A Game that cannot be Unplayed

After speaking with Gleb, a tense silence settled over the table. Everyone watched Alexander, each trying to guess who would be next.

But the prince knew that the way he had spoken to Gleb wouldn't work with them.

The Turovo-Pinsk land existed by princely will; its power was not rooted in the earth but woven like threads stretching toward Kyiv. With Gleb, he had spoken as a master, knowing he could sever those threads at any moment.

But Chernihiv and the Vladimir-Volhynian land were a different matter. They did not dangle on threads - they stood like fortresses, deeply embedded in their soil. There, the prince could not simply take - he had to make them want to give.

What bends the weak only stiffens the backs of the strong - and makes them ready to strike.

To gain their lands, he could not take - he had to offer. But in such a way that one day, they themselves would make a choice - with no choice at all.

Alexander shifted his gaze to Boris Stalnogorsky.

The elder boyar's face remained impassive, but the prince knew - behind that motionless mask lurked a sharp mind. Boris already understood where this conversation was heading. And he understood that he was next.

This man was not used to having terms dictated to him. He was used to dictating them himself.

Boris was not just one of the elder boyars.

He was the shadow of Prince Sviatoslav's power, the one who kept Chernihiv in check while the prince waged wars or sat with his brothers in Kyiv. He oversaw the druzhina, the forges, the roads, the trade. His word decided where supplies would go, who would receive weapons, who would be placed in key positions.

But now Prince Sviatoslav was dead. His power had not just weakened - it had become a void, and those who once clung to it were now inevitably slipping into it.

Chernihiv was wealthy, strong, influential - but now it was strength without a master. Authority remained, but there was no hand to grasp it.

If Boris were a fool, he would have believed that he could now rule on his own. He would already see himself at the head of the city, where no one dared to oppose him.

But he was not a fool.

He knew that power was not the voice booming in the council hall, but the whisper behind one's back. And that whisper had already begun.

He knew that the elder boyars of Chernihiv were already exchanging glances, listening not just to him, but to each other. For now, he held the city. But if the prince refused to acknowledge him, others would emerge - men who would decide that he was no longer needed.

They weren't there yet.

But they would be.

- Boris, you are already ruling Chernihiv, - Alexander began calmly. - Everyone comes to you for decisions. You hold trade, the druzhina, the weapons forges. You have no need to prove your strength

Boris tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the prince's words.

- An interesting observation, - he said slowly. - Do you know what they call men who rule without a seal?

He didn't wait for an answer.

- Those who are recognized not for their title, but for their strength

- But you are not a governor. - Alexander's voice turned harder. - You are power without a seal. Everyone knows you are in charge, but on paper, you do not exist

Boris held the pause.

- On paper?

- Until you are officially confirmed, you are vulnerable, - Alexander continued. - Today, you hold Chernihiv. Tomorrow, the boyars may decide that someone else would be more profitable

- Vulnerable? - Boris inclined his head slightly, but his tone carried more amusement than question.

- If you are not legitimized, you are at the mercy of others' decisions, - the prince repeated.

- Perhaps. - Boris tapped his finger against the table, as if deciding how far to go. - But one who depends can always shift his point of support

Alexander did not answer immediately. He only watched.

Silent. Steady.

Observing as Boris cornered himself, as his fingers hesitated over the table for just a moment before moving again.

The silence grew denser, pressing down like the weight of an approaching storm. Somewhere in the corner, the fire crackled, but even its sound felt muted - as if the hearth itself had paused in anticipation.

Boris clenched his fist almost imperceptibly, his nails nearly digging into his palm. The whiteness of his knuckles faded quickly, but Alexander noticed that the tension remained.

The prince did not speak. And in that silence, there was no emptiness - only waiting. Long enough for Boris to feel how his own thoughts were turning against him.

At last, Boris leaned back.

- I hold Chernihiv. I have the druzhina. I have the trade routes. - His voice was steady, but there was challenge in it. - What do I need your seal for?

