At the Carved Table of Power

The massive doors of the main hall closed, and the air became dense, saturated with incense and wax. The torches flared briefly and hesitantly, as if sharing the weariness of the fading evening.

The silence stretched taut, like an old bow: tremble - and it would either shoot or snap.

Whispers rose like the rustle of autumn leaves in the wind.

The senior boyars were in no hurry to leave. Some stared intently into the faces of others, calculating each gesture as if they were cards laid out on the table of fate. Others, in contrast, avoided eye contact, concealing their anxiety behind masks of indifference.

In the shadows of the columns, the junior boyars crowded together like pawns before the first move - ready to leap, yet unaware of when or where. They watched the senior boyars with cautious anticipation, understanding that any misstep could lead to their downfall.

Dobrynya clenched the handle of his cane, shaped like a wolf's head. The bared teeth under his fingers served as a reminder: here, trust was a weakness. The torchlight danced on the metal, and for a moment, the snarl came alive, delivering a silent warning.

- These people are not my wolves, - the thought flickered in his mind. In this place, even an iron support could break under the invisible weight of others' intrigues.

- A pack of wolves can turn on anyone, - he said quietly, addressing the woman beside him.

Senior boyarina Olga Strumenskaya, the governor of the Volodymyr-Volynsk land, subtly moved closer, adjusting the silver wolf-shaped clasp on her cloak. The gesture seemed casual, yet it carried hidden strength - a symbol of authority that required no words. Her gaze - cold and precise like a dagger strike - swept over the columns and the faces of the boyars.

- Wolves, you say? - She spoke slowly, as if tasting the words. Stepping slightly forward, Olga moved gracefully but inexorably - her steps exuded a power that left no room for defiance. - Wolves fear only those who can strike faster than they can snap their jaws shut

Dobrynya smirked slightly, but his eyes remained cold.

- You know how to keep them in fear, Olga. They look at you as if waiting for your command. Some of them are already poised to lunge forward but hesitate. They fear guessing wrong about who you'll grant the right to make the first move

Olga paused and narrowed her eyes, surveying the junior boyars. One of them - too young and overconfident - stepped forward, hoping to attract attention. Her gaze struck him with icy precision. The boyar froze, as if lashed by an invisible whip. His fingers twitched, and the edge of his sleeve brushed a goblet resting on the table's edge.

The goblet tumbled to the floor. A dull thud echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, and the torch flames flickered, casting shadows that momentarily animated the frozen faces. No one stirred.

The young boyar, unable to meet anyone's gaze, bent to retrieve the goblet. His lowered back exposed a moment of vulnerability - as if a drawn bow awaited the signal to release an arrow. He picked up the goblet carefully, as if holding molten metal. A soft breath behind him sounded louder than the impact of the fallen object.

- Sound reveals much about a person, - Vasily Svyatopolkich remarked lazily. His voice was quiet but spread like a shadow, permeating every corner. - Some will hold a goblet steady in their hand, while others will let it take flight

Dobrynya turned a calm, studying gaze on Vasily and inclined his head slightly.

- For now, only metal is flying, - he responded softly, as if continuing a thought. - But what if next time something greater falls?

The youth retreated hurriedly, his shoulders trembling from suppressed tension. Olga silently turned to him, her cold gaze lingering on his face. In that moment, he was like small prey caught in a hunter's sights. Unable to bear it, he lowered his eyes and took a half-step back into the shadows of the columns.

- No one has howled yet, - Olga said quietly, as if speaking to herself, but her words hung in the air like an ominous forewarning. - Though the howl is already echoing in their minds. They're waiting... either for a strike or for a mistake

Dobrynya tightened his grip on the cane, slowly leaning forward, as if shortening the distance to his interlocutor. There was more to this movement than mere fatigue - a cautious pressure, as though he was testing not only his words but also those who were listening.

- Mistakes are always waiting. The moment one stumbles, the pack will pounce. It doesn't matter who it is - the prince, you, or me

Olga gave a cold smile, and something akin to a cunning mockery flickered in her eyes.

