Alexander accepted the gifts, preserving the honor of Kievan Rus. Most of the boyars murmured their approval - their voices, resembling the hum of a swarm of bees, rose to the vaulted ceiling of the hall. Only a few frowned and grunted, clearly expecting more.
Nikodim’s voice was soft, but anyone who understood Greek could detect the subtle firmness skillfully concealed within. Alexander grasped his words without difficulty, as did Miroslav, accustomed to listening to such envoys during his diplomatic service. Stanislav and Ignat, whose knowledge of the language had been honed during military campaigns, followed every word with an expression of cautious mistrust.
Ilarion, sitting in his unyielding pose, listened to Nikodim’s words with a stern approval. His knowledge of Greek allowed him to perceive the hidden meanings the Byzantines preferred to veil within their words.
Ryurik Pechersky, arms crossed over his chest, listened attentively to Nikodim. He had learned Greek through interactions with the monks of the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra, where theological writings and ties with Constantinople were commonplace. His calm gaze caught every nuance.
For the rest of the boyars, the translation was whispered by Gavriil the Chronicler, David the Scribe, and Ilarion the Annalist. Their quiet voices conveyed the general meaning, but occasionally, Mikhail of Sophia, impatient with the pace of the translation, would quietly add his own clarifications.
At the far end of the hall, Olga Strumenskaya sat motionless, like a statue carved from stone. Her predatory gaze cut through the shadows of the hall, resting on Nikodim. The whispering of the translators was mere noise to her, like the buzzing of insects. Her knowledge of Greek seemed to penetrate not only the words but also the thoughts of the Byzantine envoy.
- What is he hiding? - flashed through her mind as her fingers slowly brushed against a massive ring.
Alexander felt the weight of the boyars’ gazes, like cold chains wrapping around his body. These chains pressed beneath his mail, bearing down on his shoulders: they awaited the slightest mistake to turn it into their strength.
Stanislav’s voice sliced through the tension like a sword stroke.
- Generous gifts, - he said quietly, his gaze shifting from the chests to the Byzantine envoy. - But is generosity ever without motive?
These words fell into the hall like a heavy stone. Even the crackling of the torches seemed to pause in deference to his raspy tone.
- Or will the price of this “friendship” prove too high? - Stanislav raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, but it was enough to stretch the taut string of tension.
All the boyars turned their attention to the Byzantine envoy. Some exchanged glances; one of them tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, as though pondering the hidden meaning of what had been said. Ignat, arms crossed over his chest, cast a heavy gaze at Nikodim. He said nothing, but his tense silence spoke volumes: he knew the cost of fine words and understood that behind them might lie a threat.
Svyatoslav Polovetsky, standing beside Ignat, frowned. His narrowed eyes followed Nikodim’s every move intently. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of a knife protruding from his wide leather belt. The motion was barely noticeable, but it conveyed readiness to act.
On the other side, Boris Stalnogorsky furrowed his brow, his glare burning into Nikodim. He slowly ran his hand through his beard, as though deliberating over every word the envoy had spoken. He disliked Nikodim’s composure - it irritated him, like a reminder of a hidden trap that could not yet be seen.
A whisper crept through the hall like a cold wind - barely perceptible but carrying distrust. Someone muttered a quiet remark, exchanging a brief glance with a neighbor, but the tension in the air pressed heavier than any words.
- Clever as a serpent, - one of the boyars muttered, touching a massive ring, as though seeking protection from the hidden threat.
Alexander felt the murmur of whispers, like a pulsating sound flowing in from all sides. Every gaze in the hall pierced him like invisible threads weaving a web of expectations. He had accepted the gifts, but what lay hidden behind this generosity? The thought that a hidden meaning could change everything pressed down on him like a weight.
- If there’s a scheme behind the gifts, Stanislav will uncover it, - flashed through the prince’s mind as his eyes shifted to the princely voivode. Stanislav had a knack for seeing what others missed, and his sharp mind unraveled even the most intricate diplomatic maneuvers as if slicing through the web of cunning plans.
The Byzantine envoy maintained absolute composure. A subtle, almost imperceptible smile flickered across his lips, as if intended only for those accustomed to reading such signs in the shadows of diplomatic intrigue.
- Lord Stanislav, - Nikodim began in a soft but piercing voice. - Your words, as always, reflect wisdom. The price of friendship, of course, is great, but does it not become lighter when shared?
He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the strength of his interlocutor while preserving his own dignity.
- These gifts are a sign of trust, - Nikodim continued, his gaze lingering on the chests. - We believe that Kievan Rus and the Empire can become two pillars supporting a single temple of faith. But a temple built on gold is always doomed to collapse. Its foundation must be truth, not wealth
His gaze paused on Alexander - a brief, almost imperceptible moment in which a veiled warning lingered.
