The goblet fell. Dull. No chime.
As if not yet a sentence - but already a slab.
Someone moved. Wrong. The wrong way. And everyone - heard it. Without sound.
Dobrynya the Ognischanin didn't rise. He was. Simply loomed. Like a tree in storm.
- When one flinches - the wolves rise. Not afraid. They'll feast
The cane - in hand. A wolf's head - black. Not metal. A mark.
Olga Strumenskaya - in motion. But not walking. As if the hall just noticed: she's already here.
- From the gut, - she threw. - Wolves don't flank. They strike the heart
The Otrok stepped back. But didn't escape. His shoulders shook. Not fear. Something worse. Realization.
The hall didn't whisper. It watched. As if it had eyes.
The torch - swayed. But not from wind.
And then someone inhaled. Not breathed - inhaled too loud.
- Some hold. Some throw, - said Elder Boyar Vasiliy Svyatopolkovich. Smooth. But metal - in every word.
Dobrynya didn't nod. But the scar on his finger - whitened.
- Throwing a goblet - easy. Try - a word
The Otrok's fingers trembled. The goblet - still on the floor. No one picked it up. As if it had turned sacred. Or cursed.
From the hall - a rustle.
Not a cloak. A breath. Someone realized - it's too late.
- They stand. Silent. Counting who'll be thrown first, - said Olga. - Don't fear. Wolves don't howl - once they bite
Silence fell like a heavy blanket. No longer with expectation. Only weight.
And into that weight - a strike. Dull. Rhythmic.
Not clear at first, from where. Then - a finger. Sliding over a pommel. Not a knock. Pressure.
Elder Boyar Gleb Turovsky.
He didn't look at the gifts. He looked at those who still hadn't realized: the gifts had long been watching them.
- A gift's no mercy, - he rasped. - It's a hook. The question's not why it's given. But what they'll take
Around - boyars. Closest - Lyutobor. Tense as a bowstring. Eyes - on the vessels. Not with interest. With rejection.
Yarina - nearby. Not young. But younger. That's why she holds the line - no right, but with truth. Arms crossed, gaze - past. Not seeing the vessels. Hearing what they say.
Vseslav - just behind. Not hiding. Calculating. In him - no age. Only edge. Only aim.
- What will they claim as theirs?! - barked Lyutobor. Too sharply. - Chalices? Crosses? Not even a dog would trade a bone for that. Let them send iron! Ships! Not trinkets!
- Everything into swords? - Yarina rasped. - And who'll plow? Us - or will they bury us themselves?
- You want them plowing our land?! - he exploded. Hand - to sword.
Vseslav stepped. Not to respond - to shift. Like a beast. Not facing. Circling. Head - slightly down. Voice - short, like a knuckle to the cheek:
- You're not from the host. From a backwater. There - it's yelling. Here - it's sign. If you don't get it - you're already in the noose. Only the air's still warm
Someone grunted. Not laughter. Fear.
- Do you hear yourself?! - Lyutobor stepped. Heavy. Direct. - You think words are gold?
- No. - Vseslav - unmoved. - But shouting gets you mud. A choice - a road. Or will you haul the fallen again come spring?
- We traded fine without them! - Yarina. Rough. Almost a snap. - Byzantines smile till the noose tightens. You accept - that's it. Won't even get to breathe.
- So a noose is better than a sword?! - he roared. Fingers - pale. Face - twisted. - Better trade than fight?!
From the side - a sound. Dull. Offbeat. Like from a barrel.
- And they sing... - someone said.
No one knew - who. Or knew. But didn't admit.
Silence fell. Not like cloth. Like a lid.
Then one of the younger boyars, lisping, uneven:
- I'd take it... even a bone... - voice tearing like a stomach that forgot taste. Not mouth spoke. Hunger - begged.
He rasped, like air was cutting. Turned. And instantly - fell silent.
Someone - took a jug. Placed it. With sound.
Dull. Too dull. As if a dog stood nearby.
And then - Radoslav The Otrok.