- As long as he holds his ground, - she said quietly, casting a glance at the hall's closed doors. - But this dance isn't for the weak. Every movement is a test of survival. Blood is worth more than words. Today, each of them has already decided which side they want to remain on

Dobrynya ran his finger over the carved wolf head of his cane, as if weighing her words.

- Deciding isn't enough, - he replied slowly. - Those who wager on others' blood often lose their own first

At the other end of the hall, Senior Boyar Gleb Turovsky, the governor of the Turov-Pinsk lands, was fingering his prayer beads - too quickly, like a man who wanted to appear calm but was actually counting possible outcomes rather than beads.

- Gifts are bait, - he said softly, but loud enough that the nearest boyars froze, listening. - The question isn't why they are here. The question is what they already consider theirs

Around Gleb Turovsky, junior boyars and boyarinas gathered. Lyutobor, his gaze full of inner fire, stared intently at the gifts. Yarina, calm and calculating, seemed to be probing each item for a hidden trap. Vseslav stood slightly apart, his sharp eyes darting across faces as if already calculating the next move.

Some hoped for profit, others saw a threat in the Byzantine gifts. The tension grew as voices rose from those who could no longer remain silent.

- What will they call their own? - Lyutobor suddenly blurted out. Tall and broad-shouldered, with prominent cheekbones and a fierce gaze, he came from a family that ruled lands bordering the Polovtsian steppes. His voice was harsh, as if accustomed to shouting over the wind and the whistling of arrows. - Crosses? Chalices? Out on the steppe, those won't even get you a piece of salted meat! They should've sent us ships and weapons instead!

To his left stood Boyarina Yarina from Chernigov, arms crossed over her chest. Her face remained calm, but her gaze was heavy and probing, like that of an experienced merchant. She stepped forward, throwing a quiet, mocking remark over her shoulder:

- Always swords. And who will feed the land, Lyutobor? Or do your horses sow grain on their own?

Lyutobor tensed, but before he could reply, a slender figure stepped forward - Vseslav, the son of a Novgorod boyar. Slight and wiry, with quick movements and a sharp, piercing gaze, he smiled with a cold calculation in his voice.

- It's obvious who spent their life behind hills. You think the world is just swords and borders? These gifts are symbols. If you don't understand their meaning, then you've already lost to the Byzantines

Lyutobor took a step forward, his chest rising like that of a beast before a fight. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

- And you think you know what to do with these trinkets? - he asked quietly but menacingly, his gaze heavy like a storm cloud. - You think they'll give us anything for sweet words? Nothing

Vseslav, maintaining his composure, raised his head. His voice stretched taut like a string.

- They'll give us a chance to negotiate. Or do you want to bury your people every year, fighting for every scrap of steppe?

- We can trade without them! - Yarina cut in, her voice slicing through the air. - If anyone here doesn't understand the gift's meaning, it's the two of you. Byzantium says one thing and does another. Accept without caution, and you'll tighten the noose around your neck

Lyutobor turned to her with fury.

- So the noose is better than a sword? Better to be a merchant than a warrior?

The tension spread between them like oil spilled before a fire. The younger boyars, divided into two sides, watched every movement of the disputants with rapt attention. For a moment, the hall became a silent arena. One more instant - and someone would snap, reaching for a weapon.

Gleb Turovsky muttered softly, as if conversing with himself:

- Warriors and merchants... One day, and you're ready to tear each other apart like dogs in a kennel

The senior boyar's words spread like a heavy spell. The disputants froze for a moment, though Lyutobor's eyes still burned with rage. Vseslav's hand twitched slightly, as if preparing for another verbal strike.

Then the air shuddered from the sharp knock of a staff.

Senior Boyar Ryurik Pechersky slowly raised his head, casting a gaze over the disputants that held not a trace of patience.

- Enough, - his voice was quiet but rang with steel. - Do you not see where your bickering leads?

