The next morning Alexander woke before dawn. The light had not yet reached the windows, but inside it was already clear: the day was on its way. And if he did not go to meet it - it would sweep him away.
His body ached. The stitches stretched under the skin like knots of rope after a storm. But the mind - dry, direct - did not allow him to lie still.
He sat up. Carefully. Without haste. Testing not pain - resistance.
He knew: today not a single step could be lost. To think. To listen. To cut. Not like a prince. Like a mechanism. And for that he had to enter the rhythm. Not morning - calibration. From the first gesture - to the last order.
First - the body.
In his mouth - bitterness. Dryness. The taste of night breath, heavy like lead.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. Like slag. Like ash. He instantly remembered the army method - to chew a dry twig if there was nothing else.
Birch. Mint. To cleanse and not go mad from the rot of breath.
- Mstislav, - he said toward the door.
An answer was not needed. The gridni always heard. This was not service. This was linkage. Blood at the heart.
A click. A shadow. Mirnomir stepped inside.
- Yes, prince
- A twig. Mint. No explanations
A nod. A moment. Already beyond the door Mirnomir cast a glance at Igor - the otrok assigned to the prince.
He was twelve. Not yet a warrior, but no longer a boy.
An otrok - not a servant. One who learns to serve, so that later – he may lead.
He shot off like a loosed arrow.
A few minutes later another otrok entered. Carried a basin, a jug of warm water, a linen towel. On a wooden tray - soap: dark, coarse, with the scent of ash. And a bundle of mint.
Not for beauty. For spirit. For strength.
Alexander washed not like a sick man - like one who is reassembling his face. Water flowed down his palms, his temples, his neck. Washed off the night. Restored the boundary between body and world.
When Igor brought the twig - Alexander took it like a weapon. Chewed the end. Rubbed his teeth, his gums.
Igor did not leave immediately. Paused for half a step. Watched how the prince chewed the stick - as if not for taste, but for something important. Ritual.
He did not know why. Did not know what it gave. Only sensed how the prince's face became different. Cleaner. More focused. Not brighter - harder.
- He's cleansing? Why? - flashed through Igor, but the question remained unanswered. And no answer was needed.
If one who has survived death chews a twig - then it is not just a stick. It is - part of strength.
He only nodded to himself. Not as in understood. As in accepted.
If the Prince does such a thing - then not everything that lives is in the flesh.
When finished, Alexander felt: the bitterness was gone. What remained was cleanliness - rough, but his own.
He rinsed his mouth with sage infusion. Spat. Ran his hand over his face.
Alive. For now - alive.
At that moment Miroslav and Svyatomir entered. They did not greet. Did not wait for a gesture.
Miroslav stepped closer. Did not examine - read.
Alexander silently unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it from his shoulders. Beneath the fabric - bandages. Darkened. Soaked with the night. Miroslav removed the top layer. Inspected. Ointment. Herbs. A tight dressing. His hands - precise, like those of a master.
- No inflammation. But the stitches pull unnaturally. Too quickly. As if the body is trying to outrun its fate
Svyatomir was silent. His gaze - into the scar. Not like into flesh. Like into a sign.
After a couple of minutes they left. Without words. Because everything had already been said by the body.
And immediately - food.
Igor entered with a tray.
Porridge in water. Flatbread. Warm infusion of mint herbs. A handful of dried berries.
Everything - strict. Everything - by strength.
Not for taste. For function.
He placed the food on the table - and involuntarily lingered.
- No meat. No fish. Not even kvass
He had heard - it was the fast. But the prince was wounded. He could have...
Igor looked at the food, then - at Alexander.
- Maybe he does need more. But he takes - only by the law. Even his table - is under oath
Alexander ate not like a man. Like a blacksmith working the bellows.
Inhale - spoon. Exhale - infusion.
So as not to extinguish.
When he raised the cup, his hand trembled treacherously - not from pain, but as if the past had caught up with it. A moment - and it was not porridge in his hands, but blood on snow. Not he holding - he being held by that memory.
In that instant, a foreign face flashed - a brother, walking away in the snow, blood on his lips, a gaze that never became an answer.
Alexander nearly unclenched his fingers, but gripped the cup tighter: no time to bury - now is time to live.
He continued to eat.
He did not wait for pain. He waited for the signal. That he was still alive.
- Alive - means needed
Even if for now - only as a frame.