Collapsed. Not fell - crumbled. Face - in hands. Shoulders - not shaking, but clenching. As if the body couldn't hold its own shape.
Lyutobor - turned. But not to him. To the jug. Glanced - and turned away.
Vseslav - nothing. Only breath - longer. Yarina - didn't blink.
And from the back - a rasp. Not a word. Not laughter. Just sound.
- Maybe we need one like that Byzantine girl?! - Tikhomir blurted. Hoarse. - That girl. Who stood - and the hall froze. Where were you?
Yarina - flinched. Not gaze - shoulder. Lyutobor - didn't catch it. Vseslav - stilled. Like a predator that caught a scent from another time.
- Are you serious?! - hissed Lyutobor. - Quoting them?!
- She stood, - snapped Tikhomir. - Between their table and ours. No one stopped her. Didn't dare. Crossed - and didn't burn
- Crossed...
Vseslav stepped. Quiet. Like a fang through soil.
- Think if someone steps out - they won't be yanked by the leash?
He fell silent. But in his eyes - no question. A Tally. Who gets yanked. Who rips free with flesh.
Someone blew their nose.
Loud. Long. Like dragging a sack over relics.
Vseslav didn't move. Only eyes - on him. Not as broken. As one who won't rise. Because he stood first.
- If she had stayed... - someone whispered. Almost belief. Almost hope.
But in that hope - a crack. Not light, but a gape. As if someone suggested: "What if it wasn't in vain?" - in a hall already cutting through the living.
Then - an outburst.
- Let that faith burn! - the voice tore from the depths. Young. Sharp. Not a face - a scream. - What good is it, if we're already sold?!
He stepped. Short. But air flared - like a whip over open skin.
- One day! - near a spit. - And you're gnawing old bones already! And if tomorrow they say: kiss the hand - you'll shout: 'for Rus'?!
Someone - jerked. Someone - reached for a sword. And didn't let go.
Gleb Turovsky didn't flinch. Only his finger - across the scabbard. Once. Slowly. Dry. As if honing.
- Like dogs. Didn't even sniff - already after the bone
Silence stretched - like a hide stretched too soon.
Lyutobor - didn't release the hilt. Vseslav - shifted weight. No challenge. No guard. Only readiness.
One of the younger ones - stepped back. Not fear. Instinct. And he won't return.
Gleb - downward. To the floor. As if down there - the answer none can bear.
A pause. Too long. As if time itself broke in the hall.
Then - a strike. A staff.
To the floor.
Like a fang in bone.
Elder Boyar Ryurik Pechersky raised his head. Eyes - like cooled ash.
- Enough
Voice - stone on iron. Not loud. But everything else - died.
He didn't look at faces.
He looked - at remains.
As if checking: who's still body. And who's already ash.
And in that silence, when even fear didn't twitch - the hall shifted.Not bodies - attention.
The pause - collapsed. But not down. Sideways.
Somewhere - a glance. Somewhere - a breath.
Somewhere - Vladislav Lebedinsky's eyes twitched. Cautiously. Like a finger - to a wound.
Two noticed. One - looked away at once.
He didn't look. Those who look - are seen.
Only fingers - through beard. Slowly. As if checking what's still intact after the rockfall.
- If it gets pressed, it cracks, - he said. - Or holds?
Beside him - Dmitry Volynsky. Hand at belt. Fingers - trembling. He wasn't afraid. He remembered. And that's worse.
He didn't answer right away. First looked at the door. As if the countdown began there.
- It'll hold. If beside it stand not speakers. But those who stand
A step.
From shadow came Vasiliy Svyatopolkovich. Not hurried. As if he'd never stepped out.
- Chernigov men, - he threw. - You don't stand like a wall. Like a bolt: either facing out - or aimed at us
He approached a column. Didn't sit. Didn't stand. Leaned. Like a dog to a fence: won't enter, but won't let in either.
The younger ones - froze. One - dropped his gaze. Another - glistened with sweat. Neck wet.
- That one, - a nod, - in grey. Thought stone spoke. Nearly crossed himself
Silence. Not quiet. Someone in the corner coughed. Loud. As if tearing a seam.