Vseslav involuntarily lowered his eyes to the floor. Lyutobor exhaled loudly but found no words to counter. The other junior boyars and boyarinas froze for a second, as if unsure whether the next sign would be silence or another explosion. The oppressive stillness returned, thick and stifling like the aftermath of a sudden gust of wind.

The flame in a nearby torch flared and hissed, casting shadows onto the distant columns. In that spectral light, the figures of the other boyars seemed to grow in significance.

The junior boyar standing closest to Boris Stalnogorsky glanced sideways at him, as if hoping to catch his reaction. A couple of others noticed the look but found Boris unmoving. His presence hung in the air like subdued tension, and for a moment, everyone who saw him felt it was better not to attract undue attention.

Boris ran his fingers through his beard, pausing with his hand on his chin. His gaze grew heavier, as if the particles of incense were settling not on the floor but on thoughts of an impending decision. His eyes, still and thick like stagnant water, rested on the door behind which the prince and the Byzantine delegation had vanished.

Only his voice broke the silence - low, but so weighty it seemed as though the words seeped through the stone walls:

- He held on tight... - Boris tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the phrase. - But when the pressure builds, will he crack or endure?

Next to him, Vasily Svyatopolkich, known for his wit and grace, leaned lazily against a column, as if he were already bored with the proceedings. Yet his eyes roved over the faces of the boyars, searching for hints of weakness.

His gaze, light and mocking, swept over the junior boyars, who cautiously approached but slowed their steps, sensing the oppressive aura radiating from Stalnogorsky.

- With that expression, you might as well be carved in stone, Boris, - Vasily chuckled. - Look at them. They already think they're about to hear their fate. That one in the gray kaftan almost crossed himself when he saw your gaze

Boris gave a quiet snort without taking his eyes off the door. The junior boyar in gray indeed froze in place. He caught Vasily's gaze and tried to say something, but, noticing how Boris slowly cracked his knuckles, as if restraining the urge to tear something invisible apart, he quickly changed his mind.

- Let them think, - Boris said dryly. His fingers closed into a fist with a crunch. - The less they speak, the fewer mistakes they make

- Or maybe the less they speak, the more mistakes they make, - Vasily mused, casting a short, mocking glance at the junior boyars, as if silently asking: - So, what will you do now?

They quickly pretended to have more pressing matters in another part of the hall.

Vasily watched them go and smirked with a lazy nod.

- Stalnogorsky, you're like the fortress walls of Chernigov. You stand in silence, and everyone immediately understands: better not to knock unless you want to break your hand

- Some think walls can be bypassed, - Boris muttered, raising an eyebrow slightly. - But there are always those who build a dead end for themselves

The junior boyars, having lost all courage to approach, retreated into the shadows of the columns, exchanging glances and whispering under their breath. Vasily lazily surveyed them and chuckled:

- Such silence... As if they're already hearing their own requiem

Across the hall, merchants were conversing quietly, invited as observers.

- Have you seen those vessels? - Svyatomir Pechersky leaned closer to his companion, as though fearing thieves might overhear his thoughts. - Not a gift, but a trap. They belong on the Novgorod market, but whoever bids first will end up in debt. Envy is the lesser evil here

Vladimir Mekhovod, an elderly merchant with slender fingers, exhaled slowly and gave Svyatomir a look as if weighing him like gold.

- You're thinking too small, - he said quietly, almost insinuatingly. - Those vessels aren't for trade. If they end up in Novgorod, someone will think we've already put Rus' up for sale. Obedience here isn't measured in gold - it's measured in swords

Svyatomir fell silent, biting his lip.

- So it's better to leave them here... - he whispered.

- Or sink them, - Vladimir added with icy certainty. His gaze grew heavy, like a leaden seal, as if he had already foreseen the consequences of a wrong move.

At a table where remnants of the feast remained, two maidservants were clearing the dishes, whispering so quietly it seemed every word could summon a storm.

- Did you see how the prince's boyar prayed at the icon today? They say that's how people pray before death, - the first one murmured, carefully placing a goblet on the tray.

The second maid frowned, raising her eyes.