- But, of course, - his tone turned deliberately respectful, - words will remain words unless the lord prince gives them meaning
Alexander felt the boyars’ piercing gazes on him. He straightened, maintaining his composure, though tension simmered within.
- Weakness or refusal of an alliance? How to preserve the honor and strength of Rus?
His fingers briefly gripped the armrests of the throne, grounding him in reality. The prince’s eyes locked onto Nikodim’s.
- But I am the prince. They must see that
He opened his mouth to speak, but before his voice could break the silence, Stanislav intervened again.
- Envoy, - Stanislav’s voice was quiet, but its force was tangible, like the blow of an axe against wood. - You speak of pillars. But who will bear the weight of this temple when the storm comes?
His gaze fixed on Nikodim, cold and unwavering, as if attempting to pierce the core of his intentions. It was an attack, elegant yet precise.
Nikodim inclined his head, holding the gesture for a moment longer than custom required. There was acknowledgment in it, but also a challenge - refined, like the maneuver of an experienced diplomat.
- Those who believe, Lord Stanislav. Only faith makes an alliance strong, while gold is merely a tool. We offer a hand, not a chain
Nikodim leaned forward slightly, signaling that the next move was the prince’s. This time, Alexander did not hesitate.
- In Kievan Rus, we value neither the weight of words nor the glitter of gold, - he began, his voice firm, like the first rumble of thunder over the fields. - Here, we value deeds. Nikodim, you speak of pillars, but to build them, we need not only faith but also equality. We will not be the foundation of a temple where Kievan Rus is the base and someone else crowns the vaults
Alexander’s words rang out so confidently that the tension in the hall became almost palpable. The boyars seated to the side began whispering louder. Gleb Turovsky nodded approvingly, and one of the younger boyars even clapped briefly but quickly stopped under the disapproving glances of the elders.
Nikodim maintained his mask of composure, his gaze sliding to Alexander and lingering a moment longer than usual. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips - a subtle hint that he saw Rus not as an ally, but as a tool.
- Lord Prince, - he said, bowing more deeply, - the wisdom of your words strengthens my faith in the power of Rus. The alliance we propose is an alliance of equals. No one will lose their freedom, but all will grow stronger through unity
A heavy silence reigned in the hall. Only the creak of a boot or the faint rustle of fabric disturbed the deathly stillness. It seemed as if the room itself held its breath, afraid to disturb the fragile balance. Even the tongues of flame in the torches, flickering in rhythm with invisible currents of air, seemed frozen, subdued by the growing weight of the moment.
- Unity? - the word echoed, cold and sharp, like a blade ringing in the silence.
It was uttered by Miroslav, the prince’s advisor, whose posture betrayed an inner struggle between remaining silent and the necessity to act. His voice broke the tension but did not relieve it. On the contrary, each of his words sounded like a challenge - precise and deliberate.
Miroslav knew that remaining on the sidelines was no longer an option. He could feel how Nikodim’s words, deceptively soft, seeped into hearts like droplets of water corroding stone.
- This Byzantine isn’t just testing our patience, - flashed through Miroslav’s mind. - He threatens the very stability of Rus. If Alexander yields, the consequences could be irreversible
Miroslav stepped forward, each of his steps ringing out like a hammer striking iron. The calmness in his movements concealed an inner storm, yet the boyars’ eyes did not waver from him. He knew that in this moment, he represented not only himself but the voice of those boyars who had yet to muster the courage to speak. His stance radiated firmness, and in his cold, piercing gaze lay the tension of a man ready to cut through any web of deceitful words.
- Interesting, Nikodim, - Miroslav began softly, but his voice carried through the hall like the clash of a sword against a shield, slicing through the thick silence. - A union of equals, you say? But equality, as we know, is not measured in gold or gifts
Miroslav’s gaze lingered on the chests - massive wooden coffers bound with metal bands. Golden chalices adorned with fine engravings depicted the lives of saints - scenes of gospel miracles rendered with Byzantine refinement.
On the surface lay scrolls sealed with crimson wax bearing the empire’s crest, and deeper within, silver candelabras could be seen, etched with intricate designs depicting a vanquished serpent - a symbol of strength but also of menace.
But inevitably, the centerpiece was the cross - a massive encolpion encrusted with sapphires and rubies. Its inscription - “He who bows shall be saved” - seemed to burn the air around it.
- And if relics lie within? - the thought flashed through Miroslav’s mind. Though unspoken, it hung in the air. The encolpion might contain a fragment of a saint or a relic that could become a symbol of authority. Byzantium had a talent for lavish gifts, but behind the gleam of gold and gemstones always lay calculation.
- Such gifts are rare, - he thought, narrowing his eyes slightly. - But if this cross does indeed contain relics, the price of these gifts isn’t in gold, but in the soul
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his gaze fixed intently on Nikodim:
- Are these gifts the price of trust? Or is this a subtle test? A test of how far we are willing to go to preserve this “equality”?