Vladislav rolled his shoulder. As if to say: - So what. But said nothing.
- Let them think, - he muttered. - While they think - they don't run
- Or they wait, - Dmitry answered. - Until told whose voice to breathe with
Vasiliy scanned the hall. Not all. Only the younger boyars.
- Many of you. But no forest. All cut stumps. If you burn - not by yourselves. By a foreign spark. By yourselves - just smolder
He smirked. Without mirth.
- You cling. Some - to swords. Some - to cloth. Some - to a glance. This isn't an army. It's a fairground
And silence. But not empty. As if air - turned to crust.
- Silence like before a requiem, - softly. - Only you're not dead. You never lived
The phrase hit. Not with echo. Like a crowbar.
Vladislav tilted his head.
Not in submission. In assessment.
- They think you can bypass a wall, - he said low. - More often - they bash it with their forehead. And build a dead end
Someone sighed. But didn't breathe.
And in that air - it was clear: they hadn't clashed. But hands had found hilts. And gazes - shields.
The hall - still held. Some by hilts, some by stares.
But the air - was breaking.
Not with a crack. With a bargain.
The merchants - in shadow. Not standing. Clustering.
Not silent - checking. Who with whom. Who for how much. Who in whose shadow.
Svyatomir Pechersky leaned forward. Lips barely moved.
- See the vessels?.. That's no gift. That's a noose
Igor Mekhovod - dry as parchment - didn't answer. Just looked. Not at Svyatomir - through him. And that - caught him. The word stuck in his throat like bone.
Mekhovod was no longer speaking to him.
- It's not merchandise. It's an edge. Whoever takes - gets cut. Whoever survives - becomes sharper than steel
Pause. Not silence. Tuning.
- So don't take?.. - Svyatomir asked, cautiously.
Mekhovod's shoulders twitched. Not from fear - as if shaking off the price like dust.
- Or drown it. We've already been marked. Whoever takes - is sold. Even if by mistake
To the side, Onufriy rose. Wrinkle - like brine in stone. He raised his hand - sharply. Not threatening.
A cutoff. As if something dead had crept too close.
One merchant - stepped aside. Nearly silent.
Vanished behind a column. Didn't look back. Didn't explain.
A boyar - twitched after him. Didn't follow. Meant he knew.
At the table, two servant girls were clearing dishes.
Hands - quick, but precise.
Like those who feel: it's not just noise in the hall - it's a fracture.
- Saw him spit into the hearth?.. - the first whispered, not looking. - And the flame didn't flare. Just cracked. As if it wasn't wood - but bone
- Not him. The wine, - said the second. Voice - like dust on glass. - From the south. Salt in it. This isn't a feast. This is...
Silence. Then - the first, softer:
- A binding? Or an execution?..
The second swallowed. The dishes in her hands trembled.
- Elder Gavriil crossed out the prince. No candle. No word
- Didn't even glance, - the first whispered. - But the flame understood
- For that, - the second said. - Even the walls... - and didn't finish.
Both went silent.
By the column, a guard adjusted his belt.
Metal clinked - not sound. A mark.
One boyar looked into the fire - and turned away at once.
The flame was there. But as if it knew: now - it doesn't warm.
It's being warmed - by stares.
By the far wall, someone dropped to their knees.
At first - unnoticed. Or maybe they all just pretended. But the air changed. Subtly.
As if someone had removed a brace, and the whole hall sagged a little. One man stepped back, another fell silent. No command. Just - a shift.
It wasn't prayer. And not a gesture of despair. It was residue.
Someone who didn't leave when he could. Who stays when others say: "it still holds," but are already looking for a place to fall.
He didn't cry. Didn't plead. He just sat.
And held a stone that wasn't there.
But everyone felt - the weight was.
The kind of weight armor can't stop.
No one came closer. Not from fear. Fear is finer. This was something else. They knew: you don't get nearer. Like fire that doesn't burn - only waits.
Because the one kneeling - already knew.
And the rest were just sensing what was coming.
Like an animal hearing the ice crack underfoot - and still hoping.
