A Delicate Balance

Branimir stepped forward, a faint, almost friendly smile on his face, yet devoid of warmth. Sophia felt a chill run down her spine. That smile was not one of hospitality but rather of someone accustomed to observing, analyzing, and probing for weaknesses.

Eustathius Kallistrat, the delegation's secretary, who had remained silent until now, leaned slightly toward Nikodim to whisper:

- This man is dangerous, my lord. His gaze scans us as if we were puppets in his hands

Nikodim gave a curt nod, his eyes remaining fixed on Branimir.

But before Branimir could speak, footsteps behind him caused him to pause. The delegation turned to see two more figures approaching.

The first was a man - broad-shouldered and solid, with a thick gray beard. His posture, firm steps, and stone-carved gaze immediately commanded attention. Every movement exuded the confidence of someone accustomed to wielding power. He appeared not merely as a warrior but as a living embodiment of the strength of the prince's druzhina.

Beside him walked a tall woman with impeccable posture. Her movements, graceful yet assured, radiated a calm authority that bordered on absolute command. Sophia immediately sensed that this woman was used to leading - not through loud commands, but by her mere presence, which inspired more respect than any words.

Branimir, who moments ago seemed in control of the situation, stepped back submissively and stood beside the newcomers. His sudden deference heightened the tension in the air. The Byzantines instantly recognized that these were no ordinary individuals.

The man stopped and swept his heavy gaze over the delegation, as though seeing through each person. Sophia instinctively straightened even more, feeling the weight of his presence - a man whose influence extended across all of Kyivan Rus.

This was Stanislav the Great, head of the prince's druzhina and the most powerful member of the Prince's Council. His presence spoke louder than words, underscoring the maturity and confidence of princely power.

- Welcome to Kyiv, - Stanislav said in a low, firm voice. There was no flattery or excessive cordiality in his tone - only a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the importance of their visit.

- Your accommodations are prepared. You may rest today. This evening, the prince will meet with you to discuss the matters that have brought you here

His words came out as a command, devoid of ambiguity, and the air seemed to grow heavier. Nikodim took a smooth step forward, bowing his head with impeccable courtesy. His voice, soft yet imbued with an underlying strength, resonated with the flawless intonation of a diplomat who knew how to turn words into weapons:

- We thank you for the gracious welcome, Lord Stanislav. Kyiv indeed impresses with its might and dignity. I trust that our negotiations will strengthen the bonds that bring prosperity to both our peoples. Allow me also to extend our deepest condolences for your loss. Such a tragedy is a wound that is felt far beyond the borders of your principality

Stanislav gave a brief nod, accepting Nikodim's words. His gaze then swept over the delegation and settled on Sophia. She felt the weight of his scrutiny - not merely as a participant in negotiations but as a pivotal figure upon whom much might depend.

Miroslav, standing slightly apart, stepped forward:

- Forgive my absence, but I must attend to matters with Dobrynia of Pereiaslav. I'm sure our paths will cross again this evening at the prince's reception

Sophia noticed a subtle urgency in Miroslav's tone. His words were polite, but they were clearly driven by the need to leave the scene.

- I leave you in the capable hands of Counselor Stanislav and his companions, - Dobrynia added. His tone was warmer than Miroslav's but still retained an official distance.

As Miroslav and Dobrynia departed, Stanislav turned to the woman standing slightly behind him. Her posture, as if carved from marble, radiated serene majesty.

- Olga, please see to their accommodations. You and Branimir will escort our guests to their quarters. If they need anything, let them tell you

Having given his instructions, Stanislav nodded lightly to the Byzantine delegation, his gaze lingering on Nikodim and Sophia, marking them as key figures. Then, with deliberate steps, he headed toward the princely terem, leaving Olga to manage the situation.

This woman was not merely a courtly lady - Olga Strumenskaya held a unique position among the leaders of the Pro-Prince Union, led by Stanislav. Her impeccable reputation as a skilled organizer and shrewd strategist made her an indispensable link in the governance of Kyivan Rus.