This was not breakfast. This was the tuning of a weapon.
He was entering the day - like a battle. Where even water and ash - are part of the armor. And each breath - a step into the unknown, which does not forgive.
After the meal Alexander did not rise at once.
He returned once more to the books and charters brought the day before - not to reread, but to read through. As one does not finish food - but meaning.
He was not gathering information. He was gathering an image of the world. As it is. As it will become, if left uncorrected.
The scrolls rustled like underbrush beneath the boots of a scout. The birchbark stretched under his fingers like the thin skin of an old warrior. Somewhere - a tally of taxes. Somewhere - a list of rivers where fishing is forbidden in autumn. Somewhere - a charter in which the prince calls himself "not the ruler, but the keeper of peace."
He read to the end. To the black thread tied round the scroll. Retied it anew.
Inside - as if for a moment something swayed. Not pain. Not fear. Something like:
- And what if it's not enough?
He did not answer.
He simply stood.
- Time
He changed clothes - without even glancing at the bronze disc lying by the wall.
That reflection would have given nothing. Neither face, nor essence.
He knew who he was.
But still - he looked.
Out of the corner of his eye. Like a scout in the fog.
Not to see. To verify.
For a moment the thought flashed:
- And what if it's not me in there?
From the murky metal did not look a prince.
Looked the one who had survived.
The cheek - rougher than in memory. The eyes - quieter, but deeper. The line of the neck - as if pulling not the head, but the will.
He did not recognize himself. And did not turn away.
He simply exhaled. Slowly. As if it was not to understand - but to endure.
And accepted.
Because now - it was not he in the body, but the body in him.
He walked to the door - and without opening it, said:
- Mstislav. The scrolls and books. Everything taken yesterday. Return them
A click. A shadow. A moment.
Mirnomir opened. Mstislav stepped inside. Behind them - Igor.
They entered - as into a sanctuary of duty. Without words. Without hesitation.
Alexander did not look - he read.
Mstislav: support, shaped by time. Requires no words. Breaks in silence. And if he breaks - cannot be mended.
Mirnomir: a drawn bow. While the aim is clear - faithful. But if there is pause - may fire on his own. Not from malice. By nature.
Igor - like a sprout in stone. Thin. Still bends. But roots are already seeking a path. In him - not strength. Vector. He must not be pushed. Only guided. Otherwise - he will crack. And remember.
Mstislav paused his gaze at the table. Briefly. Like a check. Like a mark: all is in place.
Igor - froze. His eyes slid over the scrolls. Over the charters. Over the cartographs.
All that was meant to stretch over days - lay in order. Tied. Read.
He could not help himself:
- All?.. - and at once fell silent.
Not from rebuke. From a glance.
Alexander did not reply. Only inclined his head slightly - like a farewell to what had already been absorbed.
Igor stepped forward. Took the scrolls from the edge of the table. Not one by one - all at once.
Almost as if he were carrying bodies.
His fingers trembled. He shifted the load. Not from weakness - from precision. As if wishing to show he could carry no less.
Mstislav lifted one charter - and adjusted the twine. Not from pedantry. From respect for the matter.
Mirnomir took the scroll with the map - and held it like a shield. As if sensing: protection is needed not for the prince. For the future.
Alexander cast a glance at the table - empty. All taken.
He nodded. Once. Without words.
Like a lock clicking inside - and all set in motion.
They descended together.
Down the stairs. Slowly. Without ceremony.
But each step - like a marker. Like a pulse.
Not through the gallery.
Through the main entrance of the terem - into the depths of the princely courtyard.
Because the day was beginning not inside. Outside.
And one had to walk not around - into the essence.
Alexander stepped out.
He did not leave the terem - he cleaved the morning, like with a blade.
Behind him - Mstislav, Mirnomir. At his side - Igor, carrying the scrolls. Everything was in place, everything - as it should be. But the prince's stride - was not.
He walked not like one returned. But like a spring that had returned - not to its place, but to action.
And the princely courtyard felt it.
Not with sight - with pulse.
Silence did not come. It changed.
The air - cool, direct, like a coin-stamp. It smelled of earth, pine needles, incense.
The dogs did not bark. They recognized. And stilled.
By the barn - a otrok, hauling sacks, straightened up. By the chapel - the priest adjusted his cross. At the kennels - the gate banged, someone inside stopped for half a breath.