The question from Miroslav rang out like a challenge hurled directly at the Byzantine envoy’s face. The hall seemed to shudder, as if a sharp gust of wind had swept between its columns. A few boyars exchanged glances - some nodded silently, while others straightened up, as if bracing themselves for something greater. Their eyes filled with unease and tense curiosity, but no one dared to speak.
Gavriil the Chronicler, seated not far from Miroslav, ran a thin quill across his scroll. His movements were quick and precise, like those of a man accustomed to transforming the chaos of words into clear lines of annals. Gavriil’s gaze darted from one participant to another, as if imprinting each phrase and gesture in memory. Yet to those who knew him well, it was clear that beneath his outward detachment lay someone who not only observed but judged.
- What a pointless theater, a waste of time, - he thought, watching as several boyars murmured among themselves like schoolchildren during a lesson.
One of them, fiddling with a massive ring, whispered something to his neighbor, but Gavriil didn’t record it. He merely noted to himself:
- The boyars of Kievan Rus are too emotional for such negotiations. Words become weapons only when spoken with cold resolve
On the other side of the hall, Mikhail of Sophia sat immobile, like a stone-carved sentinel. His heavy gaze, as forceful as a hammer striking an anvil, rested on anyone bold enough to speak. Mikhail made no unnecessary movements, but his piercing stare - weighty and sharp - seemed to scan Nikodim, searching for hidden intentions in his words and gestures.
Mikhail’s mind wandered to the union of Anna Monomakhina and Prince Vsevolod. Byzantium had presented it in 1046 as a symbol of peace and brotherhood, and in its early years, the marriage indeed became a bridge between two worlds. Yet behind the grandeur of wedding ceremonies lay the subtle threads of politics. This union brought Rus new opportunities but also new obligations.
Anna, raised within the walls of Constantinople, brought with her not only the empire’s culture but also its demands. Rus gained access to Byzantine craftsmen and enhanced its international prestige, but it paid a steep price. Promises of mutual aid gradually turned unequal: Rus’s armies fought in Byzantine conflicts, while Byzantium was slow to reciprocate.
After Prince Vsevolod’s death in an ambush, the alliance that was meant to be an indestructible bridge lost its value. Anna was left a widow, and Byzantium - without the support it had counted on. To Mikhail, it was clear that the Byzantine envoys were now playing a delicate game in which old promises of brotherhood and equality could be wielded as levers of pressure. Nikodim seemed fully aware of how to turn this alliance to his advantage.
- He wants Alexander, - the thought flashed through Mikhail’s mind.
Mikhail understood that the young prince, the last of his lineage, would be the key for Constantinople to regain influence over Kievan Rus. To Nikodim, Alexander was not merely a ruler but a pawn - one that could be used to further Byzantine interests.
The encolpion, adorned with sapphires and rubies, glimmered like fire in the dark. Its inscription, “He who bows shall be saved,” did not sound like a gift - it felt like a challenge thrown in the prince’s face.
It was not merely a symbol of friendship; within it might lie relics, a sacred weapon capable of swaying the minds and souls of those who accepted it. And now Mikhail pondered: Was Nikodim truly prepared to make such efforts for peace, or was this a subtle maneuver to bind Alexander’s hands and seize control of his fate?
Miroslav continued:
- You offer your hand, - his voice grew even firmer, - but remember that Kievan Rus will only extend its own to those willing not only to take but also to give. We ask for no more than we deserve. For us, the price of friendship is not the glitter of gold but loyalty to a cause that strengthens the land, not depletes it
Nikodim held a deliberate pause, carefully weighing each word. Once, Rus had been fractured among its princes, each relying on their Senior Boyars. But with the death of the other princes, everything had changed. Now, the most influential Senior Boyars - those who commanded armies, resources, and power - had gathered around Alexander. To them, he was either a guarantor of stability or a tool to strengthen their own positions as they vied for control of the throne.
To the Senior Boyars, Nikodim was a threat - they did not want a third force interfering in their game. Yet, if Alexander gained the backing of Byzantium, he would surpass them all in strength. This would put Kievan Rus at risk of falling under the Empire’s control. Nikodim’s task was simple: bind the prince to Constantinople without provoking the boyars. Every word he spoke needed to be a blow, driving Alexander into a trap with no escape.
His face remained calm, though an astute observer might have caught the faintest shadow of tension in his eyes. His lips twitched slightly, but he quickly regained his composure.
- Your words are just, Lord Miroslav, - he replied. His voice was as soft as silk, but a new note had crept into it. - But is it not better when trust is built together, rather than through trials?
Sophia watched Nikodim, feeling his soft, almost saccharine words seep into hearts, leaving behind a faint taste of unease. A thought flared in her mind:
- What will happen to me? Will I be a tool or a player in this game?
Her uncle spoke of the alliance as salvation, but Sophia felt that behind his words lay his own game. To him, she was not a person but an instrument - beautiful, yet still an instrument.