Her sharp gaze, as if penetrating into the essence of a person, briefly swept over each member of the delegation, lingering a moment longer on Nikodim and Sophia. In these two, she unerringly recognized hidden strength and importance.

- Follow me, - she said softly but firmly. - Your stay in Kyiv will be as comfortable as possible. If you need anything, Branimir or I will attend to it

Sophia glanced at Nikodim. The chief envoy silently observed the unfolding scene but then gave a slight nod, as if confirming he had taken in everything and drawn his conclusions. His face remained composed, but a flicker of interest mixed with tension gleamed in his eyes. He was clearly deep in thought.

- We have always believed that the true greatness of a city lies not in its walls or wealth, - Nikodim began, his voice calm yet tinged with a note of approval. - It resides in the people who build and protect it. Your hospitality, Lady Olga, is the finest testament to that

Olga inclined her head slightly in response, preparing to speak, but before she could, Lev Komnin stepped forward. His sharp, piercing gaze swept over Olga and Branimir, assessing their posture, demeanor, and hidden intentions. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk flickered on his lips.

- Lady Olga, - he began, his deep voice resonating with the refined intonation characteristic of Byzantine speech. - Your words are reassuring, yet our interest extends beyond comfort. Kyiv is renowned for its artisans and hospitality. I trust we will see something here that can impress even the citizens of Constantinople. Although, - he allowed himself a brief smile, - as the envoy rightly said, the greatness of a city is not in its walls but in those who defend them

Branimir, his irritation barely concealed, stepped forward deliberately. His hand brushed his belt, where a dagger rested, and his eyes flashed with a predatory gleam. He clearly had no intention of letting Lev's words pass unchallenged.

- Follow me, - Branimir said with exaggerated politeness, his tone laced with a faint note of cold mockery. - Rest assured, everything has been prepared to make you feel at home. Although, - he paused, smirking, - home means different things to different people. Some prefer palaces, others simplicity. Kyiv may not rival Constantinople, but I trust you will not be disappointed

One of the Varangians subtly tensed, gripping the shaft of his axe. His sharp, attentive eyes fixed on Branimir, as if evaluating whether his words contained a hidden threat. Another warrior near Sophia shifted his weight slightly, readying himself for a command but remaining as still as a statue.

Sophia caught the challenge in his words, which carried more provocation than welcome. Her fingers instinctively tightened on the edge of her cloak, and she glanced at Nikodim, as if to gauge his reaction. As always, he remained calm, though his eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile.

- A home is a place where people can hear one another, Lord Branimir, - Nikodim replied evenly, his tone steady but carrying a subtle hint. - And I must admit, I already like Kyiv. Every step here feels like more than an invitation to dialogue - it is an opportunity to feel like a truly welcome guest. That, I assure you, is more valuable than any palace

Lev Komnin raised an eyebrow slightly, his expression neutral yet attentive. It seemed he was weighing Nikodim's words and deciding whether to continue the verbal sparring or let his companion claim this round. His gaze lingered on Branimir, as if assessing whether he was capable of more than sharp words.

Olga, observing the subtle exchange of words, chose the right moment to regain control of the situation. Her gentle smile softened the tension, and her voice was calm yet firm.

- Gentlemen, - she said, inclining her head slightly, - in Kyiv, guests are always at the center of attention. Please, follow me. The quarters prepared for you are in the main guesthouse, located near the prince's halls. We hope they will offer you not only comfort but also convey the respect Kyivan Rus holds for the great Byzantine Empire

With an elegant gesture, she indicated a wide passage leading to a building surrounded by a grove of young lime trees. The guesthouse stood on a small hill, emphasizing its importance. As they approached, the Byzantines were drawn to the massive oak door adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of hunting and princely feasts - symbols of strength and hospitality.

The building, constructed in traditional Old Slavic style, exuded grandeur without losing its refinement. Its wooden walls, reinforced with oak logs, radiated reliability, while the tall windows with ornate frames allowed sunlight to flood the rooms, filling them with a warm glow.