- That's nothing. They burned incense all night. Too much... as if they were warding off something terrible

- Maybe they weren't warding it off, but waiting for it? - There was a note of fear in her voice. A pause stretched between them like a dark shadow.

The second maid froze for a moment, then tilted her head and barely whispered:

- Waiting is the worst of all

By the far wall, Mikhail of Sophia knelt with his head bowed, his lips barely moving as if the words he spoke might scorch the air around him. The shadows on the walls trembled like faded icons. Mikhail seemed to be part of the ancient walls - silent and unyielding, like stone holding the secrets of the world.

Svyatoslav Polovetsky, standing a short distance away, watched him grimly. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather creaking softly in response.

- Tell me, Boris, what is he praying for? - he said quietly, not taking his eyes off Mikhail. - Salvation? Or judgment upon us all?

Boris Dneprovsky, heavy and imperturbable, slowly brushed the dust from his cloak.

- Mikhail fights his own battles, - he replied after a pause. His voice was low but carried the weight of a deep river flowing underground. - And he doesn't win them with swords. Maybe his weapon is stronger than our blades. If it turns against us, it will be too late to change anything

Svyatoslav squinted and gave a tense smirk.

- He's silent. That means he's already afraid, - he muttered, more to himself. - And if a monk is afraid, it's time to prepare for the worst

Boris didn't reply, only raised an eyebrow, though his gaze spoke more than words. He looked again at Mikhail, who crossed himself and lifted his head. For a moment, his eyes lingered on an ancient fresco beneath the arch - its outlines came alive in the flickering firelight, like the face of something distant, unseen, but approaching.

The clanging of heavy doors and the groaning of hinges echoed through the hall, causing everyone to freeze. All eyes turned to the entrance. In the doorway appeared the commanding figure of the prince's boyar - Chief Treasurer Radomir Serebryany.

His cloak, embroidered with silver, glided softly along the floor as he entered with a measured column of guards and aides. Two of them carried scrolls and specialized chests for inspecting and cataloging the gifts.

Their footsteps echoed heavily, as if marking time before the start of something significant. Radomir cast a calm but piercing gaze around the hall. His presence filled the space at once, as though he had come to remind everyone of the importance of what the Byzantines had brought.

The boyars exchanged tense glances. Someone whispered something, but the words were swallowed by the silence.

Boris Stalnogorsky watched the Chief Treasurer as one would observe an adversary on a hidden battlefield.

- Looks like he's here to claim what he already considers his, - Boris muttered, his simple remark hanging in the air, amplifying the tension.

The guards halted at the entrance, and Radomir took a few more slow steps forward. A heavy silence fell - as if everyone awaited the next move in an unknown game of power and symbols.

The corridors of the terem were bathed in the flickering light of torches. Fiery reflections danced on the frescoes, where the austere faces of saints seemed to observe every step of the procession. Alexander moved at the front, his chainmail jingling faintly in rhythm with his steps, though this sound was drowned out by the heavy pounding of his heart.

The first stage was over. He had endured it all - his authority, his honor - within the hall of the grand reception, under the watchful eyes of the boyars and the cunning Byzantines. Now, the most difficult part remained - negotiations.

- Nikodim... The Byzantine envoy, weaving words finer than a spider's web. He spoke at length, but every word was a trap - slippery, ambiguous, leaving a lingering aftertaste of doubt. His speeches hovered in clouds of vagueness and then settled gracefully, like a fabric woven from silk and poison

- The key is not to get caught in those nets, where meaning shifts like a reflection on water

The corridor seemed to breathe, contracting and turning the passage into a stone snare. The torches flickered, casting shadows on the walls that resembled intricate patterns - or ghostly hands reaching toward him. The air was cool, but Alexander felt a hot drop of sweat slide down his back, like a warning: there was no turning back.

- If I waver, they will see it. They will sense weakness, like predators scenting blood. I cannot afford to waver. I am the prince

Alexander walked ahead, his stride firm and measured. Behind him followed Mstislav and Mirnomir - both composed but focused, carefully observing their surroundings. Their silent presence seemed to heighten the tension.