Her eyes unconsciously drifted to Prince Alexander. His face remained inscrutable, but Sophia could see the struggle in his posture - invisible but powerful, like a whirlwind ready to burst forth.
- What if he refuses? - she thought. - Will it be my disgrace or their failure?
Sophia felt Nikodim’s heavy gaze on her. He still stood confidently before the prince, his posture radiating control over the situation.
- He knows best
She ran her fingers along the intricate pattern on her fan, trying to calm herself. The elaborate design, carved by a master craftsman from Constantinople, became her anchor in this turbulent sea of stares and words.
Miroslav straightened slightly, his eyes flashing like a blade honed to a razor’s edge.
- Trials are the foundation of trust, - he said curtly. His voice took on the sharpness of a sword, every word landing like a strike on an anvil. - We do not fear trials, Nikodim. But we want to know: are you ready for them?
Those words stretched the atmosphere in the hall to its limit, like a taut string ready to snap. But before Nikodim could respond, a calm, precise voice rang out from the depths of the assembly.
Senior Boyarina Olga Strumenskaya rose smoothly, like a cat preparing to pounce. Her eyes, sharp as blades, scanned the room, seeking weakness in everyone. She knew her words would be heard, though not by everyone. In this game, her interests were clear: to maintain her leadership among the boyars and prevent Alexander from growing strong enough to threaten her influence.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Her head tilted slightly, and her cold, cutting gaze swept through the hall, as if trying to pierce everyone with her unshakable resolve.
- Risk is a tool in the hands of the wise, - she began, her voice so low and steady that even those whispering a moment ago froze in place. - A tool that can yield great benefits… or destroy everything to its foundation
She paused, her eyes locking first on Nikodim, then on Alexander.
- Before we reject this alliance, we must understand how it can strengthen Rus. Risk requires measure, my lords. We must know: are we ready not only to accept this risk but to master it?
Her words sounded both like a challenge and a call for caution. The hall grew still once again, as if attuned to an invisible thread between the two sides.
- Where did she learn Greek? How could she have mastered it? - Miroslav wondered, glancing briefly at Olga. - Surely not in Kyiv. But whatever it means, she must be watched carefully
His eyes narrowed, and his hands behind his back clenched tighter. Her words were measured, but he sensed something more - a hint of a hidden game. She had spoken not just to defend the interests of Kievan Rus but perhaps also her own. Her voice was reasonable, but her tone carried a subtle ambiguity.
Alexander slowly shifted his gaze from Olga to Nikodim. His face betrayed nothing, but within him grew a realization: the game each player in this hall was playing would become part of history.
- Each of them tries to assert their truth, - he thought. - But who will be proven right in the end? We won’t see it here, but much later
Nikodim bowed his head in a gesture of respect, but his gaze, like a veiled challenge, remained cold, faltering only for a brief moment under the weight of the words spoken. His movements stayed theatrically smooth, but a discerning eye might have noticed how his attention lingered on Olga for just a fraction too long.
- Your words are wise, Lady Olga, - he said. His voice sounded like the rustle of fine silk. - You are right: risk without measure is recklessness. The Empire never asks for blind loyalty. We seek an alliance based on mutual understanding and respect. Is that not where true strength lies?
His words, melodic and captivating, floated in the silence like notes from a delicate harp. Yet the tension in the hall remained unbroken. Olga did not take her eyes off him, her face calm, though her gaze spoke more than her words.
She inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging his response, though it was unclear whether she agreed with him or merely stepped aside to prepare her next move.
Stanislav the Great, standing near a column, took a step forward, his massive frame blocking part of the torchlight. That step seemed to divide the hall into two factions: one of icy, calculated Rus’ authority and the other of Byzantine diplomatic brilliance.
- Enough words, - his deep voice cut through the room like thunder before a storm. - Rus does not bow under the weight of gold. We will not bear a yoke, no matter how glittering it may be
He paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over the assembly.
- We can appreciate your gifts, envoy, but remember: here, we choose our path, not submission. Do not think your words are weapons to be turned against us
His eyes bore into Nikodim, cold and heavy as stone slabs.
- Our strength lies in our people, envoy. We choose our path and will not allow others to decide for us
Those words struck the hall like a wave, rousing even those who had sat silently. The boyars straightened, their gazes no longer wandering. Now they were fixed on Nikodim, hard and unyielding, like steel against a whetstone - silent but full of latent threat.
Nikodim held his pause. He bowed his head lower than usual, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips.
- You are wise, Lord Stanislav, - he replied in his soft, silken voice. - The Empire does not dictate. It extends a hand. A hand that can raise not only a sword but also a shield. Alliances make nations stronger, but only when their strengths unite for the common good
Oleg Vyshgorodsky, seated on the far side of the hall, smirked faintly, crossing his arms over his chest. His cold, slightly disdainful gaze slid over Nikodim as if the envoy were a merchant hawking stale wares.