As if the heart of the courtyard had missed a beat. A moment - and the yard froze, like a heart forgetting whether to keep beating.
The prince did not walk fast. But each step echoed like a blow to the foundation.
The princely courtyard was not merely an inner space. It was a citadel within the citadel. A core where the city's blood coiled into resolve.
The gate - narrow. The guard post - near. The gridni did not guard, but assessed. Not with eyes - with silence. With mood.
The palisade did not protect - it exposed. Drew the yard tight, like skin around the body of power. And the gridni themselves stood like signs.
If someone stepped without a call - blood would not be a metaphor, but a consequence.
Because Rus' was no longer lost to enemies. But because the knife lay hidden in the fold of celebration.
He passed the service yard, the chapel, the pen. The dogs did not stir. They watched. Not like animals. Like participants.
They stepped aside not for the prince - for the movement that cannot be stopped.
Otroks, scribes, kennelmen, servants - all acted, but differently. Without bustle. With precision. Because they knew: six days remained. Until the name. Until the crown. Until the inevitable.
Banners were being sewn. Charters rewritten. Statutes reviewed. Someone cleaned swords. Someone - conscience.
He did not pass through - he drew a line. Not the prince - the center of gravity. The axis upon which the day would stand.
The gridni at the gate did not bow - they nodded. Slightly. Like warriors - not to the prince, but to the sign.
Beyond the gates - the square.
Before Sophia - an open space. The center of the citadel. Here - the weight of the city. And the voice of power.
That morning there were not merely people. Boyars. Elders. Servants. Priests. Clerics. Envoys. Watchmen. Builders, preparing the steps for the rite.
All - on their business. But when they saw him - the day stopped.
Because he was not supposed to be walking. Not like this. Not after that.
He led no retinue. He bore no banner. He held no sword.
He walked - and each step said: he had already risen. Which meant - all would have to rise.
No one knew what had happened that night. Who saved. How he survived. But everyone knew: this was not supposed to be.
And therefore what now walked - was not merely the prince. It was no longer flesh. It was a challenge.
A legend that did not ask to be - but rose on its own.
- He's coming, - someone whispered.
- Already? - another replied.
- Without a cane? - a third asked.
- After such wounds… - a fourth began. But did not finish.
Because all fell silent.
Alexander walked straight. But at one moment - the rhythm faltered slightly. One step - sharper than needed. Not pain. A warning. The body let him know: you are not made of iron.
He did not look around. But he knew: each gaze - like a hammer to the anvil. Not hatred. Not awe. A test.
And as he walked - no one spoke aloud. But in the minds of all, the same thought was already rising:
- If he walks - then there is still something to lean on
He approached the steps.
Stopped. Not from pain - from the need to look ahead.
At that moment even the birds seemed to hold their breath.
And suddenly - a step.
A man emerged from the crowd.
A peasant - broad-shouldered, dust on his face, a shirt torn at the side. He walked as if pushing himself.
The gridni tensed. One gripped his spear shaft. Mirnomir - stepped forward. But Alexander raised his hand.
- Let him
In the crowd - a dull murmur. As if something was awakening underground. No one cried out, but the breath gathered, like before a storm.
The man stopped three steps away. Looked up.
- They say… you got back up, - he breathed out. - And if you fall again? What then? Where do we go?
He did not threaten. He asked - for all.
Alexander looked straight. And his voice was not loud - precise.
- Then you will rise. Or the one beside you
He did not smile. He simply said it - like lead into a foundation.
The man nodded. Sharply. Deeply. And stepped back. Did not fall. Stood in the line.
The crowd did not disperse. But stilled. Quietly. Not from fear - from a new axis.
One step - and the sky seemed to shift.
A boy of about ten, with a stick in hand, stood at the edge of the staircase. Looked straight. Not down, not up. Into the eyes. As if he had understood something - before all the others. As if he wanted to ask - and didn't know in what language.
Alexander passed by. Did not quicken. Did not slow. Like a blade - between fabric and skin. Between the future and what would resist it.
- Hey, prince! - someone shouted, one of the young ones, not yet trained in silence.
The voice broke off. Not because it was silenced. Because it couldn't bear itself.
Alexander's shoulders flinched. Barely. Not from fear - from how sharp and painful a cry tears the fabric of silence.
Silence - is not emptiness. It is the first step to strength.
