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.
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- 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.
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.