- To raise a shield? Or to bow beneath it? - he thought, not bothering to hide his skepticism. Leaning toward Rurik, he murmured with a crooked smile:
- Pretty words. A bit too sweet. Let’s hope we don’t choke on this “common good”
Rurik Pechersky, seated beside him, glanced briefly at Oleg, a faint shadow of a smile crossing his lips.
- It’s always like this with the Byzantines, - he muttered softly, leaning in closer. - Sweet on the tongue, but bitter in the throat afterward
At the other end of the hall, Gleb leaned toward Dobrynya.
- A hand, he says… more like a chain
Dobrynya kept his eyes on Nikodim.
- The question is whose neck will end up in that chain
Gleb smirked.
- If we’re careless - ours.
It seemed that each of them was calculating their next move, waiting for the moment to either support the prince or contest his decision. Behind their cold stares lay thoughts of how to turn the situation to their advantage.
Alexander, standing at the center of this tense assembly, lifted his head slightly higher. He understood that every word he spoke now would not simply be a response to the Byzantine envoy - it would be a choice seen by all.
The hall was frozen. The boyars, like stone statues, dared not move. The atmosphere thickened, becoming as tangible as a taut rope. Somewhere in the depths of the room, unease flickered in foreign eyes, and from behind the delegation, another silence whispered in reply, deep and haunting.
Sophia Lakapina, standing behind the Byzantine delegation, adjusted the golden trim of her chiton as the air in the hall seemed to solidify, transforming into invisible lead. Every word, whether spoken or unspoken, became part of its weight.
Her uncle Nikodim’s remarks and the firm statements of the Kievan boyars echoed in her mind, a resounding hum that filled her thoughts. The silence that followed stretched painfully, as though time itself had stopped.
The stone walls, adorned with frescoes of saints’ faces, bore scars of weapons and soot, as if they had absorbed the history of bloody battles. Each boyar appeared motionless, like a chess piece waiting to be moved.
Sophia’s heart pounded so loudly that it seemed everyone could hear it. Her fingers gripped her fan to hide the trembling in her hands, and her gaze darted between the cold Nikodim and the prince, who resembled the edge of a blade.
Her cousin Clio grasped Sophia’s elbow, as though trying to anchor her in place. Clio’s gaze was icy and sharp, but there was a flicker of unease - barely visible but undeniable.
She turned away quickly, as if afraid Sophia might catch sight of her vulnerability. Clio knew that Sophia had earned her place in the delegation, but at times, her boldness seemed reckless.
- You cannot afford to make a mistake, - her clenched fingers seemed to say, cold as steel. - Neither of us can
And yet, Sophia could not tear her eyes from the young prince. In his tense posture and the firmly clasped fingers on the armrests, she saw something difficult to define - a mixture of strength and doubt. He looked like a man on the verge of leaping into battle, but still undecided.
Suddenly, she noticed Nikodim’s gaze. He turned, and their eyes met. His look was calm and confident, like a lighthouse in the midst of a storm.
- You are Sophia Lakapina. You must be strong, - she repeated silently to herself, trying to steady the trembling in her hands.
Her eyes returned to Alexander. In his gaze, where struggle and uncertainty resided, she caught a faint spark - a glimmer of light breaking through the storm. In that moment, something shifted within her, giving way to courage. Perhaps it was his visible battle - palpable and heavy, like the stone walls around them.
- If he can endure this, why can’t I?
Before she realized it, Sophia stepped forward. The sound of her footsteps in the charged silence made the hall freeze.
- This is madness, - she thought. - But it’s too late to turn back now
Clio, standing beside her, yanked at her elbow. Her fingers dug into Sophia’s skin like claws.
- Sophia, stop! - she hissed, barely suppressing the tremor in her voice. Her gaze flickered between Nikodim and the princely council, as though already calculating the consequences. - You’ll ruin us both! You want to challenge Uncle Nikodim?
Sophia shot her a brief glance. She saw the fear in Clio’s eyes, but behind it was something else - envy. Subtle, but undeniable in that instant.
- I must, Clio, - Sophia replied quietly, pulling free of her grip. The movement was firm but devoid of force.
Taking another step forward, Sophia felt her heart pounding so fast that her blood roared in her ears. But retreat was no longer an option.
- Prince, - her gaze locked onto Alexander’s. His eyes were cold and guarded, but within them she saw the same inner battle she felt within herself. - An alliance is a step. A mistake at the beginning can lead to catastrophe
The pause that followed was suffocating, the tension almost tangible. Her fan trembled in her hands, but she tightened her grip on it, as though it were her shield.