Someone sneezed. Muffled. Uncovered. Not from illness. From something inside curling too tight, with no way out. But no one turned.
Here, even breathing - just part of the hall. Not personal. Not yours.
And then - the door opened. No sharpness. No announcement. Just - opened.
And came the sound. Not steps. Not gait.
A crack. In the wall. In the air. In the hall.
At the threshold - one of the boyars. Full regalia. No challenge. No gaze.
He entered.
Not like a man. Like a diagnosis.
His eyes didn't search - they checked.
Behind him - two. A gridny. A scribe. Their steps - soft. As if walking into a shrine, not a chamber.
At his belt - a sign. A knotted cord. Treasury.
He didn't stand at the center.
He passed - as if by right not spoken, but assigned. In his eyes - not pride. Tally. He knew he came not for the play. For the outcome.
And it all would've stayed in balance. But then - another rose. Already in the hall.
Not got up. Rose.
As if he didn't want to. But had to.
They didn't clash.
But the air between them - dropped.
Like between two stones, when one is weight and the other - shift.
The one who entered slowed. Didn't stop. But understood.
Understood - he wasn't first.
Because the hall didn't turn. It leaned.
Toward the one already standing.
He didn't enter - he happened.
Not with a gaze. With presence.
The hall didn't turn - it changed tilt.
The scribe didn't write the name. He set the quill aside - like a blade no longer needed: there's nothing left to cut.
As in a place where no cross stands yet, but someone already thinks: "this is where something ends."
By the wall - a jug. A servant. A sound - quiet. But heads turned.
Not from fear. From knowing: now - it has begun.
And that's all. The hall - froze.
One of the younger ones - still silent.
They say he stared at the wall. Not the one where danger lies.
The one no one returns from.
She wasn't walking - she was already there.
A girl. A bowl in her hands. No hands - only tremble. As if she wasn't carrying. She was being carried.
Dobrynya - not at her. At the tremble. At the fine thing. At what breaks when everyone pretends not to see.
He speaks. Not to the hall. To himself. But all hear.
- She's got a brother. A boy. South of us. Somewhere. They say he's alive. Maybe chained. Maybe on an oar. Maybe just a name now. But she - doesn't know
He stepped forward. Slowly. No threat. A shadow.
- If he'd died - she'd be at peace. But he's alive. Somewhere. Or with them. Or nowhere. So she holds the bowl. Like a charm. Maybe someone notices. Maybe someone remembers. Maybe - they won't touch
He turned.
- And you... You're measuring strength here. And she - eyes to the ground. Not from fear. From ritual. So she doesn't jinx it. So she doesn't cry. So she stays
Pause. Too long. Too loud.
The hall didn't move. But it shifted.
- You shout. You bargain. She's already given everything
And then - someone rasped. Not a word. Not a sound.
Just - rasp. As if the air didn't want to go in.
And someone - laughed.
Dry. No mouth. As if nothing left inside - only crunch.
The hall didn't judge.
The hall - got scared. Of itself.
If one cracked - then all are cracking.
One hand - to the hilt. Not for honor. So the hands don't shake.
The scribe jerked. Quill - into ink. Ink - onto table. Onto sleeve. Down.
As if Rus' - isn't speech, but tremor. That can't be stopped. Not even with parchment.
And that was it.
The silence didn't recede - it took root.
Like a wound - in flesh. Like fear - in bone.
And in that silence - there was no end. Only pause.
But the walls - heard it.
Not the voice. Not the word. The inner crack.
And they responded.
Dully.
From the depths - came a sound. Not sound - a resonance.
As if the building itself exhaled.
The wall still hummed.
Not from the noise - from its absence.
And in the corridor behind it - footsteps.
Behind - Mstislav, Mirnomir. Not guards. Not retinue. Memory.
Shadows of decisions that can no longer be undone.
The air in the corridor wasn't heavy. It constricted. Didn't crush - repelled. As if the walls themselves delivered the verdict.
Alexander walked. His stride - just short of full. As if he carried not an answer - but weight. And the pulse of the hall - staggered.
