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.

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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.

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.