Behind them, the prince's boyars marched in orderly formation - Stanislav, Miroslav, Ignat, Oleg, and Metropolitan Illarion. Their faces were serious, each mentally preparing for the upcoming negotiations.

Further back, in the shimmering torchlight, appeared the Byzantine delegation. Their steps were softer, but their eyes betrayed a hidden attentiveness to everything around them. They were watched closely - as guests and potential allies, but also as those not fully trusted.

Bringing up the rear were scribes and chroniclers led by Senior Boyar Gavriil Zlatopisets. He walked with an even posture, holding a scroll and ink pot, his sharp gaze capturing every detail for future records.

Walking beside him were his assistants: Simeon Porfirovich calmly noting key moments, Illarion Ostrozhsky tracking significant remarks, Lavr of Chernigov meticulously recording details of the surroundings, and Danilo Pechersky carrying documents and supplies, striving not to miss a single lesson from his elders.

At the entrance to the negotiation hall stood four of the prince's guards, like statues carved from stone. Their stillness conveyed a hidden readiness. Fur-lined cloaks concealed chainmail, and cold eyes gleamed beneath helmets with nasal guards. On each chest glinted a medallion bearing the prince's symbol.

The senior guard, Rodoslav, held a spear with a double-pointed tip. His weathered face remained focused. Beside him, Ostromir, quick and vigilant, kept his gaze locked on the corridor, lightly resting a hand on the shaft of his battle axe. Stanimir, tall and composed, stood as if fused with the heavy sword at his waist. The youngest, Vsevolod, gripped his spear tightly, eyes nervously tracking the older guards.

The sound of weapons and footsteps echoed through the corridor. The guards tensed, exchanged glances, and readied themselves. A moment later, from the shadows of the archway, Prince Alexander and the others emerged.

Mstislav and Mirnomir stepped slightly ahead, asserting their presence. No words were spoken, but a single glance from Mirnomir was enough for Rodoslav and his men to understand: the prince stood before them. These were men trusted only with the most crucial matters - Mstislav and Mirnomir were well-known throughout the prince's retinue.

The guards at the entrance wasted no time. Rodoslav gave a brief glance to his comrades and nodded. All four simultaneously stepped to the sides, clearing the passage. Their movements were precise and coordinated, as if long rehearsed.

They bowed their heads in unison as a sign of respect. Rodoslav and Ostromir pushed the heavy doors, and the creak of the hinges pierced the silence like distant thunder. The doors yielded with difficulty, as if the very walls of the hall were reluctant to let new witnesses enter the forthcoming events.

The stone floor greeted Alexander's step with a hollow echo that spread beneath the vaulted ceiling, as though an unseen voice whispered:

The time has come

Alexander paused at the threshold.

The hall was darker, deeper than he remembered. The silence here was unique - not empty, but filled with the voices of the past. He felt as if the walls were listening, absorbing the breath of those who entered.

He held his breath. Another moment - and the air seemed to change. He knew that the moment he took the first step, there would be no turning back.

A step.

The dull sound echoed under the arches, as though turning the page of a chronicle.

The negotiation hall greeted him with profound silence, like an ancient temple where every word carried more weight than gold. Spacious yet austere, devoid of unnecessary opulence, it seemed to test those who entered: were they strong enough to decide the fate of the principality?

The hall's walls, built from massive oak beams, were adorned with intricate carvings - ancient symbols of the princely lineage intertwined with Viking and Slavic motifs. Richly woven banners hung along the walls - some bearing crosses, others depictions of saints, and still others with the emblems of the prince's retainers. Above the entrance, near the ceiling, was a carved canopy adorned with an image of Archangel Michael - the prince's patron and the protector of his retinue.

At the center of the hall stood a long table made of aged oak. Its surface, etched with fine grooves from knives and cups, appeared to bear the scars of past negotiations. On the massive tabletop, the torches painted shifting patterns of light and shadow - just as the words spoken here could instantly turn allies into enemies.