The light retreated. Torches didn't flicker - they faded. Not from wind. From a silence deeper than flame.
One of the younger men scraped iron. Sharply. But the sound - didn't reach. It died before the ear.
Behind him - a stuttered step. Half a beat. Barely. But the air caught. Mirnomir fell half a step behind. Not from fear. From dissonance. Alexander broke the rhythm.
Miroslav - the scribe's stare. Froze. Marked it. Not a step - a rupture. And turned. Left. Not at Alexander.
Further. Toward the wall no one had yet come through. But soon would.
There - another silence. Not ours. Not the hall's. Dry as a trail of ash. Taut as fabric before it tears.
At the chamber door - gridny. Three. Not as guard - as remembrance.
One - young. Wears gold. Second - sword, no crest.
The third - Rodoslav. Never left when the watch changed.
Not out of oath. Because he knew: if he left - the hall would feel the hole.
Along the walls - quiet. But not hollow.
Two guards - one side. One - in robes of the metropolitan court.
Not retinue. A sign.
And still - a hush deeper than a hundred voices.
Alexander entered. Not as a man. As a countdown.
Not stepped - crossed. The threshold didn't creak. But dust rose. Too precisely. As if the place recognized the step. And decided: now it's real.
The council hall - sealed. Frescoes - turned. Lines - drew tight. Air - didn't greet. It watched.
It was deaf. Not empty - scorched.
Like a house where too much screaming lingered, and now echo is no longer sound, but fatigue. Here, silence didn't wait. It absorbed. Not words. Decision.
Alexander took a step. One.
Not ceremonial. Not posed. Simple. But heavy - as if not he moved, but the hall bore him forward.
The floor beneath - did not reply. Underfoot - no stone. Doubt.
As if the rock itself thought: let's wait, before we accept the one who walks ahead of fire.
There were torches. But like dead eyes: there's light - no heat.
It didn't illuminate - it divided.
Hands. Shoulders. Hilts. Fear.
The archangel from the ciborium - didn't watch.
He tracked. Not the prince - the thing walking behind him. As if he saw: Alexander wasn't walking with warriors.
He was walking with verdict.
The air held. Not hung - pressed. Like wet fur, where something's already died.
The scent - wax, old incense, blood. Not fresh. Dried.
A scent found only where someone's already been written out.
He reached the center. Not the throne. Not the table.
The place where once, they spoke. Now - just stood.
Because the word here - had already been. And burned.
Stanislav - near. Not beside. With weight.
He wasn't guarding. He anchored. Not with eyes - with presence.
Like a hammer resting on stone: not a threat, yet. But all remember what it can be.
Alexander stopped.
And then something trembled. Not the floor. Not the torch.
The space.
As if silence itself changed shape for a breath.
As if the hall didn't expect - but recognized.
A torch - a crackle. A drop of wax - didn't spread.
It froze. On the edge.
As if even it knew: past this - the line.
And the air - tensed. Not from motion. From pressure.
It wasn't standing anymore. It was watching.
The word hadn't come yet. But the choice - already had.
One breath.
Just one.
Not loud. Not heavy. But the air after it - shifted.
As if someone else had entered.
Not man. Not spirit. The possibility of flame itself.
And it became clear: the fear wasn't for Rus'. Not for power.
For self.
Not fear. Too late for that.
They simply knew: if a third rises - we won't.
We won't come clean.
And then - movement. Not a sound. Not a gesture. Not a command.
Just the understanding: everything that was meant to stay outside - is now within.
The doors behind the prince had not yet shut, when the princely boyars began to enter.
They didn't walk - they assembled.
With weight. With shadow.
Each step - like a line in a charter: not a letter, but meaning.
Miroslav - behind Stanislav. Softly. Quietly. He looked not at banners - at faces. And saw: silence will decide, not words. Who holds - endures.
Behind them - Metropolitan Illarion. Slowly. Not from age. From knowing. The staff - not a symbol. A nail. He didn't bless. He was silent. And in that silence - a seal already lay.