When the delegation entered, a soft scent of pine and beeswax enveloped them, creating an atmosphere of coziness and cleanliness. At the entrance, two guards armed with long spears and shields bowed silently in greeting.

Their watchful eyes followed every movement, a reminder that security was paramount even in such a peaceful setting. The inner hall they were led to was adorned with Persian rugs and finely embroidered textiles.

A few servants, dressed in simple linen tunics, moved soundlessly around the room: one carefully adjusted the folds of a tablecloth, another poured wine into silver goblets with such precision that not a single drop was spilled. Their faces remained impassive, but their precise movements reflected a deep sense of duty.

The décor was further enriched by wooden panels carved with scenes of princely exploits and episodes from the lives of saints. At the center of the room stood a table draped with an embroidered cloth, set with polished silver vessels and wooden cups gleaming with care.

Olga, observing the delegation, maintained the same composure and dignity that characterized her demeanor. Once the tension had eased, she led the guests further into the guesthouse, moving at a deliberate yet unhurried pace.

The wide corridors were adorned with wooden panels carved with scenes of hunts, feasts, and the Christianization of Kyivan Rus. Tapestries with intricate patterns hung throughout, adding warmth and grandeur to the space. The aroma of pine and fresh wax mingled with the faint scent of herbs placed in small ceramic vases on shelves.

- This house was built to host the finest guests of Rus, - Olga said, glancing back at Nikodim. Her voice was soft but carried a note of pride. - We have done our best to ensure your comfort here

The delegation followed her, each member taking in their surroundings. Sophia, walking slightly behind Nikodim, let her gaze linger on the details: the intricate carvings on doorframes, the painted ceramic plates adorning the walls, and the light streaming through the patterned windows, bringing life to the interiors. Her movements remained composed, her gaze cool but attentive.

- Greatness is seen not only in walls but in how they welcome their guests, - Nikodim remarked, casting a glance at one of the carved panels. - You are showing that Kyiv knows how to honor its allies, Lady Olga

Standing slightly behind, Sophia took a quiet step forward. Her movement was fluid, almost unnoticed, yet her presence was impossible to ignore.

- These halls speak of your people's greatness more than words, - she said softly. Her voice carried a light note of approval, underlined by subtle diplomacy. - Art and history intertwine here in every detail

Olga nodded at Nikodim, her gaze now fixed on the young woman. For a moment, her face remained impassive, but then a faint, barely perceptible smile touched the corners of her lips.

- Forgive my curiosity, Lord Nikodim, - Olga addressed the envoy, her voice slightly warmer yet retaining a tone of respectful firmness. - This young lady accompanying you exudes an extraordinary inner strength. May I ask what role she plays in your delegation?

Nikodim, maintaining his composed demeanor, paused for a moment, fixing his gaze briefly on Olga before casting a subtle, almost imperceptible glance at Sophia.

- Sophia is one of our finest representatives, - he replied calmly, slightly turning his head toward her. - Her intellect and foresight greatly contribute to the success of our endeavors. Through her actions, Kyiv will witness the greatness of Byzantium

A servant standing nearby seemed to hold his breath upon hearing such a candid statement but quickly returned to his tasks, careful not to draw attention. One of the guards stationed at the door exchanged a fleeting glance with his companion but remained silent and motionless.

Sophia inclined her head in a polite gesture. Her composure and grace emphasized the understated authority that could not be ignored. However, she chose to remain silent, allowing Nikodim's words to speak for her.

Olga nodded with interest, while Branimir, who had been observing from the sidelines, smirked slightly. His voice, when he spoke, carried a faint dryness, though cloaked in formal politeness:

- Well then, my lords, - he said, stepping forward, - I trust you will feel at home here. If not, we can always discuss how to make your stay more comfortable

In the background, a servant carrying a tray of empty goblets slowed his pace upon catching Branimir's tone. His eyes briefly flickered toward the Byzantines, as if trying to discern whether the comment might offend them. One of the guards furrowed his brow slightly but remained motionless, standing like a statue.