On both sides of the table were benches with high backs, simple yet solidly crafted. Only the prince's seat stood out - a massive chair, adorned with carved designs, towering over the rest, symbolizing his authority and the weight of his word.

Light came from numerous splinters placed in iron sconces and from several large lamps suspended on chains beneath the ceiling beams. The fire cast flickering reflections on the weapons displayed along the walls - shields, swords, and spears - not merely decorative but a reminder that words and steel always walked hand in hand.

The air carried the scents of heated wood, wax, and a faint trace of incense absorbed by the walls over years of prayers and councils. It felt as if an invisible net had stretched across the space - one that could snap with the slightest sound.

The hall was empty. The guards had been stationed at the entrance to avoid creating unnecessary tension within. Here, there was no need for an overt display of strength - every word and glance would speak for itself.

Alexander entered first, his steps echoing dully under the vaulted ceiling. His heavy cloak softly trailed across the stone floor, and his chainmail shimmered in the light of the torches and lamps. Stopping at the center of the hall, the prince steadied his breath, as if preparing for battle, and slowly surveyed the room. Behind him stood history and responsibility - the alliance and trust of Rus' depended on this meeting.

Mirnomir lingered at the threshold for a moment, assessing the surroundings, then stepped inside after the prince. His boots echoed against the stone. Mstislav made to follow but halted when he heard a quiet yet firm voice from Stanislav:

- Mstislav, you'll stay here. Maintain order at the entrance. No one unauthorized must enter

Mstislav tensed, as if internally preparing for a fight, then gave a curt nod:

- I'll do what's necessary

Stanislav paused briefly, scrutinizing his subordinate. Satisfied with his resolve, he confidently crossed the threshold of the hall after the prince. His imposing presence filled the space with an air of determination, tinged with a threat toward anyone who might dare disturb the order. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword - a habitual gesture, yet one that retained its significance:

- I am here to protect the prince. If necessary

The doors behind him had barely begun to close when the prince's boyars began entering. They moved at a measured pace, in formation, each maintaining an invisible distance that underscored the gravity of the moment.

Miroslav the Wise followed Stanislav. His footsteps were softer, nearly silent. He paid no attention to the walls, the weapons, or the banners - only to the people, studying their expressions and smallest movements. His gaze reflected not just focus but also understanding:

- Today, every word can tip the scales

Metropolitan Illarion crossed the threshold slowly, restrained but dignified. He held his staff not merely as a symbol of authority but as a weapon of the spirit. His head was slightly bowed, yet his gaze was sharp. For him, this hall was a test of faith, and his presence a reminder:

- The word is mightier than the sword - but only when spoken at the right moment

Following protocol, Boyars Oleg Vyshgorodsky and Ignat Slavyansky entered next. Their movements were steady but distinct. Oleg, heavyset and deliberate, carried the shadow of the boyars of Kyiv. Ignat, agile and tense, stood ready for any turn of events, embodying the senior boyar from Pereyaslavl. They took their places on either side of the prince, emphasizing that the power of Kievan Rus' rested on two pillars: politics and war.

Once the prince's boyars had seated themselves, the doors opened again.

The Byzantine delegation entered after the prince's court, emphasizing that they were guests, not masters here.

Nikodim stepped in first. His movements were smooth, each step so light it seemed to leave no trace. His bow was deep and almost flawless in its precision, but his smile... that smile was a weapon. Their eyes met. Alexander saw no fear, no respect - only confidence. Nikodim wasn't merely observing; he had already calculated every move.

Behind him entered Leo Komnenos. Unlike the envoy, he wasted no time on ceremony. His firm, purposeful stride spoke for him:

- I am here not for words, but for strength

He didn't glance around the hall, though his gaze briefly rested on the weapons displayed along the walls. Then, on Stanislav and Ignat. Only after that did his eyes meet the prince's. There was no courtesy in his stare, only a brief, precise evaluation: How many of these blades are sharpened not for show, but for battle?