Alexander's lips shifted in the shadow of a smile - not mocking, not kind, but the kind that appears when a piece on the board moves exactly where it should.

- The druzhina feeds off the forges of Chernihiv, - Alexander traced his finger along the edge of the table. - The boyars lead merchants where the markets are most profitable

He met Boris's gaze directly.

- But do you know what they do not like?

Boris did not answer.

- Those who might become unnecessary

Alexander saw it - that flicker of understanding deep in Boris's eyes.

Boyars tolerated power, but they did not tolerate its instability. A governor could be ruthless, even cruel, but if he lost his grip, he would be replaced. If a ruler held his position only by the goodwill of others, he was no ruler at all.

Boris was no fool. He knew that power was not passed down - it was seized. The moment he loosened his grip, someone else would take his place.

Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But it would happen.

Alexander knew that Boris understood this.

And he used it to his advantage.

- I am not offering you influence. - The prince's voice was steady, but it carried the certainty of a man who already knew the answer. - I am offering you something you lack

He held the pause.

- Legitimate power

Boris studied him without blinking. He knew this game.

He knew that power granted by a prince was both a guarantee and a chain.

He had seen how Gleb had willingly shackled himself, believing he was in control. But that trick would not work on him.

- And what do you want in return? - he finally asked. His voice remained calm, but his gaze was sharp.

A pause. Barely noticeable, but tangible.

- And what do I gain, besides a seal?

Alexander didn't hesitate.

- Chernihiv remains under the prince's hand, - Alexander's voice was steady but weighted. - You will be my governor. Officially. With the princely seal, with the right to collect tribute, appoint voivodes, and administer justice

He paused.

- I will secure the trade routes, and merchants will pass through your lands - not by your word, but by mine. When I establish the Princely Trade Union, you will be its face in Chernihiv. Not just a boyar. Not just a ruler. The one through whom gold flows

This was not just power.

This was power the boyars could not take away.

- You offer me power, - Boris said slowly. - But I already have it

He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the prince.

- The question is… what will you do if I refuse?

Alexander didn't lean back, didn't avert his gaze - on the contrary, he leaned in slightly, closing the distance.

- You hold it in your hands, - he said evenly. - I am merely ensuring that the fingers gripping it don't loosen… when someone starts to pull

Now Boris did not smirk.

- So, I remain the owner?

- You remain the owner, - Alexander's voice was steady, but behind those words, one could hear the faint creak of a closing trap. - But that's not the question. The question is whose hand will hold the seal when someone decides your time has passed

Boris did not answer, but his gaze grew harder.

- You still rule, - the prince continued, - but now your power is more than just your word. Now it is recognized. Or… if you prefer, we can see who in Chernihiv dares to speak louder than you

The silence in the hall stretched tight, ready to snap.

Stanislav the Great sat with a stone-cold face, but in the depths of his eyes, a shadow of approval flickered - he saw how the prince was cornering his opponent, leaving him no way out but the one he needed.

Gleb Turovsky ran a finger along the edge of the table, as if testing the blade of a knife no longer in his hands. He had been under that gaze before. Now he watched as the noose tightened around another's neck.

Vasily Svyatopolkovich narrowed his eyes slightly, as if weighing the situation against himself. Who would be called next?

Olga Strumenskaya did not move, but her gaze was not on Boris - it was on the prince. As if searching for a second meaning in his words.

Boris felt every gaze. They were all waiting. Waiting for his answer, his decision - they were waiting for his move.

He could refuse.

But then what?

- War? Conspiracy? A slow strangulation until he was left with nothing?

What would tomorrow bring if he said "no"?

Chernihiv was a city where weakness was not forgiven.

Kyiv was a city where defiance was not tolerated.

Was it worth risking everything he had built for the illusion of complete freedom?

He gripped the goblet as if he were holding his own fate. His knuckles whitened, but he quickly relaxed his grip. The wine inside trembled, but did not spill.

He already knew the answer.