Nikodim turned to Branimir, his expression unchanging, and replied in a calm tone:

- A home is a place where respect and understanding reign, Lord Branimir. Kyiv has already proven itself capable of being such a place

Olga, seeking to diffuse the tension that had resurfaced, made a graceful gesture toward a large door adorned with intricate patterns depicting scenes of princely life.

- These will be your quarters, Lord Nikodim, - she said, opening the door.

The room they entered was spacious and inviting. Polished wooden floors, covered with soft rugs, seemed to absorb every sound. Against the far wall stood a wide bed draped with fabrics embroidered in gold. A small table near the window was covered with an embroidered cloth, with a tray of goblets and pitchers of wine placed beside it.

- Thank you, Lady Olga, - Nikodim said, his voice soft but measured. - This is worthy of the alliances we are forging

Sophia, observing the exchange, remained silent but occasionally glanced at Olga. Her analytical mind worked constantly, evaluating every detail.

Olga, as if sensing Sophia's gaze, turned to her and, with a slight nod, gestured toward the doors across the hall.

- For you, Lady Sophia, we have prepared separate quarters, - she said, her voice warm yet retaining an official tone. - They will provide you with privacy and an opportunity to rest

Sophia inclined her head slightly, her gesture full of dignity.

- Thank you, Lady Olga. Your people's attention to detail is truly impressive

Olga allowed herself a faint smile and gestured for the rest of the delegation to follow her. Lev Komnin, who had remained silent throughout, observing every detail with the suspicion of a military strategist, stepped forward to follow Olga. His gaze briefly lingered on Sophia, but he said nothing.

The remaining delegation members were assigned rooms in the same wing. Lev Komnin, Eustathius Kallistrat, Sebastian Phocas, and Agathius Scholasticus were housed in adjacent quarters, each reflecting the high status of the Byzantine guests. More modest accommodations on the lower floor were provided for the bodyguards and support staff, yet even there, the attention to detail was evident.

When Olga finished the tour and escorted the last member of the delegation to their room, she turned to Branimir, who stood in the shadows by the wall. His sharp, calculating gaze missed no detail of the proceedings.

- If the Byzantines require anything, I entrust it to you, Branimir, - she said, her voice calm but firm. - Ensure their stay here is flawless

Branimir inclined his head slightly, his expression impassive, though a faint smirk touched the corners of his lips.

- As you wish, my lady, - he replied, his voice dry but marked with formal courtesy. - Rest assured, they will not lack attention

Olga cast one last glance at him and nodded. Her footsteps sounded soft yet confident as she made her way out of the guesthouse. Branimir remained inside, like a shadow, silently observing the quiet that now enveloped the building.

In the princely chambers, a gentle knock on the door disrupted the thick silence. Alexander flinched slightly, barely catching the sound in his half-asleep state, and slowly opened his eyes. A second, more insistent knock echoed, compelling him to sit up abruptly and rub his face.

The weight of the previous night lingered - it settled in his body like a stone, pulling him toward the ground. Yet the discipline honed by years of experience prevailed. A deep breath, a slow exhale - he forced himself to wake up, shaking off sleep and scattered thoughts.

The room was dimly lit, with faint light filtering through heavy drapes that allowed no stray beams to penetrate. Their shadows stretched softly across the floor, imbuing the space with an atmosphere of focused solitude.

On a massive wooden table lay scrolls and parchments scattered haphazardly, covered in sketches and notes. Each line, every stroke on these sheets, seemed alive - they embodied the bold ambition of merging two worlds: the knowledge of the future with the possibilities of this time.

Agriculture, crafts, governance - all were subjected to meticulous analysis. Drafting a new legal system, refining land cultivation methods, developing winemaking technologies, enhancing the military structure, and improving blacksmithing - these ideas weren't merely words on paper for him. They were a bridge Alexander was building between his past and present lives.

The knock on the door came again, more insistent this time.

- Prince, - a low, gravelly voice called from behind the door, exuding confidence and habitual businesslike urgency. It was a voice Alexander had grown accustomed to and, more importantly, trusted ever since he found himself in this time.

