Before the doors - silence. Like before an earthquake.
The servants stood not as greeters - as judgment. They didn't need fear. They were the fear in the silence.
Alexander stopped. Not for ritual. To remember - where the past ends.
Fingers - to the ring.
The metal didn't burn. It wasn't cold. It was a command.
A servant stepped forward - and froze. Not from fear. From the ancient. From something that had stood in the hall longer than the stone.
Alexander didn't nod. But the man stepped back. Sideways. To disappear. Not like a man. Like a shadow no one had summoned.
The doors didn't open - they withdrew. Like a beast that doesn't permit, only endures.
The first step - and the hall tightened. The stone stayed silent. But the air - compressed.
Spines straightened. The trace wasn't on the floor - it was in the people.
He walked through those who wished he wouldn't arrive.
Not to the throne. Through it. Through memory, where he was still a boy. Through eyes, where he was still unwanted.
Stanislav - behind him. An outgrowth of will. Not a guard. An axis.
Each step - like a chisel. The stone didn't crack - it responded.
Hand on the hilt - not threat. Signature.
- Today, everyone will show their face, - he said. Not loud. As if on behalf of the hall.
Mirnomir and Mstislav - not escort. Continuation.
Mirnomir - like a draft unnoticed until the flame flickers. Moved like a slipping glance. Sought not a target. A vulnerability.
Mstislav - the flesh of reliability. No sharpness. No postures. Hand at his belt - not a grip. A check.
If the prince moved - they'd strike. If he halted - they'd shield. If he fell - they'd rise first.
The hall - like water before the ice breaks. One boyar scratching his beard. Fingers in honey. Tired.
Another - watching a drop of wax. It falls. Silence - swallows it.
George overhead - spear down. He wasn't waiting for a strike. He believed.
Before the throne - Illarion. Standing like a fixed axis. The beads - not for count. For sentence.
His eyes didn't look. They pierced. He didn't see the prince. He saw the boy who once said:
- I don't cry. I swallow it back
Since then - he never asked. Only waited for when he'd have to again.
Alexander stepped closer. Inside - a tightening. Not fear. Meaning. Illarion's gaze - deeper than steel.
Behind - a monk flinched. The beads dropped. The crack - like a break.
No one moved. But the air - thinner. Slightly pierced. Like a premonition.
Alexander didn't turn.
- Someone's patience cracked, - he thought.
Then he stepped.
The throne didn't call. Didn't wait. It simply stood. Like a place left behind by someone else.
He sat.
The wood - warm. But not from light. From backs that had held power before him.
It wasn't the throne that burned. It was the habit of others.
He didn't sit. He fit. Like a wound - into a scar.
Back straightened. Hand - on the armrest.
The ring - into the skin. Not adornment. Anchor.
He didn't know if the throne held him. Or if he - held the throne.
Until it trembles.
He wanted to rise. To leave. To vanish.
Not from weakness. From how long he hadn't breathed.
In his chest - not pain. Glass.
In his throat - as if someone gripped the word from inside. And wouldn't let it out.
He knew: if he fell - they'd lift him.
Not for him. For the banner.
But still - it would be a fall.
He inhaled. Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He licked his lips.
Not weakness. The body.
He swallowed again. Tasteless. Soundless.
He raised his eyes. The word already sounded inside. But didn't rise.
A young boyar by the wall turned to his father. Lips quivered. He wanted to speak - but didn't.
Waited for a sign. Didn't get it.
No gaze asked for a speech.
But every gaze - waited.
Not for answer. For sentence.
Alexander rose.
- Fathers. Boyars. Those who held Rus' with sword and word. Today, here - Byzantium
The voice didn't ring. He held it. Like a rope above water where some had already fallen.
- They speak of alliance. Of brotherhood of realms
He didn't look at the guests. He looked into those who looked into him.
- But in Rus', alliance is chosen not by the guest. But by the one who holds the land. And answers for the word - if it turns into blood
No one moved. But someone shifted in their seat.
Too slowly - for it not to be fear.
Alexander felt his palm reach again for the ring. Too quickly.
He stopped.
Someone stood up.
Heavily. As if not out of respect - but duty.
He didn't look at the prince. And the prince - not at him.
In this hall, there is no gratitude.
They count - who stood. And who remained seated.
The others - didn't move. Someone shifted their gaze. Someone adjusted fur.
One - in the back row - leaned back. Sharply.
Then - as if caught himself. Nodded belatedly. Not to eyes. To air.
Nikolai.
The name surfaced later. Then - he was just a face. One among many.