- Mistakes are costly, - she continued. Now her voice grew steadier, the tremor gone. - But a road without progress costs even more
The silence that followed her words was nearly deafening. Vasily Svyatopolkovich narrowed his eyes, his face darkening like that of a man who sensed a hidden threat. Boris Stalnogorsky let out a short snort, glancing quickly at his neighbors as though gauging their reactions. Even Gavriil the Chronicler, who had been diligently recording every word, froze with his quill in midair, as if afraid to disturb the fragile pause.
- An interesting variable, - he murmured softly.
Nikodim, standing at the front, turned his head toward Sophia. A faint glimmer of approval flickered in his eyes, quickly replaced by a cold warning. It was the look of a predator sizing up its prey.
Sophia held his gaze, though fear still churned within her.
When her eyes returned to Alexander, his face remained inscrutable. But his gaze was different. Not respect, not affection - rather, intrigue.
- Risk can lead to victory, - he finally said, his voice steady and firm, now addressing everyone. - But only if every step is calculated. On this road, Kievan Rus cannot afford to stumble
Sophia felt the tension inside her give way to a strange lightness. She suddenly realized that her words had found resonance. They could no longer be ignored.
Clio stared at her from behind. Anger and fear mixed in her cousin’s expression, but something else flickered in her eyes. Admiration? Envy? Sophia couldn’t tell, but she knew one thing: she had done what Clio would never dare.
Clio gripped the hem of her chiton, as though trying to keep her fury under control. Her face assumed a cold expression, but the corners of her lips twitched, betraying hidden emotions.
- She’s risking everything, - Clio thought. - But what if she wins?
Sophia lifted her gaze to the hall again. Every boyar was watching her, weighing her words, but she no longer felt like a victim. This was her moment of triumph - or her downfall. Yet she did not yet know which it would be.
Stanislav the Great, who had been standing nearby, shifted his heavy gaze toward Sophia. Until now, he had paid little attention to the girl standing behind the Byzantine delegation, but her words had caught his notice, triggering a sense of unease.
- So, is she merely pretending to be young and naïve? - the thought crossed his mind.
His brows drew together slightly, and his eyes narrowed. He knew Nikodim well enough to understand that the Byzantine diplomat would not include such a figure in his delegation without a purpose.
Dobrynya Vsevolodich, the prince’s steward, glanced briefly at Sophia before turning his attention back to Nikodim. His face betrayed no emotion, but inside, his thoughts churned.
- An interesting move, - he mused, clasping his hands in front of him. - Nikodim is playing the long game. Is she a pawn or a hidden piece in this match?
Miroslav stood in the shadow of a column, his sharp eyes darting between Nikodim and Sophia, as if weighing them like a seasoned merchant assessing goods. Yet he saw more than mere surface interactions. To him, every word from Nikodim was a carefully placed trap, and Sophia - whether knowingly or not - was a figure who could become either a threat or an opportunity. He had long suspected that behind Nikodim’s outward softness lay a deeply calculated strategy.
- This girl isn’t a coincidence, - he thought. Her appearance, her words, the effect she had on the prince - it all seemed too deliberate.
Olga Strumenskaya traced her fingers along the edge of a massive ring, as if weighing Sophia’s words in her mind. Her predatory interest was evident, like someone accustomed to exploiting the weaknesses of others. From their first encounter, when Olga had assisted in hosting the delegation, she had noted that this young Byzantine woman was more than just decoration. Her posture, her glances, her behavior - they all revealed a mind unaccustomed to idleness.
- A bold girl, - Olga thought, smirking inwardly.
The reactions of the boyars varied. Gleb Turovsky lazily stroked his beard, then chuckled softly, as if he had caught something in Sophia’s words that others had missed.
Nikodim held Sophia in his gaze for a brief moment, studying her as though she were a piece that could shift the outcome of the entire match. His expression remained calm and cold, but his lips curved into a faint smile - devoid of warmth, carrying only a silent question: Would she withstand the pressure, or would she falter at the first blow?
- An unusual piece you’ve placed in this game, Nikodim, - Miroslav said, stepping out from the shadow of the column. His voice was steady, but every word carried an undercurrent of guarded tension.
Nikodim inclined his head with the same polished courtesy that gave no hint of his true thoughts.
- Sometimes a pawn proves more useful than a rook, - he replied with a slight smile that barely touched his lips. - Especially when it reaches the right square
His words sent another ripple through the hall. The boyars’ wary and calculating gazes turned to Sophia, as if trying to discern her role in this diplomatic game.
Under the weight of so many stares, Sophia felt her knees tremble. Everything inside her screamed to flee, but she held her ground.
Her face remained impassive, but fear raged within her - not for herself, but for the consequences of her actions. She understood that her words might have shaken the fragile balance between the sides, but there was no turning back now. Any sign of weakness would mean defeat.
Stanislav the Great stepped forward. His heavy gaze lingered on Nikodim before settling on Sophia.