Alexander sat up straighter, glancing at the heavy door.

- Enter, - he called loudly, cutting through the hesitant morning stillness.

The door creaked open, and the massive figure of Stanislav filled the doorway entirely. His posture, carved seemingly from granite, exuded strength, and his measured footsteps echoed faintly, like hammer blows. Broad shoulders and a face chiseled from stone rarely betrayed emotion, but today a faint shadow of concern flickered in his eyes. He inclined his head slightly in respect.

- Prince, the envoys from Byzantium have already arrived, - he said in a low voice, his words falling like heavy stones, echoing through the morning silence.

Alexander frowned, processing the news. His thoughts raced with lightning speed. Byzantines. Recalling their diplomatic cunning and uncompromising nature, he felt his muscles tense briefly. Within moments, he remembered - the coronation was just two days away.

His focus, consumed by preparations for reforms and a thorough study of Kyivan Rus' resources, had relegated the ceremony to the background. In recent days, instead of sleeping, he had been poring over records, devising strategies, and analyzing weaknesses in the administrative system.

Now, instead of a planned respite, he faced politics and diplomacy - domains unfamiliar to both the twenty-year-old prince and his more mature self from the future.

Alexander ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of the previous night pulling him back to bed. The fatigue was palpable, but duty demanded focus. He knew the day ahead would be filled with challenging questions. His voice came out steady, firm, though the internal tension was still evident.

- Who else has arrived?

Stanislav took a few steps forward and stopped before the table. His confident, resonant steps seemed to add weight to his words.

- The Polish and Hungarian delegations are expected tomorrow. Some Novgorodians and Chernihivites are being received by Dobrynya Vsevolodich Ognyshanin. And… - Stanislav paused, as if choosing his words carefully. - Tugorkan, the Khan of the Polovtsians, is heading to Kyiv. His caravan is said to be laden with gifts. But among the merchants and boyars, troubling rumors circulate that his name is linked to the death of your brothers

The name Tugorkan was like a sudden clap of thunder, forewarning an impending storm. Alexander froze, absorbing each syllable that echoed with a hint of menace. This man was known to him through history - a powerful khan whose renown among the Polovtsians was growing.

In the future, he could become a significant threat, but for now, his name was surrounded by rumors and intrigue. However, Stanislav's words prompted a deeper consideration that his involvement might indeed be real. Trusting in apparent generosity would be a mistake.

- Very well. So, the reception for the Byzantine delegation is today? - Alexander said, straightening with determination, as if shaking off the remnants of sleep. His movements were swift and precise, though his fingers trembled slightly as he fastened his belt - the tension barely breaking through his cold confidence. - These people are masters at spotting weakness, even where there is none. How have you prepared?

Stanislav straightened even more, if that were possible, and answered clearly, without hesitation:

- Indeed, a reception can be arranged in a few hours to remind them who the master of Kyiv is. Nikodim has been given the best quarters. He expressed condolences for your brothers, but his words were ambiguous, Prince. He has already hinted at a willingness to discuss new agreements. However, he observes. Every step you take, every word you speak

Alexander listened, nodding. His face became inscrutable, like a mask. His inner reflections were hidden beneath this calm, yet their weight was palpable. Stanislav's words only confirmed his suspicions.

Nikodim was not merely an envoy but a seasoned player in the most intricate game of diplomacy. His eyes held the cunning honed through years of courtly intrigue in Constantinople. Byzantium did not seek brute force - it mastered the art of subjugating nations without swords, using only words and gold.

Every detail - a glance, a gesture, a tone of voice - would become a weapon in Nikodim's hands if he deemed it capable of striking. Their diplomacy was an art of manipulation, and the game had begun the moment Nikodim set foot on the land of Kyivan Rus'.

- Very well, - Alexander repeated, shifting his gaze to the table with records that, just minutes ago, had absorbed all his attention. Now they receded into the background, yielding to the immediate task at hand - a diplomatic dance where every step could be costly. His eyes remained calm, but a spark flickered within them.

- Stanislav, - he said abruptly, breaking the silence, - if you were in Nikodim's place, what weaknesses would you see in me?

