System and chaos

Alexander was watching Vasily Svyatopolkovich just as closely.

On his lands stretched the most fertile fields, worked by thousands of peasants, his harvests feeding Kyiv.

He was not a warrior like Boris. He did not weave political knots like Olga. And he did not cling to old princely privileges like Gleb.

But he controlled the very heart of Kyivan Rus' - the land itself.

Alexander knew that the Kyiv boyars were of a different breed.

They did not fight with swords. They waged war with contracts, connections, and trade agreements. They did not tolerate mistakes because every word here was worth gold, and every missed opportunity could mean downfall.

And if Boris or Olga could exist independently of the prince, in Kyiv, power was an entanglement of interests. Here, one could not simply own land. One had to hold onto it.

Alexander had no intention of forcing Vasily's hand.

He was going to offer him an opportunity too foolish to refuse.

- Vasily, - the prince spoke calmly, but in his voice was the quiet certainty of a man who was not offering a deal, but an inevitability. - You rule some of the richest lands in Kyiv's domain. But what if I told you that your fields could yield twice the harvest?

The boyar raised an eyebrow slightly. There was no surprise in his gaze, no disbelief - only evaluation.

- A bold claim, Prince, - he noted, lazily tracing a finger along the rim of his goblet. - Or a tempting deception?

- Not deception. Calculation

Alexander did not hesitate. He laid it out clearly.

- After my coronation, I will introduce new methods on my princely lands. Three-field rotation, irrigation systems, Arab-style plows. In Byzantium, they already use them. In the lands of Baghdad, they have perfected them. I have heard this not just from merchants - the Byzantines themselves have spoken of how these methods change harvests. The Bulgars have been using them for years, and our traders have seen the difference with their own eyes

He let a brief silence settle, giving Vasily time to absorb what had been said.

- These methods have never been fully implemented in Rus'. But once I begin, no one will be able to stay behind. It will be done on my lands. And you can be the first not just to use them - but to be at their very foundation

Vasily's lips twitched in what could have been a smile - too brief to be sincere. He understood that the offer sounded too good to be true. But he also saw that the prince did not throw words to the wind.

If Alexander claimed to have this knowledge, then it was likely true. And if it wasn't… that would become clear soon enough.

- So you are offering me… the right to be the first after you?

- I am offering you more than that. I am offering you the chance to lead this across all princely lands

Vasily's fingers closed around the goblet, but he did not lift it. The smooth metal felt slightly cooler than expected. Or was it just the chill of his own thoughts?

- The first to prove it works?

- The first to gain not just the harvest, but control over its distribution, - the prince corrected.

The shadow of a smile that had played on Vasily's lips a moment ago disappeared, as if it had never been there.

Alexander saw the man weighing the price of the deal, even as he knew he would take it.

The prince leaned forward slightly.

- The one who gives the peasants new tools controls not only the harvest, but the grain market itself

Alexander did not need to add the obvious - that, in the end, the grain would go where the one holding the keys to the princely granaries decided.

Somewhere in the corner, the fire crackled, but even its sound seemed muted now - as if it, too, was waiting to hear how this bargain would end.

Vasily ran a finger along the rim of his goblet again, but this time not out of habit.

He was weighing the words.

Weighing the consequences.

Alexander was offering him power - but a power bound to the prince. A system that could still be called princely for now, but sooner or later, it would become something greater than any single ruler.

The question was whether he wanted to be part of it now - or later, when all the seats were already taken.

- So, you're offering me… the chance to lead it? Or the privilege of being the first trapped within its framework?

Alexander did not look away.

- That depends on how you use the opportunities given to you

Vasily narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning back.

- Well said, prince. But you offer me the future, and I am used to counting grain in autumn, not in spring

He let his finger run over the rim of his goblet, as if absentmindedly.

- What if I take it only for myself? What if my lands, my harvest, are enough for me? If princely power grows - but without me?

Alexander allowed himself the slightest smirk.

- Then someone else will claim this right. And then, Vasily, your lands will no longer be among the richest

Vasily's brow furrowed slightly.

- I am not accustomed to trade being regulated from above

- And I am not accustomed to power being dictated from below, - the prince replied, calm and steady.

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

Vasily tapped a finger against his goblet, considering. He could feel the noose tightening.

- You want me to be the first to feed this city, - he repeated. - But who will decide who gets the last piece of bread?

- The princely granaries, - Alexander answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Vasily exhaled - not in irritation, but too slowly, as though weighing the price of grain that now no longer belonged to him.

- So I grow it, but you decide where it goes?

Alexander tilted his head slightly.

- Has it ever bothered you before, who holds the keys to the granaries?

Vasily did not answer immediately. He knew, of course, that it had.

But now, for the first time, he truly understood that those keys would never be his.

The silence in the hall no longer felt like a simple pause in conversation.

It was a point of no return.

Vasily did not look at the prince. He looked through him - into calculations, into possible futures.

He could refuse.