From the cornice, a sparrow burst upward. Alone. Sharply. As if it sensed: this step - was not just passage. It was a turning point.
He ascended the steps. The cathedral gates stood open.
Sophia did not call. But she waited.
And when he entered - there was no singing, no greeting.
Only the air changed. Dry. Cold. A faint scent of incense. The vaults seemed to descend. The walls - watched. The dome - did not rise, but held its breath, like silence ready to become an oath.
From the side nave - unhurried, but without pause - came Metropolitan Hilarion.
He did not rush to meet him. Did not wait like for a savior. He simply came. He had already been informed - by whisper, by running, by glance. A monk noticed on the square, a novice passed the word, the deacon nodded. Everything folded into one: the prince is coming. Not into the church - into the axis.
He bore no cross. Said no prayer.
He bore a pause.
Hilarion stopped not opposite - at an angle. As if unsure from what angle it was better to see him. No hostility. No closeness. Only a glittering cold of observation - as if they were checking not flesh, but a claim.
Beneath their feet - stone. Cool, clean, but not dead. Each movement echoed in the sole, as if the cathedral listened not with ears - but with its foundation.
- You are not limping, - he said.
The voice - not soft. It held no care. Only weight. Like in a question watched by the whole hall - but spoken by one.
- I didn't have time, - shortly.
- Why are you alive? - quieter.
Alexander looked into him. Not into the face. Into the depth.
- Because there was someone who decided I should breathe. Now - I do not ask. I act
Hilarion stepped back almost imperceptibly. Not with his body - with his eyes.
As if he had heard not an answer, but a threat. And for the first time - had not calculated how deep before him was a man, not a role.
A moment later he was composed again. But the crack remained.
- So, you came to break the old's neck?
- I came to keep it from rotting inside
Hilarion's eyes narrowed slightly.
- And do you know what rot is?
- I do. It doesn't smell at once. But later - it won't wash off
Another pause.
He stepped closer. Only now - a blessing. Not a word - a gaze.
But even in that gaze - no light. Recognition, carved in stone.
- Then go. If you begin - you will not retreat
- I have already begun
He took a step. And added - almost like a challenge:
- What's left is to understand: are you beside me, or behind the doors
Hilarion did not smile. But nodded - as if bowing not his head, but the burden of years.
- The library awaits, - he said. - But not all there is for you
Alexander knew Hilarion - by rumor, by glances over his father's shoulder, by how he stayed silent at feasts.
But now - for the first time saw him not beside, but opposite.
And understood: that gaze does not warm. It sorts.
- I'm not here for everything. Only for what is alive
He moved his hand. From the shadow came two monks. Lamps. The light - not for beauty. To see what is carried.
Alexander stepped forward.
Hilarion stayed behind. But whispered:
- Where you lay your road - others' steps have already passed. Not all have vanished
Alexander did not turn.
- I do not repeat them. I step over them
He stepped forward. The lamp light swayed. The monks - followed him.
Hilarion remained. Alone.
He looked at that back, walking away now, and he could no longer fit into it the boy who once ate in the refectory without wiping his hands.
That was not a boy.
That was a reminder that God does not always speak through voice. Sometimes - through step.
He wanted to cross himself - but could not. His hand remained on his chest. Held.
In his throat - a stifled rasp.
He covered his mouth with his palm. Blood - on his fingers. Dark. Old. Drawn from deeper than illness.
- Lord, - he rasped, palm to lips, blood on fingers, - if he is truly yours...
He faltered. Not from coughing. From fear to say the word "chosen" aloud.
- ...then...
He looked at himself. At his palm. At the stone beneath his feet. At all that had been strength - and had become weight.
- ...then let me not die, blind
The dome trembled not from wind. From something he himself had not yet understood.
Sophia had not called.
But now - she watched.
Alexander stepped beyond the altar - not like a pilgrim. Like an axis, around which must gather all that still holds.
And the sky did not open.
But neither did it turn away.
Monks and Gridni walked beside him, the lamps swayed, casting shadows - not behind, but to the sides. As if the cathedral itself wanted to know: where will this path go.
They passed the nave, crossed the narthex, came out to the passage where another space began.
He did not enter at once.
On the threshold - a falter, almost imperceptible. Not a step. A calibration.
As if the cathedral itself was asking:
- Are you certain?