Next stepped Sofia Lakapina. Slowly, as if walking along the edge of a knife that could dull with a single misstep. Her back remained straight, not out of pride but necessity. A moment ago, she had breathed freely, but the moment she crossed the threshold, the air seemed to thicken.

The fan in her hand appeared light but was, in truth, the only thing keeping her grounded. She felt the prince's gaze on her - cold and scrutinizing, it lingered longer than usual. Her shoulders stiffened; the fan grew heavier in her grasp.

- He already suspects something. But I won't let him read my thoughts

Following her entered Eustathios Kallistratos, the Byzantine secretary and scribe - silent but observant. Everything said here would be recorded with the precision of stone inscriptions. Last came Agapios Scholasticus, the representative of the clergy. His face remained inscrutable, though a faint flicker of dissatisfaction crossed his eyes - perhaps from the chill of the hall, or from the conversation that awaited.

The Byzantines took their seats across from the prince, their arrangement resembling a battle formation. Each position held meaning; each face bore its role.

At the center sat Nikodim, composed yet exuding control. His fingers lightly touched the table, as if conducting an unseen rhythm to the negotiations. His sharp, perceptive eyes waited, gauging the slightest shifts in the other side's demeanor.

To his right was Leo Komnenos, the embodiment of Byzantine military power. His posture remained rigid, his shoulders straight, and his gaze heavy. He was here not to speak but to remind everyone that behind the Empire stood an army. His hands, resting calmly on the table, spoke louder than words - hands accustomed to wielding a sword.

To Nikodim's left was Sofia Lakapina. She sat upright, her face calm, though a guarded tension glimmered in her eyes. Her presence here was both a privilege and a test. Beside her was Eustathios Kallistratos, always slightly in the shadows, yet attuned to every detail. He said nothing but kept his quill ready to capture each word.

At the far end of the table sat Agapios Scholasticus, clad in dark robes. He showed no emotion; his face was a mask. Yet his presence lent the negotiations a sense of ecclesiastical sanction.

Together, they formed not just a delegation but a well-structured mechanism, with each component fulfilling its purpose.

Finally, the scribes and chroniclers entered, the heavy doors swinging open for them. Senior Boyar Gavriil Zlatopisets led the group with dignity. The scroll in his hands was as vital as a weapon in the hands of a warrior. Simeon, Illarion, and the other scribes followed closely, treating each step as part of a history they would soon immortalize.

They positioned themselves near the far wall. Gavriil spread out his scroll and ink pot on a small table, with Simeon taking a seat beside him. Illarion and Lavr stood slightly apart, observing the hall, while Danilo quietly checked their writing tools.

When the doors closed, the deep sound reverberated off the walls like the voice of ancient centuries.

For a moment, silence reigned.

In that silence, one could hear not just the breath of the gathered people. Here, the very history of Kievan Rus' and Byzantium seemed to resonate.

Sofia inhaled deeply. Her gaze drifted over the massive table.

Here, everything would be decided.

- A lasting alliance... or a noose to strangle her?

But she was a Lakapina. And it was her choice to make.

***

Thank you to everyone who is reading.

This chapter might feel drawn out, considering that the events could be summarized in just a few lines: the senior boyars decided whether to stay or leave after the prince's departure. Alexander and the delegation quickly reached the negotiation hall, entered, discussed everything in a matter of minutes - and that was it.

But I write as if I'm among these people myself. I try to show everything happening around them: the gifts and boyars don't vanish from the scene, Alexander walks through the corridors accompanied by guards and advisors, observing etiquette. Here, it's not just the actions that matter but also the rituals. Tradition dictates that the prince and his personal retinue are the first to cross the threshold of the negotiation hall. The boyars follow, and only after them do the Byzantine envoys enter.

I also detail the negotiation hall so that everyone can imagine themselves inside - who sits where, who stands, who watches, the faces and gestures flickering in the torchlight. It's important to me that the reader doesn't just follow the plot but becomes a participant in the moment, as if they can feel the weight of Nikodim's gaze or the cold of the carved wood beneath Alexander's hand.