But before he spoke it aloud, he allowed himself a sip. Slow. Measured.

- Fine

He placed the goblet down deliberately, letting his hand linger a moment longer than necessary.

- But remember, prince - those who forge chains rarely notice when they themselves are bound

Boris lifted his gaze, and in it there was neither fear nor submission - only quiet, waiting strength.

Alexander understood.

This was not just a response.

It was a move.

Boris had neither lost nor won.

He remained strong, but now his strength served princely power.

Alexander knew this move was his, but the game was far from over. The pieces were set, yet not everyone had realized who was whose pawn now.

Silence settled over the table, but it was no longer the detached quiet from before - now, it carried the weight of understanding.

Gleb Turovsky ran his finger along the table's edge, as if checking whether any trace remained of the chains now binding Boris.

Stanislav the Great sat motionless, but something in his gaze had changed - he was now assessing not only Boris but also the prince, as if calculating his future moves.

Vasily Svyatopolkovich glanced at Boris, but the man did not even look his way, as if knowing that Kyiv would now have to reckon with him. Olga Strumenskaya withdrew her hand from her signet ring just a fraction slower than necessary.

And only Boris, as if nothing had happened, picked up his goblet once more. He took a sip, held the pause, and set it down again without lingering. Like a man who had accepted the inevitable - and who would find a way to turn it to his advantage.

Alexander knew that Chernihiv could not be subdued in a single stroke.

It was too wealthy, too proud.

It controlled vast lands, trade routes, fertile fields, and its boyars were accustomed to independence. There was no prince in Chernihiv, but power belonged to those who did not bow their heads even before the Kyiv throne.

This city had always stood apart.

While Kyiv ruled over all of Rus', Chernihiv remained a second center of power - a city where the boyars held enough authority to challenge princely rule, but not enough to govern without it.

In Kyiv, the boyars were tied closely to the prince, bound by his court and his politics.

In Chernihiv, they were used to negotiating among themselves, forming their own aristocracy, independent of Kyiv's will.

To take it by force?

That would mean a war stretching for years. To impose princely rule immediately? That would spark resistance.

But the first step toward Chernihiv had been taken.

Boris was no longer merely ruling. He now ruled by the prince's word. It was not yet total princely power, but neither was it solely his own. Now, every victory he won would be part of the princely system.

And every mistake - a reason to replace him.

Alexander held the pause before speaking, his voice calm.

- A wise choice, Boris. You made the right move. For now

Boris inclined his head slightly - not confirming, but not denying either.

When Alexander began implementing new laws and reforms, Boris would not stand aside. He would be a part of them. And if, one day, he ever decided to leave - he would have to break not just princely power, but his own.

Everyone at the table already understood that the prince had strength.

Today, it was Boris and Gleb. Tomorrow, it would be someone else.

Those who had doubted Alexander yesterday were now silent. Not because they accepted his power - but because they could no longer deny it. It was felt in the thick, contemplative hush. In the heavy gazes the elder boyars hesitated to meet.

And now, for the first time, something of Yaroslav the Wise surfaced in him.

But not as a reflection - rather, as a shadow foretelling a different path.

Yaroslav had ruled through men. He built his power by creating loyal boyars, strong governors, powerful allies who served not so much the princely authority, but him personally.

His state was held together by the people he knew how to see, use, reward, and punish.

Alexander was beginning to rule through an iron system.

It was not yet fully realized, but its shape was emerging. It had not yet bound the princely lands, but its links were beginning to close. He could not afford to depend solely on men, as his father had.

Men were fickle. A system was not.

Yaroslav had held power in the hands of his boyars. Alexander was building a structure in which power would hold them - and would not let them go.

They still believed themselves independent. They still thought they could bargain, find loopholes. That they retained their freedom.

But if Alexander moved swiftly - if he did everything right - the moment would come when they were no longer rulers, but part of a structure with no escape.

They thought they were playing against the prince.