The question struck like a whip, causing Stanislav to pause for a moment. He looked at the prince, and a flicker of respect mixed with caution passed through his eyes. Stanislav knew that such questions were not merely tests. They were an opportunity for the young prince to hear the truth, no matter how bitter.

- Weaknesses, Prince? - he drawled, as if weighing each word before responding. - Perhaps you strive too often to change everything at once. That makes you vulnerable in the eyes of those accustomed to the old ways. Your strength lies in your vision of the future, but that future still needs to be explained to those who see it as a threat

Alexander nodded, listening intently. His face remained focused, and his voice was cold and measured:

- And how do I convince them? With words? Or deeds?

Stanislav straightened further, his posture becoming even more imposing.

- First with deeds, then with words. Decisive actions are the best guarantee that your words will be heard. But remember, Prince, within your court are those who await your misstep. Until you solidify your authority among the boyars and the druzhina, even the Byzantines will sense it. They are masters of reading signs you may not even notice

Alexander frowned, his fingers brushing the edge of the table. Stanislav's words struck a nerve, but he recognized their truth. This conversation was not easy, but within it lay the foundation for his future actions.

Meanwhile, Miroslav, having finished his business with Dobrynya of Pereyaslav, crossed the wide courtyard of the prince's terem, where the aroma of freshly cut wood lingered in the air. The druzhinniki, clad in chainmail with long spears slung over their backs, watched him as if he were an outsider, while the sounds of gusli and the muffled voices of servants preparing for the upcoming reception drifted from open windows.

His posture remained upright, his movements precise, yet an inner tension lingered, borne from recent events and the long journey. His thoughts repeatedly returned to the transformations that had overtaken Kievan Rus' during his absence.

When he left Kyiv, the principalities resembled a chessboard, where each ruler maneuvered between alliances and disputes. Novgorod's trade routes, Chernihiv's gold, Kyiv's craftsmanship - all fit into a fragile yet stable system where everyone fought to maintain their position.

Now, however, the board had been upended: only one king remained - Alexander. Young, inexperienced, surrounded by the greedy gazes of those eager to seize the reins of power. Would he establish himself in time or become nothing more than a pawn in the game of more seasoned players?

Miroslav tried to suppress the bitterness rising in his throat as memories of the past surfaced. He and Stanislav, along with other loyal servants of Yaroslav the Wise, had sworn to protect his legacy.

Prince Iziaslav had been the one to whom they pledged loyalty, supporting his claims and strengthening his position. Yet, during Miroslav's diplomatic mission to Byzantium, everything crumbled.

The death of all the brothers, the sudden collapse of balance - these blows struck not only Kievan Rus' but also Miroslav's personal honor. How could it have happened that those meant to protect them stood aside?

Memories of Iziaslav, Yaroslav's eldest son, whom Miroslav had known as a wise and just ruler, now mingled with anger. In his place stood Alexander - young, skilled in battle but lacking experience in governance and diplomacy. Miroslav understood that the future of Kievan Rus' now depended on how quickly the new prince could learn to navigate the intricate web of intrigues and conspiracies.

And Stanislav, head of the prince's druzhina. His figure loomed in Miroslav's mind repeatedly. The man who should have been at Iziaslav's side in his most crucial moment was alive and well. Not only that, but he now stood firmly by the new prince, not just holding his place on the council but seemingly fortifying his influence.

- Coincidence?

Miroslav found it hard to believe. His mind, sharpened by years of diplomacy, knew there were no coincidences in such matters. How had it come to pass that the one who swore loyalty had survived while all others perished? Why was it that this man seemed to be the only one to benefit from the tragedy?

Miroslav walked on, his fists clenched tightly, his gaze searching for answers in every element of his surroundings. Yet all his questions led back to a single point: could Stanislav be trusted? Or was he a master of the game, skillfully manipulating everyone around him?

At the entrance to the princely terem, Miroslav spotted a familiar figure. Even from a distance, he recognized Gleb of Turov, one of the most influential boyars and a staunch ally of Stanislav.