Alexander was. But for a moment - paused. Not from doubt. From respect.
The air smelled of parchment, burnt ash-grey, and something not written down - only kept. Like a voice that once sounded - and remained in stone.
The library was quieter than yesterday.
As if, knowing who was coming, it ceased to pretend to be itself. Became itself.
Knowledge. Word. Power.
Alexander entered. And the air there was no longer air.
It was decision.
At once the chief keeper approached - the same one who had met Alexander the day before. The face - the same. The gaze - slightly deeper. It held not greeting or respect. It held caution.
He noticed the scrolls in the hands of the Gridni. Bowed his head.
- Good morning, prince. You returned more than I expected. That speaks of… - he stopped. - Of seriousness. And gratitude
- I did not give thanks, - Alexander cut him off. - I read. Today - different. Maps. All you have
The monk froze for a moment. His eyelids twitched. His lips parted - not from fear, from knowledge that had too long gone unspoken.
- Forgive me… - he began carefully. - All the maps were… taken apart. By your brothers. Some were carried away. Some burned. Some vanished in the unrest. We do not know where they are now
He fell silent. But his eyes revealed more: the best one - the one compiled under the senior prince - went with Vsevolod. To Pereyaslavl. Or farther, into the steppe. They say it ended up on a foreign table. With those who now draw borders in their own way.
Alexander did not answer at once. His gaze narrowed slightly, but his face remained calm. Only inside - it was as if a mechanism turned.
- Then we'll assemble it anew, - he said. - Bring parchment. Ink. All records of lands, borders, routes. Everything - without selection
The keeper nodded. Respectfully. And disappeared.
Alexander sat at a table by a narrow window. The library - not part of the church, but not outside it either. A side annex, like memory, clinging to the body. A stone wing where prayers turned into directives.
Light slid across the parchment, the floor, his fingers. Below, down the slope - the yard. There, someone cursed, someone carried water, someone laid wreaths at the church. And all of it was near. But not here.
Here - they gathered not salvation. Meanings.
The monk returned. On a tray - parchment. Ink. Scrolls. Lists. Fragments. Everything - like after a battle. Not order. Remnants.
One scroll, unrolled at the edge, bore a signature. Vsevolod.
The handwriting - rough, brittle, as if scratched with a knife on birchbark. Alexander knew that style: his father had kept letters written with that same stylus.
A moment - and his fingers pricked. Not pain. Recognition.
He did not recoil. Simply folded the sheet - and moved to the next.
He began with the river.
The Dnieper - the spine. Straight, like duty. Tributaries - not for beauty, but like veins not yet all traced.
Kyiv. Chernigov. Pereyaslavl. Beyond - in fragments. The southern steppes - almost blind. Novgorod - in brackets. Polotsk - with a caveat.
At the word "Polotsk" his pen faltered. The line - like a broken wing. He froze.
Inhale - steady. Exhale - longer.
There was his cousin Vseslav Bryachislavich. There was a choice. He crossed it out, redrew - stricter, sharper. Not from resentment. From necessity.
Byzantium - by rumor. The word - older than the road.
He did not draw. He assembled. Like a carpenter working in the dark - not for beauty, but so that one may pass.
Strokes - forests. Dots - crossings. Names - like reminders. Not to others. To himself.
At times - a pause. He read scrolls. Leafed. Compared. Discarded. Redrew again.
By noon the parchment was filled. It was not a map. It was a claim. A framework.
He laid down the pen. Stood. Looked.
To the eye - just parchment. But in it: a river. A flow. Power. The beginning of everything.
The keeper had stood in the shadows all this time. Silent. But now stepped closer. Cautiously.
- Prince, - he said. - It looks… strong. But… - he pointed at the river. - There may be an error here. Waters shift. Lands too. You might need elders. Or those who walked those shores
Alexander rolled the parchment into a scroll.
- This is - the beginning. Not a plan. A form. We'll refine it. Later. For now - silence
The voice - not like a command. Like a blade's edge.
The monk did not answer at once. He stood - as if absorbing the words, not the sound.
Alexander rose. Looked not stern - deeper. The way one looks into something that may become a breakthrough. Or a betrayal.
- You saw nothing. And you know - what that means
Only then did the monk bow.
Not just as a sign of agreement. As a sign he understood the cost.