He didn't step out. Didn't sit. Simply - couldn't bear it.
The rest were silent. But their eyes - searched for the next to tremble.
The words were forgotten.
But the look with which he lowered his eyes - remained. Like a stain not washed off by time.
And Nikodim saw it.
He did not move - he listened to how the hall flowed. How the pause fractured. How a gaze lifted - but not to him, past him.
He didn't rush. He watched who would remember - and who would merely survive it.
Then he stepped.
Not to the throne - to power. As if testing whether the stone would rise to meet his foot.
A bow - not a bow. The tilt of the neck - just enough not to fall. No more.
Fingers - at his belt. A phalanx twitched, like it remembered a blade. Reflex, not gesture.
He spoke - and the hall didn't hear words. Only a hoarse seam, as if someone unrolled parchment with too dry a hand.
- Your princedom... - slow, measured. Like steel slicing fabric. - Accept our condolences. The valor of your brothers was a light. Not only for Rus'. For all Christendom
The words - smooth. But in them - a creak. Byzantium doesn't bow. It bows above.
Alexander did not avert his gaze. The armrests beneath his fingers - not support. An anchor. The ring bit into the skin like a bone that never set right.
He didn't answer at once.
The hall - didn't breathe. As if breath was rationed.
- Rus' remembers the fallen, - he said at last. - But mourning is not our stop. We stand. As commanded
The voice - with no grain of power. But with sediment. It didn't resound - it held.
- The honored delegation knows: here we value deeds. Not words
It wasn't a statement. It was a flat strike. Not to the face. To the emblem on the chest.
Eyes shifted. Not heads. Boyars don't nod. They count stakes.
One coughed. Another gripped his fur. One froze - not in fear, in unexpected agreement.
Nikodim didn't flinch. But his chin lifted half a degree. As if recalculating - and unsure where the error crept in.
- Young. But he doesn't plead - he snaps, - he thought. - No need in him. Only calculation. Or despair
- Your words are strong, - he replied. The voice - nearly gentle. But in it - something glossy. Like silk stretched over a blade.
- We bring gifts. But the heart - is not gold. It is alliance. Is it not so, gentlemen?
Two in gray chitons stepped forward. One adjusted the golden loop on his shoulder. Not for order - for emphasis. That's what the confident do.
The chests dropped onto stone. One - dull. The other - as if asking forgiveness.
- Heavy, - muttered Oleg Vyshgorodsky. Quietly.
- Or they think we'll bend, - snapped Rurik.
A boyar half-rose - sharply, like struck. His eyes - not on the gold. On Nikodim.
- So they've decided to pay for the dead, - he threw. Not loud. But in the hall - the air trembled.
A servant near the chest stumbled. A scrape. Slight. But in the hall - like a hammer to a clasp.
Stanislav didn't move. Only looked. Steady. At the spot between the brows. Where will ends.
The boyar sat. Reluctantly. As if the mouth had leapt ahead and the mind lagged behind.
Nikodim didn't answer. Not with words. Not with glance. But his face - tense, like a chain pulled tight in his spine.
He heard. But let it pass. Deliberately. Because he saw: the prince - silent, and Stanislav - held.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Like over coals. Showing no pain.
- These gifts - are not mere generosity. They are a gesture. Of faith. Or - its image
He motioned with his hand. Palm - not fully open. As if it bore weight.
- Let them speak. Not us
The hall did not stir. But inside - a tremor. Not of fear. Of memory.
The hall knew these chests. Knew how after such "gifts" - principalities vanished. Or families.
Eyes - on Alexander. Not a gaze. Pressure.
He - didn't move.
The servants stepped in. Not like porters - like priests.
Step - not step. A ritual. As if each footprint - a line on the parchment of fate.
One chest opened. Slowly. The creak - not from metal. From age. From meaning.
The scent - not incense. Resin. Ash. The fabric of centuries. As if a tomb opened - not with a corpse, but with decision.
Inside - vessels, pearls, anenkolpion. Cross-shaped. But not a cross.
The carving - elaborate. No prayer. Only an inscription:
"He who bows - shall be saved"
Alexander didn't look at the gold. He looked at the shadow in it.
- This is not a gift, - he said. - This is a targeted gesture
The words - not attack. A reading. As if he'd seen what was between the lines.
Nikodim hadn't expected that. His eyelids trembled.
In the chest - a micro-pause. As if the heart didn't flinch - it thought.
The breath - didn't come at once. It came. But like a creak.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
He tried to speak. Opened his mouth. But what came - was silence.