But he was setting the board so that, by the end of the game, each piece would be exactly where it belonged.

And now it was time for the next move.

Who would realize it first?

And who would only understand - when it was already too late?

Boris said nothing more. He had accepted the terms, but he had not surrendered. Everyone in the hall knew the struggle was not over - it had only changed its form.

But he was not the only one who had a choice to make.

Alexander turned his gaze to Olga.

Olga Strumenskaya - a widow, a ruler, the mistress of the Vladimir-Volhynian land, where her name was not just a word but law. In Volhynia, they did not ask who the prince was. They asked what Olga had to say.

That won't work with this land.

Chernihiv and Volhynia were both strong, yet fundamentally different.

Chernihiv lived by iron. It forged swords, hardened its druzhinas, built walls, preparing for war even when there was none. It rumbled like a forge before battle.

Volhynia was another matter. Here, war was waged differently. Not with spears, but with agreements. Not with strikes, but with alliances. It was a hub of trade, where the road to power did not run across battlefields but through the wealthy courtyards of merchants.

We had to negotiate with Chernigov. We will have to play with Volyn.

Olga Strumenskaya was not someone who could be bent.

But she could be woven into the system in such a way that it would seem like her own decision.

And Alexander knew how.

Olga sat like a statue carved from stone. Only her fingers moved, gliding over her heavy signet ring - not absentmindedly, not in thought. That gesture was not a habit; it was a tool.

She seemed to be merely toying with her jewelry, but Alexander knew that women like Olga never did anything "merely." Her silence was a shield, behind which the sharpness of her calculations lay in wait.

Olga had not touched her goblet, yet she had not allowed the servant to remove it either.

Like a hand hovering over a chess piece - the move had not yet been made, but the game had already shifted.

Alexander did not rush to speak either. He simply watched.

He understood that Olga did not tolerate pressure. Volhynia was her fortress, and power here was not held by walls but by a web where every knot was tied by her word.

She did not wield a sword. She built the roads through which gold flowed and placed barriers wherever power moved against her. Those who tried to escape her web, she did not break - she simply left them without roads.

And when Alexander finally spoke, her gaze sharpened instantly - cold, almost dangerous.

- Olga. - The prince's voice was steady, firm. - You rule the Vladimir-Volhynian land. You held it after Voivode Yaropolk's death. You gathered the boyars and maintained order

Olga did not move, but her eyelids lowered just slightly - as if shielding an unnecessary emotion.

- I do what is necessary, - her voice was even, but Alexander caught the tight, stretched thread within it, taut as a drawn bowstring.

She did not look at him directly, but her eyelids flickered - almost imperceptibly, like tightened strings about to vibrate. One more word, and she would either strike or brace for a blow.

Alexander held the silence. Deliberately. Testing how far she would let it stretch.

- And you continue to do so, - he finally said. - I want to confirm your authority. Officially

He did not continue immediately.

Olga waited, but the prince did not rush. And so, she was the first to break the silence.

- But? - There was no fear in her voice, but caution had appeared.

Alexander leaned forward, slowly.

- Your sons

Olga did not reply. She only lowered her gaze to her ring, as if studying it, though she knew every curve by heart.

But now her gesture had changed. If before, her fingers had glided over the metal as if playing, now she gripped the ring so tightly that the skin stretched over her knuckles.

When she raised her eyes again, there was no anger, no fear.

Only cold anticipation.

Alexander saw the shift in her posture - subtle, yet palpable. Just moments ago, she had sat at ease. Now, her shoulders had tensed, the smallest adjustment, as if she was bracing for a strike.

If before, she had simply been in control of the situation, now, before him, was a woman who did not just hold power - she was protecting her blood.

Like a she-wolf sensing approaching danger.

- What about them? - Olga's voice was steady, but there was a note in it that thickened the air in the chamber.

It was not fear. Not anxiety. It was a warning.

Alexander knew that her sons were not just heirs. They were her extension, her fortress, her future. The elder - a warrior, dreaming of becoming a voivode. The younger - a politician, already pulling the strings of power.