Then came the others: Oleg of Vyshgorod, Ignat the Slav, and Yaroslav Lebedinsky. One - oak. One - bowstring. The last - stone. They sat on either side of the prince. No words: iron and mind. That's what Rus' is made of.
The doors opened again.
The Byzantines.
They entered - as if the scene had already played. Only we were left a pause - to catch up.
First came Nikodim. Without softness, but with precision.
As if his steps had been etched in advance. The bow - restrained. The smile - not greeting, but assessment.
He didn't seek glances - he gauged positions. But on the prince, his gaze lingered. A beat too long. Not to measure. To make sure the tally matched.
Alexander didn't react. Not with a brow, not a limb. Only the elbow - shifted slightly. Not a gesture. As if someone had tested the weight of his throne - and found stone.
Behind him - Leo Komnenos. A soldier's stride. No bow, no sign of recognition.
His eyes - scanned the hall, the walls. Noted the swords. Measured the distance to the exit. Shoulders - like spearshafts. Neck - unbending.
Then - Sophia Lakapene. She didn't enter - she happened. The air thickened, like before liturgy. Smelled of wax. Not from candles. From her.
The fan in her hand - not ornament, but weight. She didn't look - yet the hall responded.
Behind her - Eustathios Kallistratos. Quiet. His eyes didn't wander - they scanned. He heard nothing - and already knew everything. Even what hadn't been said - he remembered.
Last - Agaphius Scholasticus. Silent. Dry. Expressionless. He didn't speak. And didn't wait. He simply was. Like an axe in a log: silent - but all know why it's there.
They didn't sit. They stationed. Not a delegation - a shield.
Each seat - a point of pressure. Each look - a knot.
At the center - Nikodim.
His palm didn't rest. It pressed. As if testing whether the table would hold if silence became speech. He didn't read faces - he read tension.
To the right - Komnenos. Rigid. Stony. He wouldn't argue.
He would only remind that the Empire has an army.
To the left - Sophia.
Her movements - measured. Her gaze - a blade in velvet.
She breathed as if by protocol. Even the inhale was part of strategy.
Beside her - Kallistratos. In shadow. But he was the link. What wasn't yet a word - but already a move.
Slightly aside - Agaphius. His silence wasn't a pause.
More like a candle in a tomb. Speaking wasn't needed. He simply was. And the hall knew. Not with mind. With skin.
Then came the scribes.
The doors didn't swing open. They receded.
As if letting in a text not yet written - but already present.
At the front - Senior Boyar Gavriil the Goldscribe. Without thunder. With a period.
The scroll in his hands - not paper. Instrument.
He didn't look at the prince. He looked at the wall. As if already seeing the place where the verdict would lie.
Behind him - Simeon, Illarion, Lavr, Danilo. They walked as by canon. Without right to an extra step.
By the far wall - a table. Low. Modest.
At the center - a coffer. Small. Sealed. It hadn't been opened. But all already knew: inside - a name. Or its absence. What they had come for.
The inkwell - like an altar. From this point - the eternal begins.
Gavriil unrolled the scroll.
The quill didn't move. The ink waited. As if it knew: the next line - is not a record. It's the last.
The ink - like blood. It didn't drip. But waited to be drawn.
Simeon sat. Coughed. Dryly. Once. Not illness - error. The inkwell trembled. No one turned. But Gavriil gripped the quill - to keep it from slipping too soon.
The others - stood. Not by the wall. At the edge.
No one spoke. All knew: what is said here - remains.
And then - the doors closed.
Not with a creak.
With a sentence.
Somewhere in the depths - a click. Not wood. Not wax. A threshold. As if the place itself said: "It has begun." And no one disagreed.
In this air - Sophia.
Didn't move. Didn't wait.
Just a breath. Like a barefoot step on ice. She didn't flinch - but the cold came.
Her finger - on the fan. Shifted. Not in error. Just - too early.
She didn't look. She saw.
Not a table - a fracture.
Where others place a candle - she places none.
There - the threshold.
There - the choice already made.
And the hall understood.
Not because she said it.
Because no one moved.