For half a beat. But the hall - noticed.
Too many eyes. Too many waiting for a slip.
- This is not... - he began. And the voice caught.
Almost a crack. Almost a break. He swallowed. Composed. - ...not payment. This is - reflection
He didn't love them. But now - used them. Like venom.
- A mirror, - he said. With the stress on the first syllable. As if defining his own version.
Illarion didn't raise his head. But answered. Calmly. As if burning.
- Gold blinds only those who've never looked into the light
Ignat stepped forward. Not to speak - to be. But the phrase escaped anyway:
- This is not a gift. This is a pretext. Wrapped in silk
A torch nearby cracked. Wax dropped - struck the stone. A servant flinched. As if scalded.
At the far edge of the hall, one Byzantine leaned to another. Whispered. In Greek. Too quiet for most - but not for those who understood:
- Ὁ παῖς νομίζει ὅτι ἐίναι λέων (The boy thinks he is a lion)
Nikodim heard. But didn't reply. Didn't twitch. Only a squint - a half-beat. He knew who spoke. And when he replied - no one would hear the words. But all would know the price.
He opened his hands again. No pomp. Fingers - open. Empty.
- Gold does not threaten, - he said. - It gives. The only question is - what you do with it
- A mirror, - he repeated. Quieter. But with pressure. - Whoever accepts - sees who they are. Whoever refuses - as well
He stepped closer. Not invasive. But beside. Like a test.
Alexander closed his eyes. Only on the inhale.
What broke from the chest - wasn't voice. Thought.
- If I accept - it's a chain. If I reject - it's a blade
Inside - silence. As if memory refused to breathe.
He remembered.
His father had stood then - by the window. Silent. Then spoke. No anger. No hope.
- If a gift requires you to bow - it's not a gift. It's a way to measure you
He opened his eyes.
Calm. As if he already knew.
He rose. And the air in the hall rippled. Not from fear. From the break in pattern.
But inside - something twitched. As if it wasn't the prince who rose. But the boy who once didn't make it in time.
He didn't know - whether this was the step of a ruler, or the mistake of an orphan too long silent.
He stepped to the chest.
- We accept, - he said. - In memory. Not submission
He didn't look at Nikodim. He spoke to the hall. So witnesses would remain.
- If blood flows - this gift will remember us. Not we - it
His hand rested on the enkolpion. Fingers - like they closed an eye.
- Let it know to whom it returns, if this is no alliance, but a noose
Yaroslav Lebedinsky raised his head. Trying to decide: victory? Or trap?
But Alexander's gaze - offered no answer. Only weight: now you are in this, whether you wish to be or not.
Behind - a rustle. A servant closed the chest. Slowly. Without sound.
But as if placing a period. Not in speech. In balance.
From the corridor - footsteps. Light. Fast.
The messenger - froze. Spoke no word. But the hall already knew:
What had happened here - was already leaving.
And in the chronicle, this would not be "a speech." But:
The prince rose - and did not bow.
The period did not sound.
But the air clenched the chest.
A phrase hung between the ribs: It is now too late to return.
One of the boyars glanced at Nikodim. Quickly. Then looked away.
The pause didn't linger. It pressed.
Nikodim didn't move. Not a brow, not a finger. But his eyelids - briefly - closed. As if not light, but fury was the burden. Contained. Deep. With no exit.
He knew: he hadn't lost the throne. He'd lost the rhythm.
The hall felt it. Not as judgment. As a scent - the one that comes before fire.
A Byzantine stepped forward. Meant to speak. But Nikodim moved his hand. Just his hand. And the step faltered.
Now, even movement had become politics.
Alexander looked at them. Not sharply. Not from above.
The way one looks at those with whom he'll either live - or fall.
He moved toward the throne. Not to sit. To become.
He sat - not at once. The stone accepted not the body. The mass. The shift.
And in the hall - no outcry. Silence. Like snow falling on a forged helm.
The eyes of the boyars didn't seek approval. They found Yaroslav's son. Not a boy.
Stanislav stepped forward. Without sign. Without sound. As if the floor beneath him decided - enough.
- The gifts are generous, - he said. Thinly. Like a blade drawn along the inner skin. - But generosity is often not a gift. It's a ransom
Not an accusation. Not an argument. A pronouncement - the way a healer whispers a verdict, knowing the sick will hear.
- Sometimes you pay not in coin. But in shadow cast over a city. Or in the thing before which heads are bowed
The Byzantines didn't flinch. But near a column - someone stepped back. A shadow traced the wall - like something retreating that doesn't know how.