Alexander did not answer immediately. He waited, letting the anticipation stretch like a taut string, then spoke in a tone that made each word land with weight.

- After the coronation, I will turn to the army, - he said, and in his voice was not just an intention but a decision that could no longer be changed. - Not just the druzhina, but a war machine. Permanent. Trained. A true force that does not scatter to their homes after every campaign

He looked directly into Olga's eyes.

- And I will need young, ambitious, intelligent voivodes who will prove they are worthy

He paused, letting the words settle into the silence.

- Ratibor could be among the first, if he proves himself

Olga did not reply immediately. She ran a finger over her signet ring, slowly, as if weighing his words.

- My sons do not ask for favors, prince, - her voice was steady, but beneath it, a sharp note flickered. - And they certainly do not wait to be noticed. They take what is theirs.

She raised her gaze - cold, certain.

- Ratibor will prove himself worthy even without you and me

She held the pause before continuing.

- And the younger? - Her tone remained calm, but now there was more than interest in it - there was precise calculation. - You want to make him part of your game?

Alexander remained silent. He understood that Olga was testing his limits, forcing him to prove his own significance. But he did not rush to react.

She attacked. He allowed it.

Outwardly, not a trace of doubt. Inwardly, the faintest smirk.

She was making a move, but the entire game was already unfolding under his hand.

- I am forming the Princely Trade Union, - he said evenly. - In Kyiv. In other lands. And in the future, in Vladimir-Volhynia as well

He let a brief pause hang.

- If your younger son takes his place among the elder boyars, he will be the first to lead this union in your land. The first to shape trade routes and tighten his control over them. The first to receive the direct support of the prince

Olga's finger moved along her ring again, as if weighing the offer.

- Politics, - she repeated thoughtfully.

- Power, - Alexander corrected. - If he proves himself, I will entrust him with more. When I begin my reforms, those who have shown their strength and skill will stand at their foundation

This time, she did not answer.

Her fingers traced the engraving on the ring once more.

If this had been only about herself, she would have found a way out. She would have simply risen, glanced at the prince, and left him with an empty space where an answer should have been.

But this was not just about her name.

This was her blood.

And blood cannot be abandoned without tearing oneself apart.

Alexander was not taking her power.

But he was creating conditions in which her sons would receive it from his hands.

Ratibor, her eldest, could carve his own path - through steel, through skill, through determination. But the prince was not merely offering a chance. He was shaping an army where the rank of voivode would depend not only on valor but on loyalty.

Today, he was a centurion. In the future - a princely voivode.

But not of Vladimir-Volhynia. Of Kyiv. Or even all of Rus'.

And the younger?

Vladimir did not fight with weapons. But he fought nonetheless - through deals, through agreements, through influence. And if the Princely Trade Union became what Alexander envisioned, he would not just be a boyar. He would be the one who controlled the trade routes, directed the flow of silver, decided which lands prospered and which remained in shadow.

If the army held power in its hands, trade bound it in chains of debt and dependence.

One son could become the shield of the realm.

The other - its silver hand.

Today, they were a centurion and a boyar.

In the future - two Pillars of Princely Power.

And if one day she ever thought of independence, her own sons would be the first to deny it to her.

A long, measured silence passed.

If her husband, Voivode Yaropolk, had been alive, he would have simply raised his sword.

If she had been a man, she could have struck first.

But her weapon was not steel. It was her own blood.

And blood cannot be thrown into battle without risking that it will be spilled.

- You play well, prince

She said it quietly, but there was neither admiration nor concession in her voice. Only a measured conclusion.

Alexander did not smirk.

- I play so that no one notices when they've lost

Olga raised her eyes, and the question in them was gone - only a decision remained.

- The question is not who notices first. The question is who manages to make the next move after that

She paused briefly, then added, almost as if in passing:

- Besides… Kyiv is a dangerous place. Politics here shifts like the wind, and the druzhina is not always the only power one can rely on. If my younger son takes his place among the boyars, I suppose he could visit Kyiv from time to time?..

