodded. “The Great Khan’s yassa no longer dictates who holds the mint, and the House of Belnopyl could stand to bring in some new blood, new knowledge into the fold - an advisor for the new princess, who knows little of the ways of coin and taxes. And all the boyars of the foothills would covet such an office.”

“So you would make him an advisor?” Khariija asked, one brow arched in mild amusement.

“More than that,” Vasilisa said, a slow, calculating smile forming on her lips. “I’ll make him lord of the mint. It will make him too powerful for the others to ignore. The Clutchpurse is shrewd with coin and politics both - but so are the others.”

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, navigating the myriad paths of time. Flashes of what could be, what might be, swirled around her like a maelstrom. She saw Gleb seated in his office in Belnopyl, his new lord’s chain clinking and shining in the light of the hearth as he poured over ledgers well into the night. His fingers ran over the crisp parchment, his quill moving with rapid precision - doubtless he would find ways to squirrel away bits here and there from the crown and into his own fortunes, but even so she saw in him Belnopyl’s burgeoning coffers filled as they had never been before to fuel the war to come. But beyond the quiet of his chambers, the mines that lined the Clutchpurse’s territories grew restless. Workers began to vanish, accidents multiplied, and rival boyars whispered in the shadows.

“They will turn on him,” Vasilisa murmured, her voice distant as if speaking from another place. “The other boyars of the foothills - their greed and pride are just as great as Gleb’s, and they will cut him down to size without us having to lift a finger. Secret meetings. Sabotage. Accidents, so many accidents. None of Gleb’s sons are as shrewd as he, and the father will be too far removed, too preoccupied with managing our mess of a treasury. By the time any news reaches him, the damage will be done.”

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“And he will grow ever reliant on the crown’s goodwill,” Khariija finished, her eyes gleaming with approval. “You seek to keep him close, dependent on your protection. Well done.”

Vasilisa felt a swell of grim satisfaction, but she did not let it show.

“Who next?” Khariija prompted.

“Rogneda,” Vasilisa replied. “The Widow of the West. She’s losing control of her own house. Her son Stanimir is soon to come of age, and soon he will take over the lands of his late father. She fears losing her grip on power.”

Khariija’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Queen mothers have ruled from the shadows in many a court - who’s to say Rogneda’s hold over her son will fade so?”

“There is no love between Rogneda and her son,” Vasilisa said, recalling the dark tumult of the Widow’s thoughts. “Stanimir suspects she had a hand in his father’s death. He’s paranoid. Brash, and already looking to break from Rogneda’s influence.”

She had only met Stanimir once at her father’s summer tourney of the city…a summer she felt would never again come to the land. The future lord of the western pasturelands had only been a little boy when she saw him then, but in her mind’s eye she saw him as a man fully grown - and filled with shame, and impotent anger at the shadow always at his back. The shadow that kept him far from the rooms of power, and ever only as a foolish boy in the eyes of the men he was expected to lead. He would do her task of setting Rogneda to heel on her behalf - if given the chance.

“The court in Konihrad is the boy’s own prison,” she continued. “Even when he is lord, Stanimir will be surrounded by boyars and advisors who have long already given their loyalties to Rogneda. Any edicts, any messages, any whispers - all of them will first find their way to his mother…”

She paused, thinking, as Khariija watched her sealed mind at work with her cool gaze. “We may arrange a match for the boy, in the crown’s interest of ensuring the succession is secured. Gavril of Gorkiy has a daughter, Zdislava, unwed. With her, she will no doubt bring maidservants, advisors, and her own earnest voice - one that does not answer to Rogneda. And a wife’s wisdom is vast.”

The union would not be a killing blow to Rogneda - she had some sixteen years to bury her claws deep into the western pasturelands, and would not be unearthed so easily. But at the very least it would bring Stanimir a sorely-needed link beyond Konihrad that was beyond his mother’s influence. Zdislava was a good friend to Vasilisa; they were only two years apart in age, and even in their youth Vasilisa knew the daughter of Gorkiy’s boyar to be the ambitious sort. The sort who would not stand for such a mother-in-law as Rogneda. She will give her good fight every step of the way, that woman.

“Zdislava will come with more than just her handmaidens and courtiers,” Vasilisa said thoughtfully, her gaze sharpening. “If Rogneda believes she can tighten her grip on her son through old men of the court, then Zdislava shall have her own circle - a marriage gift to the noble bride from her Grand Princess and good friend. I shall see to it that among her ladies-in-waiting are those who may begin turning mens’ hearts against Rogneda. Advisors, too, with the cunning to unravel Rogneda’s schemes at the root.”

Khariija raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You intend to plant a new circle within Konihrad?”

“The beginning of one, at least,” Vasilisa replied. “Rogneda has had her sixteen years - Zdislava will need all the help she can get to gain a foothold. And once Stanimir is in control, any efforts to bolster the boy’s position will be the crown giving help to the rightful lord, beset by a self-serving court.”

In that path lay a promising future - it would take more than a few years for the Widow of the West to be displaced, but she would not dare to risk harming her son’s bride openly. Not if it was a royal match. And Konihrad’s support would be sorely needed - the herders of the pasturelands bred some of the finest horses in Belnopyl, ranging from pack horses to carry supplies, and destriers to carry the druzhinniks against Jirghadai’s own men. The army that had met the White Khan at Ongainur Field was broken because it had lacked in heavy horse that could ride out against the Khormchaks - such a mistake could not be made again. It would not be made again.

“There is one more,” Khariija interrupted. “Vissarion.”

“The Solarians?” Vasilisa did not hide her surprise. The Solarians were snakes in the grass that even her father suspected to be trouble, but they were never any great threat to the crown.

“There is a danger in that faith,” Khariija said firmly. “Their numbers may be small, but their growth is rapid, and they gather quietly. Even in your father’s time, there were murmurs of discontent among the Old Believers over their reach.”

Vasilisa frowned. “The Old Believers are always discontent. Even in these times, they complain about missing a single meal whilst the realm starves. But what real threat to the sun-worshippers pose?”

“Their faith is not like ours,” Khariija replied. “Their priests do not ask for gold or blood. Their message is a simple one - salvation, and charity. In these times, the people will latch onto hope wherever it may be found - and if not the old gods, then others. Some come to you, but more will flock to the sun-worshippers.”

Vasilisa felt a terrible chill come over her. “You wish to purge them from the realm.”

“You must,” Khariija replied. “This is not a time for softness, child. The realm must be yours and yours alone - else the Golden Temples and their priests will replace the boyars we deal with now, only they will be united, and loved. That must not come to pass - there should only be one sun in the sky, and one divine these folk must turn to.”

As she spoke, the Herald placed a firm hand on Vasilisa’s shoulder. Her touch was soft, yet it felt as heavy as lead. “This is the path that must be taken,” she urged, her gaze piercing into Vasilisa’s soul. “Eridu and Jirghadai have united the Horde. You must do the same - boyars, Solarians, they all pull away at strength that must be yours and yours alone. You wish to unite the realm? Make yourself their only hope, their only god. No Lightning-Lord and Earth-Mother. No Divine Sun. Only the Hand of God.”

Vasilisa nodded slowly, but in her mind’s eye, the path ahead twisted into shadows. All she saw was ruin - blood spilled on cold stone, a warrior-faith in whose wake trailed naught but death, and a throne built atop a sinking pit of ash. She turned away from her mother’s touch, trailing further down the hall.

“There is much work to be done,” her mother spoke. “But I will always be with you, until the end of ends.”

And no-one else, was the unspoken truth.