Nikodim was still. Nearly a statue. But not marble - plaster. One where an inner crack has begun.
His chin - a shade lower. As if Alexander's words had pulled it down. A moment - and he straightened again. But too evenly. As if the symmetry cost him.
Vladislav Lebedinsky shifted a shoulder. Looked at his palm, as if something clung to it.
- I kept wondering what the stench was. Now I know. It's not a gift. It's a bone tossed - with a bag in the other hand
Nikodim turned his head. Not sharply. But in the turn - something trembled too deep. As if he didn't turn - he was turned.
In the far row - a smirk. Not voice. A stare. Ivan Kornilovich didn't look away. He wasn't waiting. He was weighing. Like a butcher eyeing a bull - will it be worth the weight?
- Lord Stanislav, - the voice polite, like a knife through lard. Slippery. But it cuts. - Generosity is a bridge. You don't hang on it. You cross. Together
Nikodim stepped forward. Quiet. But in the hall - it was like a string snapped.
- The Empire doesn't demand. It selects. And those who answer in kind - win
The words - smooth. Too smooth.
Miroslav smiled. Silently. Like at a clerk who didn't understand: a hall isn't a report. It's a pack.
Nikodim adjusted his chiton. Lightly. But his fingers trembled. He clenched them. Too sharply. A nearby servant froze. Then stepped back. Almost in fear.
- Unity? - Miroslav's voice was lazy. Like a knife that no longer shaves - just scrapes. - It's not in gold. It's when neither side has blood on their hands
He didn't speak to the hall. He spoke to the space between Nikodim and Stanislav.
- This is not alliance. This is a contract - where the pen is yours, and the blood beneath it - ours
The voice was soft. But it moved along the neck like a rope someone had only just begun to pull.
Andrei Borichevsky rose slightly.
- Maybe it's not all so...
He fell silent. Not from fear. From the words slipping away - like water under a door.
Nikodim again - politely. Too politely.
- The Empire offers a shoulder. Not a yoke. A shield, if you will
The phrase was constructed. But the voice - half a tone too high. And everyone noticed.
- The Empire opens a path... - he began.
- Too many open paths lead to pits, - Oleg Vyshgorodsky threw in. Quiet. But in silence - it struck like a blow.
Nikodim froze. Instantly. Then continued. But not with the same pace. Not the same weight.
He skimmed the faces. Not measuring. Testing. But this time - no one nodded. No one blinked.
Silence - not support. Sentence.
He stood - like an icon in an old church. Still whole. But a crack had run through the gold.
And in that exact moment - the air should have frozen.
But didn't have time.
Sofia looked at the hall. At her uncle. At the altar where speeches died. Inside - not resolve. Something sharper. The place where fear meets necessity.
- If I don't stand now - they'll lead me out in white. As a trophy. Not a player,- she thought.
Next to her - Clio. Felt it before words. Reached for her fingers - but couldn't hold. Sofia stepped forward. Like an anchor stayed in water, and the ship - had already left.
When she moved ahead - the hall didn't flinch. It started counting.
A boyar glanced at Illarion. He didn't blink. Gavriil froze. Not from fear. He was recalculating: where's the new center of the table. And whose hand is closer to it.
Sofia walked as into a circle. Not as one invited. As an intrusion.
- Prince, - the voice - like steel woven into silk. Smooth. But holding.
- An alliance is no garland. It bears weight. If it cracks - it won't drop just one
Miroslav turned slightly. Not to her. To the hall. Gauging who would receive.
- Standing hurts. But falling costs more, - she added.
No tremor. No strike. Only a phrase that drew Yaroslav's gaze toward Miroslav.
Vladislav frowned. Gavriil crossed out "prince" and wrote "delegation." Then erased it. The line remained blank. The text - surrendered.
Nikodim turned. His face - like ice over boiling water. In his eyes - not anger. Thought. She entered not as a guest. As an error. One that can't be subtracted.
He didn't resist.
He allowed.
Because he was calculating.
And the hall - didn't believe it.
Not the words. The fact they were spoken.
Here, only elders spoke. Here, silence was law. Especially for those raised in courts where rank outweighed pain.
In Byzantium, such things weren't encouraged. For such things - they excommunicated.
But she spoke.
And the hall - didn't know what to do with it.
Alexander didn't move. But the weight of his body shifted slightly forward. As if it wasn't he - but the stage that sloped.
He didn't look at her as a young girl.
He saw: someone had crossed the line. And didn't burn.
And now - the entire hall held its breath not from fear.