Now it was Alexander who let the silence stretch.

Gleb Turovsky tilted his head slightly, like a man who had seen the game and appreciated it. Vasily Svyatopolkovich remained still, as if weighing the consequences.

For the first time in this council, Alexander felt that he was not the only one watching how the pieces were being placed.

Olga's gaze was calm, but there was a web already woven within it.

She was offering an opportunity - but in the form of a condition.

She knew it was to the prince's advantage to keep her son close. That he would gain experience, influence, access to decisions. But if it was going to happen, let it appear as though it was her choice.

She wanted her son not only to be part of princely power, but to be near the prince. To observe. To understand. To know, when the time came, when to make the first move.

But Alexander saw it, too.

She played for the long game.

So did he.

If her younger son came to Kyiv, he would not just be watching - he would be inside the prince's reforms, within the changes that could no longer be undone.

The closer one is to power, the tighter its chains.

The silence between them shifted - no longer hostile, but no longer purely diplomatic.

Now it was an exchange.

And both knew what was truly at stake.

- Then let it be a game, prince, - Olga said.

But who would be leading it was yet to be determined.

Her fingers lifted from the signet ring.

She picked up her goblet, took a slow, measured sip - no more than one - and placed it back on the table.

The goblet was no longer full. But neither was it empty.

She had accepted the terms - but had left herself the right to decide how far this game would go.

She tilted her head slightly, assessing not only his words but the man himself.

Alexander held her gaze.

- We are both playing, Olga, - he said calmly. - But the board still stands in my hall

For a moment, the silence around the table grew too deep.

Olga lifted her chin just slightly - not in challenge, but in acknowledgment of the rules.

Gleb Turovsky turned his gaze to her, as if assessing who had calculated whose moves further.

Boris did not move, but his fingers brushed against his goblet again - just once, as though marking a shift in the balance of power.

Olga placed her hands on the table, deliberately, unhurriedly.

- Then continue, prince, - she said.

And only then did Alexander turn his gaze to Vasily Svyatopolkovich.

The Kyiv elder boyar sat with his hands resting on the table, seemingly relaxed. But his fingers tapped slowly against the wood - not in rhythm, but as if testing its strength.

Not tension. Not anticipation. An assessment of the material.

Vasily was studying not just the prince, but the very game being played at this table. He saw the pieces fall and knew that the next step would not be the question of whether he would join this match - but rather, what role he would take in it.

He watched as the prince moved in a circle, pulling one after another into his princely chain. The question was not whether Alexander would speak to him.

It was what move he would offer.

Boris had fought until the end. Olga bargained like a merchant, revealing her cards only at the final moment. But Vasily? Vasily did not play such games.

He knew when it was time to yield.

Perhaps resistance was pointless. Perhaps the best course was to take as much as possible from what the prince offered.

But did that mean he was surrendering?

In Kyiv, survival belonged to those who knew not just when to yield - but how to do it correctly.

Yes, to be part of princely power. Yes, to be under his control. But was he the only one who had to submit?

Everyone serves someone.

Merchants serve the market. Warriors serve their voivode.

Even princes, even the Grand Prince himself - he was bound by the very rules he created.

And if submission was inevitable, why not choose to follow the one whose word carried true weight?

Serving the weak was disgrace.

Serving the strong was an art.

But making the strong serve you - without them even realizing it?

That was art doubled.

And this Alexander - he was not just strong.

He spoke in a way that made even the most stubborn bow their heads before they realized they had done so. Vasily had seen Boris clench his fist, seen Olga touch her goblet. This was not mere talent. Not luck.

This was a weapon.

Vasily had not reached his position through brute force or sheer influence. He had survived because he could always sense which way the wind was blowing - and he set his sail before anyone else.

And now, before him, he saw a storm.

One that would consume all who failed to turn in time.