- All will remain here, prince. I swear before the Lord - not a word, not a line, not a name will leave this place
Alexander nodded. Slowly. Confirming - not alliance. Responsibility.
The keeper bowed lower still. No gaze. Only short, restrained breath.
Because before him stood not merely a man.
It was a choice that one does not look away from - even when closing the eyes.
If that sheet leaves this place - Rus' will flow down a foreign river.
And he - did not rise to watch that happen from the side.
Alexander stepped out of the library. The wind struck his cloak like a reminder: the day was not over. Under his arm - the map. Not a tool. A key. The future.
With each step - as if imprinting a new vow into the ground. Not to himself - to the essence. Not to the home - to the duty, which could no longer be taken off like a cloak.
In the chambers - an oak table, presses of hewn stone, light through the window.
The map lay down like the hide of a beast, turned inside out. He smoothed it with his palm. Borders, rivers, lines, like scars on the body of the land. He began with the south.
- The Ros River, - quietly. - Here - the spine. It cannot be broken
Outpost. Tower. Garrison. Not for repelling - for seeing. He knew: the attack comes not with a cry, but with a shadow.
His finger slid to the ford across the Dnieper.
- Breakpoint, - a breath. - If they strike here - Kyiv goes blind
The second fortress. Smaller. But higher. Observation. Signal connection. A detachment - not for battle, for time.
Along the Serpent's Ramparts - towers. Every three versts. If we cannot stop them - at least we can speak in time. Every minute - a life.
This is not a map - these are veins, pulsing beneath the skin of the land. Not ink - blood. Not lines - nerves, along which the order must pass, so that paralysis does not set in. If even one node breaks - all the rest will begin to die.
Where Pereyaslavl - an eye. Chernigov - a fist. And Kyiv - the heart, beating at the right moment.
Supplies - inside. Not at the border. The loss of a storehouse - not a failure. The funeral of the war.
He straightened.
- This is not defense. This is an attempt to hold one's breath
Pause. Thought. A flash.
- Without roads - defense is meaningless
He drew a line from Kyiv to Novgorod. Broken - like breath under fire. Merchants fear. Bandits fear nothing.
The solution - simple: patrols. Signal posts. Five men. Fire on the tower. Sound in the forest. The meaning - in reaction, not armor.
The river. The Dnieper. An artery. If it decays - the whole organism is dead.
- We clean it. Set up posts. Protect - and charge for it. But not as extortion. As a contract. Security - a commodity
He froze.
Kyiv.
Not just a city. A node. And a dull ache in the side of all Rus'.
- It grows. But not upward. Sideways. Like a disease
He knew: the streets were narrow. Filth - not a result. A symptom. People compressed. Markets - suffocating. Fairs drowning in crush.
- Squares. Space. Air - not a luxury. A space where one can still breathe
He made notes. One district. A model. A straight street. An open market. A post. Security - made visible. Let them envy. Let them ask for the same.
- Water, - he muttered. - Not only for drinking. For cleansing
Ponds. Ditches. Sewage - even if primitive. If the filth leaves - the sickness leaves too. Not at once. But people will remember where it began.
Gaze - farther. Fields. Peasants. Food.
- The harvest - everything. Without it - walls are hollow
Four-field system. He knew. He had seen it. He had been where it already worked. And knew that one convinces only by example.
- One plot. On my land. One cycle. One result. Then - the rest
He wrote it down. Dryly. Without pomp.
- Grains. Legumes. Root crops. Fallow
If it works - it will hold.
When he made a mark on the plot of land near his estate - he grimaced sharply. His hand trembled.
The scar on his side flared, as if a knife ran along an old wound. Not new. Not fatal. Just a reminder: he himself had not yet healed, and already was building life.
The pen went deeper. As if pressed - on what had not yet healed. Not protest.
Signature.
He set the pen aside.
Before him - not yet a plan. Sketches. But in each - logic. Not power. Responsibility.
The pain - not sharp. Background. Like a sound that cannot be shut off. But he did not turn away. Did not complain. He kept his eyes on the map.
- Time is there, - he said. - But not for rest. For battle
Alexander sat over the map. The pen drew new lines, crumbs of bread spilled to the edge of the table, kvass in the mug - warm, like the remnants of a past conversation. He did not eat. He laid out.
At the door - a knock.
- Prince. Captain Stanislav, - Mstislav's voice.
- Let him in, - shortly.