As the ruler of the Turov principality - a vital link in the southwestern lands - Gleb was far more than a regional leader. His word carried weight in Kyiv, and his deeds wielded influence. But today, instead of his usual role as a mediator, he looked more like a guard.

- Miroslav the Wise, - Gleb's voice was even, with a faint trace of mockery. - Our esteemed chief diplomat returns. What urgency compels you to rush to the prince after such a long journey? Could it be that the Byzantines have frightened you so much you ran straight here? His tone carried a challenge, veiled behind polite civility

Miroslav stopped, his gaze narrowing slightly as he studied the figure blocking the entrance.

- Gleb, if you knew even half of what the Byzantines know, you'd rush as well. I have urgent business with the prince, - his voice was steady, though tinged with icy clarity. - Business that concerns not just his authority, but the entirety of Kievan Rus'. Or have you decided your role here is to obstruct rather than facilitate?

Gleb, seemingly unbothered by the veiled jab, took a step forward, fully blocking the entrance. His imposing frame resembled an unyielding wall. He tilted his head slightly, but a flicker of sternness crossed his eyes.

- I regret to inform you, but I can't let you pass, - he replied with deliberate calm, folding his arms across his chest. - I have direct orders from Stanislav: no one is to disturb the prince without his permission. Surely, you understand how Stanislav treats those who disregard his instructions. Or do you believe yourself an exception?

- An exception, you say? - Miroslav raised an eyebrow, his tone growing colder. - You surely understand that the Byzantines will not wait. For them, internal discord is weakness they will eagerly exploit. Or perhaps you'd rather demonstrate that the princely court has become a place where orders are used to mask personal fears?

Gleb smirked faintly, but steel glinted in his gaze.

- Stanislav issued the order to maintain order, not discord, - he said softly but firmly. - If everyone who considers themselves important begins ignoring it, all that will remain of order is smoke. Isn't that what they teach in Byzantium?

Miroslav stepped forward, his eyes locking onto Gleb's. The tension in the air became almost palpable.

- Order, - he repeated quietly, his voice now icy steel. - You love that word, Gleb. But you know as well as I do that order is fragile. Especially when it's upheld by force. Or are you saying Turov has become the paragon of perfect order? I've heard whispers that your borders are once again threatened by the Polovtsians. Are those just rumors?

Gleb's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his response came with feigned composure:

- We defend Kievan Rus', Miroslav. But defense begins not with rhetoric, but action. For example, explaining to the prince why someone who once served his brother so loyally is now so eager to see him. Or are you trying to prove that you're still worthy of the new prince's trust?

Miroslav inclined his head slightly, a faint trace of mockery in his gaze.

- Princes change, Gleb. But the goals of Kievan Rus' remain. However, your loyalty - that's an interesting question. Are you here to preserve order or to prove that you're still useful to Stanislav? What if your loyalty is merely fear of losing your place under his wing?

Gleb's face darkened, and he stepped closer, nearly colliding with Miroslav.

- You've been in Byzantium and seem to have forgotten that this is Kyiv. Here, warriors rule, not lovers of pretty words. You have no strength behind you, Miroslav. And if you think anyone will trust a man left without a master, you're sorely mistaken

Miroslav narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice quiet but laced with menace:

- Strength, Gleb, isn't just in swords. It's in seeing beyond your own shadow. But perhaps that's not something they teach in Turov

They stared at each other like two adversaries poised for a duel. Suddenly, Gleb beckoned to a junior boyar with a sharp gesture, issuing a curt order:

- Inform Stanislav that Miroslav is here. Let him decide whether to let him in

As the junior boyar hurried into the terem, Gleb turned back to Miroslav. His face remained impassive, but his voice carried a subtle edge:

- As long as I'm here, order will remain in the hands of those who know how to maintain it

Miroslav smiled faintly, but coldness gleamed in his eyes.

- I hope, Gleb, that your order doesn't become the start of our collective downfall. You know how destructive the consequences of mistakes can be. Very destructive

***

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