From the fact that it was possible.
He didn't approve. But he remembered.
Because now - the stakes had changed.
And just then - the Senior Boyar, Mikhail Podolsky, stirred.
Until then - unmoving. A rock. An elder. A shadow of strength.
But now - he leaned forward. Heavily.
As if something heavy in his chest said: enough.
- Rus is vast, yet its voice comes from a Byzantine child? - he said.
Softly. But like stone.
- Or is the word now given to those whose lips still taste of milk?
Someone in the hall - didn't exhale. Froze.
Stanislav didn't reply. Just shifted his stance. Slightly. As if the shield lowered - not for defense. For choosing a target.
Dobrynya didn't look at Podolsky. But the corner of his mouth moved. Like someone watching an old wolf test his fangs.
Someone watched - not her face. Her wrist. As if searching: is there a blade?
Nikodim turned his head. Slowly. With delay. As if he wasn't hearing words - but the crack behind them.
- Old men fast from habit, - he said. - And sometimes - because they fear what fills their cup is no longer blood, but vinegar
He didn't smile. But the air - dried.
Sofia didn't speak. Just leaned slightly forward. As if listening. Or - bracing.
Podolsky - leaned forward again.
- If these are the words from your delegation, Lord Nikodim, then perhaps you now hand out crosses to children?
In the hall - a crack. Not sound. Tension.
Nikodim held the pause. Not short. The right one.
- Children don't take the word. They are allowed, - he said. - But if the prince rises - it means he sees in her words not insolence. But opportunity
He turned his gaze. Not to Sofia. To Alexander.
He passed the weight. Not like a shield - like a seam. Between two fabrics.
Sofia didn't flinch. As if something inside her had settled - older than her age, quieter than her fear.
One of the younger boyars - exchanged glances. Faces - half-words.
The elders - stayed silent. Not from fear. From calculation.
Everything now came down to one thing: would he rise?
The hall knew: this was not support. This was a choice.
Podolsky leaned back. Not agreeing. But silent. As if saying: the game has begun, but not by my rules.
But before anyone could finish the thought - Alexander stood.
And the hall creaked. Not wood. Expectation.
Not fast. Not slow. Like someone who doesn't wait for applause - only silence, to close the scene.
He didn't look at Sofia. Nor at Nikodim.
He looked - forward. As if he'd already walked that way.
- We don't value brilliance. We value action, - his voice wasn't a blade. It was granite.
- The conversation - continues. But where actions speak. In the chamber of negotiations
Some boyars didn't rise. But their heads - lowered. Not from obedience. From understanding: there was no other way now.
Ignat - nodded. Miroslav - a step. Oleg - shoulders tightened. Sofia - didn't flinch. Alexander - walked.
Nikodim - followed. A nod - deeper than protocol. A shoulder shift - not fear. Course correction.
But the shadow on his cheek betrayed it - not everything was under control.
Alexander's steps - not sound. Imprint. On stone. In shadow. In chronicle.
He didn't know what would burn first - the step or the name. But there was no choice.
With him walked: Miroslav - wisdom. Ignat - will. Stanislav - weight. Illarion - calm. Oleg - the question. Yaroslav - the stronghold.
The Byzantines - followed. Not as a shadow. As a train. Like smoke looking for a spark.
Nikodim - first. But not leading. He no longer led. He watched.
Leo Komnenos - beside him. Threw a glance at Sofia. Brief. Like at a flame no one planned for - but now, they'd have to warm their hands.
Agaphius Scholasticus - behind. Face - smooth. But the eyes - surprised. Didn't expect this. But if the Magister is silent - then so it must be.
Sofia - last. Her step - not a step. A challenge. The fire had started. And she - was inside.
What held her back was not the throne. The choice.
Somewhere beyond the wall - barking. One. Then another.
Dogs don't know what's happening.
But they know - when another power enters the city.
The doors closed.
Not silence. Cooling.
Olga Strumenskaya - stayed. Stared at where Sofia had stood. Where the air had held her voice.
Senior Boyar Gavriil - the quill. The ink crossed out: "delegation." Wrote: "transition." Then - erased. Left blank.
The line - as if afraid to be wrong. Even the chronicle - didn't dare.
A servant by the column - slipped out. Not with eyes. With feet. To avoid being in the room - where the world was changing.
Olga - didn't sigh. But her fingers - the ring. One turn.
- She is a board
And a board - isn't struck.
It's cut.
And on that rip - they build their own.
The future is not built on stone.
But on the crack.
And they hope - it holds.