The door flew open. Stanislav entered. His height, shoulders, stride - as if not a figure entered the room, but a support. No fuss. No bows. Just a nod - short, precise. Like in formation.
- How do you feel? - he said, not with an embracing gaze, but piercing. - They say you left the library too quickly
- I found what I was looking for, - without turning, Alexander pointed with his pen at the map. - Look. What do you see?
Stanislav stepped closer. Leaned in. His eyes quickly traced fortifications, rivers, supply nodes. He was silent, like a judge before a verdict.
- This is you?
- This - is Rus', if we make it in time. Outposts along the Ros. Fortress at the ford. Towers along the rampart. Detachments - not for battle. For time
Stanislav ran a finger along the southern line.
- And supply?
- From Chernigov and Pereyaslavl. Center - Kyiv. Small garrisons. Fast transfers. Logic - like blood: it must flow. Without interruption
Stanislav nodded. Slowly. Like a weight laid on the shoulders, but a familiar one.
- And the roads?
- Posts. Five men. Signals. So merchants don't pray - they pay. For reliability. For order
- Ambitious, - Stanislav exhaled. - And Kyiv?
Alexander stabbed the pen into the center of the map.
- The city is ill. Narrow streets, filth, suffocating fairs. We'll pull trade outward. Space. Posts. Squares. One district - exemplary. Let them envy
Stanislav didn't smile. But in his voice appeared a rough warmth:
- You already speak like one who does not ask
He looked at the map like a battlefield. There was no pomp. Only calculation. And risk.
Stanislav was silent. But in that silence - not agreement.
- I've seen all this before, - he said quietly. - Other princes. Other visions. And each time something broke: either the road ran out, or a boyar sought profit, or the rain washed away all labor. They always started right. And it always ended - the old way
He looked at Alexander.
A moment.
His eyes searched for the boy. The one who not long ago laughed louder than his thoughts. But the gaze passed by - and remained on the emptiness.
The boy was gone. Someone else remained.
In that gaze there was no weakness. There was worry. Not for the plan. For the one who held it.
- I'll support, - he exhaled. As one exhales knowing it may be both painful and too late. - But you understand, prince: this is war. Not with the enemy. With laziness. With the boyars. With memory
Alexander did not answer. He drew another line.
- In the morning - a council. Without name. Without banners. Let them think morning is like yesterday. And when I rise - it will be too late to think
Stanislav looked at him - and saw not a youth. Saw a cold fire.
- Understood, - he simply said. - The council will be
He bowed - a little deeper than usual. Because in this room now was not merely a prince.
Alexander remained alone.
He did not rise. Only his gaze - along the line of the river. Along the supply points. Along the streets of Kyiv.
Silence thickened - not like quiet, but like an expectation, in which even the air did not know whether to breathe.
Stanislav was already at the door. His hand rested on the frame. His shoulders tense - not from weariness, from something that could not be put into words.
He stopped.
Half-turned. Not to Alexander - to the thought.
As if he wanted to say something. Or ask. Or hold back.
But did not say.
And did not ask.
And did not hold back.
He simply left. Not fast. Not slow. Like one who had understood: the boy was no more. And the man sitting at that table could no longer be protected. Only acknowledged.
Alexander did not turn his head.
He heard the footsteps, like a shadow walking away.
One of those that used to stand beside him. Now - outside.
He remained.
With the map.
With the decision.
With a future that had not yet come, but was already breathing in his face.
- Tomorrow, - he exhaled. - All will rise. Not into place - Into the Hardness
And no shadow will return, unless he stands on his own.
And nearby, in the corridor - Igor.
He did not yet know that one day he himself would raise the cup with a trembling hand.
That one day he too would rise - not for the morning, but against it.
But right now, looking at the door behind which the prince remained,
He understood:
Not in glory.
Not in blood.
In the step -
when the light's gone.
And you still move.
***
Thank you to everyone who is reading,
This chapter is not about reform. Not about the map. Not about restoration.
It is about a man who has not yet stood - but has already begun to act.
About power that comes not from the crown, but from the readiness to bear the weight.
About a step that does not wait to be understood.
Alexander here is not a hero. And not a martyr. He is a vector.
He is not rebuilding Rus' from scratch. He is simply refusing to watch it fall apart.
Everyone around still hopes that "things can be as they were."
He - knows they cannot.
And acts.