- A girl who dares to play with fire, - he said, addressing the room more than her. - But in our games, pawns rarely survive to the end, let alone become queens
The tension in the hall became suffocating, like thick smoke enveloping everyone. Every glance, every word, seemed to tighten invisible chains around the participants. The boyars’ eyes, sharp and guarded, darted between Nikodim and Sophia.
The envoy noticed the shift in the atmosphere. His fingers moved ever so slightly, as though he were mentally preparing his next move. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Sophia. In that brief pause, a hidden appraisal - almost piercing - flashed through his eyes. He was studying her, trying to determine whether her audacity was spontaneous or a calculated step.
But Nikodim quickly averted his gaze, as if placing a silent period on the moment. For a fleeting instant, frustration flickered in his eyes - he had underestimated the combative spirit of Miroslav and Stanislav. Yet his face swiftly resumed its customary calm, as though this misstep were simply another part of his plan. A slight tilt of his head, a practiced smile - everything about him signaled an attempt to regain control of the situation.
- Your principality, as we have already discussed, - Nikodim began in a steady, soft voice, beneath which an unyielding strength could be felt, - we seek allies willing to share the burden of protecting the faith and standing against our enemies. A union between the Empire and Rus would be a pillar for peace and prosperity
His words pierced the taut silence, but instead of easing the tension, it grew heavier. The boyars exchanged wary glances, their expressions sharpening with suspicion. Stanislav the Great crossed his arms over his chest, his cold eyes gleaming with distrust. Miroslav lifted his chin slightly, clearly calculating the best way to counter this move.
Nikodim paused, as if allowing his words to sink deeper, then continued:
- We believe that the alliance of the Empire and Rus will stand as a pillar for peace and the defense of the faith. Together, we are stronger against our enemies
His words hung in the air like a challenge thrown at the entire hall. Nikodim straightened slightly, his posture and calm demeanor a reminder that he had come to persuade, not to threaten.
Alexander rose, the cold weight of his chainmail seeming to press deeper against his skin, as if reaching his very soul. It was a chilling reminder:
- You are the prince, and it is your burden to bear
The gazes of the boyars, sharp as unsheathed blades, bore into him, ready to strike at the slightest misstep. But in this moment, he could not waver. Even the faintest hint of doubt could ignite a blaze capable of consuming everything.
- Thank you for your words, envoy, - Alexander said, his voice even but cold, like tempered steel. - But in Rus, we value deeds, not words. We will continue this discussion where fates are decided, not where speeches are made
His gaze swept across the rows of boyars, sharp and silent, like a blade demanding a response. Ignat Slavyansky gave a slight nod of agreement. Oleg frowned, his eyes clouded with tension and mistrust. Olga Strumenskaya watched the prince intently, as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his words.
Nikodim, sensing the weight of these stares, bowed his head slightly lower than usual. His smile grew a touch warmer, yet it retained the same cold confidence, as though every word Alexander spoke played into his calculations.
- The Empire does not dictate, prince, - Nikodim replied, his voice soft, like silk that could turn to steel at any moment. - It extends a hand… but not to everyone. Only to those who understand the cost of a true alliance
He paused briefly, letting his words settle into the heavy silence.
- Let this path become ours together, - he added, his gaze locking with Alexander’s, as though issuing a silent challenge.
Alexander held his gaze for a moment, his face impassive, but his eyes smoldered with a mix of steel and fire.
- Follow me, - he said quietly, but his words carried such unyielding strength that even the stone walls of the hall seemed to echo in response.
The sound of Alexander’s footsteps rang out, dull and heavy, like hammer blows against stone. Each step resonated in the hearts of the princely boyars: they followed him, though not all shared his conviction.
Alexander felt that with every word and every step, he was not merely responding but shaping the destiny of Kievan Rus. The alliance promised protection - but at what cost? He could not allow weakness to define his legacy.
Nikodim gave a barely perceptible nod, but a flicker of tension passed through his eyes. He understood all too well: the true game was only beginning. All this time, he had been biding his time, watching and evaluating - assessing the prince’s strength, his influence, his allies, and the fragile balance of Rus. Now that all the pieces were in place, he was ready to use his knowledge to tip the scales at the negotiating table.
Each step Alexander took was deliberate and resonant, like the blows of a hammer on an anvil.
Stanislav the Great stepped forward behind him. His piercing gaze rested on Nikodim, as though trying to unravel every thread of the envoy’s intentions.
Miroslav, walking slightly behind, fiddled with the edge of his coat, turning over future arguments in his mind. His focus spoke volumes: he was preparing for a battle where words would be the weapons.
Oleg, the Grand Steward, moved next, his cold eyes fixed on the Byzantine envoy. For him, negotiations were not merely politics but precise calculation - he knew that every alliance demanded a price.
Ignat, the supreme voivode, walked beside him. His imposing figure radiated the assurance that if words turned to swords, he would be the first to enter the fray.
The procession was closed by Metropolitan Illarion. His face remained as still as stone, but a flicker of concern burned in his eyes. To him, this was not just a meeting but a final stand for the soul of Rus.
He felt his body growing weaker. Time was slipping away - months, perhaps weeks, remained. Illarion stayed silent, conserving his strength, knowing his words would need to carry the weight of finality when the moment came.
- If I fall, it will be only after I have made my mark, - he thought, clenching his fingers so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
The murmurs in the hall gradually faded, giving way to a profound silence in which only the creak of boots on stone tiles could be heard.
The Byzantine delegation moved behind the prince’s boyars, like a shadow silently poised for the decisive move. Nikodim, slightly ahead of his companions, walked with a predatory grace, his gaze sliding over the Rus warriors and boyars as if assessing their strengths and weaknesses.
Close behind him was Leo Komnenos, upright and silent, a figure carved from granite. His heavy stare served as an unspoken reminder of the power the Empire carried with it. Behind them followed Agaphius Scholasticus, a man whose demeanor spoke of one accustomed to victory through words.
Agaphius’ sharp eyes drifted to Metropolitan Illarion - the first Slavic metropolitan, a symbol of the independence of the Rus Church. Yet Agaphius knew that this independence was fragile, a temporary illusion. The seat of the metropolitan had already been promised by the Byzantine Senate to his friend Ephraim, a loyal man of Constantinople.
- We will reclaim control, step by step, - he thought, the corners of his lips twitching in a faint smile.
At the rear of the group walked Sophia and her cousin Clio. Sophia gripped her fan tightly, striving to maintain a facade of composure, though her thoughts churned like a restless sea. Nikodim had not revealed all his plans, but she knew that decisions about her fate could be made at the negotiation table behind closed doors.
- There, beyond those doors, everything will be decided, - she thought, her gaze fixed on Alexander, who walked ahead with unshakable confidence.
Clio, walking beside her, lightly touched Sophia’s hand, as if sensing her internal tension. Sophia shot her cousin a brief glance. In Clio’s eyes, there was something akin to sympathy, but she quickly averted her gaze, as if afraid to reveal more than she intended.
The heavy doors closed behind the Byzantines with a dull thud, like the fall of a guillotine sealing an unseen fate. The tension hanging in the hall became almost tangible, heavy as a lead slab. The boyars remained silent, but all of them felt it: beyond those doors, a battle would unfold that would determine not only the prince’s future but the destiny of all Kievan Rus.
Olga Strumenskaya stayed in the hall with the others who were not permitted to attend the negotiations. She watched the Byzantine delegation and the prince’s council disappear through the doors, but her attention quickly returned to Sophia. The girl’s subtle movements - a trembling fan, a breath taken too quickly - did not escape Olga’s sharp gaze.
Olga narrowed her eyes slightly.
- Is she a pawn or a queen? - she thought, tilting her head ever so slightly, as though observing someone else’s game from the sidelines.
Her gaze lingered on Sophia like that of a predator sizing up its prey. A faint gesture - the fan quivering ever so slightly in Sophia’s fingers - could signify fear, but it could also be a mask.
- Fear or courage? - Olga mused, her fingers idly brushing the cold metal of her massive ring, finding calm in its solidity. - And who whispers in this girl’s ear? Nikodim? Or her own demons?
A faint smirk touched Olga’s lips.
- If she’s a pawn, she’s too bold. If she’s a queen, she’s too young to endure our game
Her thoughts drifted into memory. Olga had seen scenes like this before: seemingly insignificant figures who suddenly flipped the board, becoming the center of a carefully crafted strategy.
Her fingers glided over the ring again. Her face remained unreadable, but her gaze lingered on Sophia a moment longer than polite curiosity would require. In that gaze lay a predatory, waiting interest, like a cat watching a bird in a cage.
- Perhaps she’s the one destined to place the final stroke in this game, - the thought flickered through her mind as she turned her eyes from the now-closed doors.
***
Thank you to everyone who’s reading!
This chapter turned out to be quite detailed and extensive because I’m striving to depict events as realistically as possible. You won’t find a situation here where only Alexander, Nikodim, and a couple of advisors engage in dialogue while everyone else simply remains silent, fading into the background or serving as mere extras, without any reaction to what’s happening.
I hope you’re enjoying this deep dive into the era of Kievan Rus. I’m doing my best to convey its atmosphere as accurately as possible and to maintain historical authenticity, so you can truly feel the spirit of that time.
A quick note:
In Rus, epithets such as “The Wise” or “The Great” were not typically formal titles. They reflected a person’s qualities, merits, or achievements that became part of their reputation through their actions. For example, Miroslav earned the nickname “The Wise” for his intellect and diplomatic skills, while Stanislav became known as “The Great” thanks to his leadership and influence.
I’d love to hear your comments and feedback. Every single one of them is incredibly inspiring because they show that people aren’t just casually skimming, but are reading with genuine interest and attention.