He could say "no" - and within a year, watch as his peasants bought plows at someone else's price. Watch as his grain flowed not where he willed it, but where the princely hand directed it.

Watch as his land - the one that had fed Kyiv for generations - became just another link in someone else's trade chain.

Vasily ran his finger slowly along the edge of his goblet, as if testing how smooth these edges would truly be.

He could try to hold on to independence.

But there was no independence anymore.

There was only the choice:

Be within the system, or be outside it.

And in front of him sat a man who left no path to remain outside.

This was not a weak young man, begging the boyars for support.

This was a ruler, forcing them to accept his power.

He did not persuade. He did not plead. He did not buy their loyalty.

He was creating a world where existing outside his rule was simply not possible.

Vasily saw how this Princely Power, the one he called the System, was being built. It was not yet complete, but the links had already begun to close, and the prince moved forward with the same inevitability that his father once had.

And Vasily knew that men like him always got what they wanted.

Vasily exhaled.

- Very well, prince

Alexander did not rush to respond, letting the silence settle, seep into the walls of the chamber, muting the weight of the words just spoken.

He saw in Vasily the same thing he had seen in Boris and Gleb - another piece placed on the board at just the right moment.

But while Boris had fought to the last and Gleb had grasped at the power offered to him, Vasily, like Olga, refused to be led - he led himself. The only difference was that she wove herself into the game openly, while he did so quietly, allowing others the illusion of control.

And yet, here he was, faced with a choice that was no choice at all.

He turned his goblet slowly between his fingers - unhurriedly, as if testing the feel of the chains that had just closed around him.

- A system, you say… - he murmured, as if tasting the word for the first time. - So that's what you call it

He shook his head - not in fear, not in submission, but with the cold calculation of a man who weighed every word.

- You give it a name, prince. Are you so certain it will never speak without you?

Vasily raised his eyes, steady.

- Then remember this, prince…

He did not rush. He lifted his goblet, took a sip, but did not set it down immediately - he held it in his grasp, as if weighing not only the wine but his own words.

- Any power lasts only as long as the one holding it is trusted to keep their grip

His finger tapped lightly against the rim - not in threat, but in measured warning.

Alexander tilted his head slightly, as if listening.

- Then we will make sure those hands do not tremble, - his voice was calm, but something in it thickened the air in the chamber. - Not mine. Not those sitting at this table

And now, in his gaze, there was more than just acceptance of the game.

There was the quiet understanding that the stakes were higher than they had realized.

The silence stretched tight, drawn like an overstrung bow.

Vasily met his gaze without a smile.

He did not yet know how strong this princely system would prove to be.

But he knew this: power holds firm only as long as no one tries to outplay it.

And someone always will.

Gleb Turovsky shifted slightly, as if testing the weight of a new obligation to Kyiv. Boris Stalnogorsky remained silent, but his gaze had grown heavier, as if measuring how much longer he should remain on the sidelines.

Stanislav the Great was not watching the prince - he was watching Vasily, as if deciding who had just played whom.

Olga Strumenskaya traced her finger along her massive ring, but now her gesture had changed. If before she had idly toyed with the ornament, now her movement resembled the careful inspection of a weapon before battle.

She did not object to the prince.

But she did not yield.

She had accepted the terms, but she had left herself the right to change them when the time came.

Alexander saw it.

And he knew that in her silence, there was more than met the eye.

He turned his gaze back to Vasily.

- A long winter will show who survives it with profit, - Alexander's voice was even, but there was ice beneath it.

Vasily lifted his goblet, but did not drink. His fingers turned it slowly in his palm - casual, almost absentminded. But Alexander saw what he was truly weighing.

He could set the goblet down.

Or he could take a step from which there would be no return.

- Well then… Let the winter decide who stays warm

He raised his goblet.

- And who will determine who gets the spring

The air had frozen, like water before the ice sets in - one more movement, and the surface would crack.

Alexander looked at Vasily, calm and steady.

- Let winter decide, - he said evenly. - But spring will show who has survived it stronger

He did not glance at Vasily's goblet, yet Vasily hesitated before setting it down.

That was the first step.

A step that, just yesterday, had seemed impossible.

A step that would send out hundreds of others, reshaping Kyivan Rus' - not with swords, but with the decisions made in this very room.

But more important than that was something else.

Now, everyone sitting at this table saw not a young prince, but power - power that was already arranging the pieces on its board.

Not a boy.

Not an heir whose time had yet to come.

Boris Stalnogorsky inclined his head slightly - not in confirmation, but not in rejection either.

Olga Strumenskaya ran a finger over her signet ring - a gesture betraying a thought:

- How far will he go?

Vasily Svyatopolkovich's gaze flickered over the prince, but in his eyes there was neither admiration nor fear.

Only calculation.

They did not yet know what he would become to them.

But they understood this

He was no pawn on this board.

He was the hand that placed the pieces.

Today - a partner. Tomorrow - perhaps an enemy.

But one thing was certain: he was someone they would have to reckon with.

Earlier, at his audience with the Byzantines, he had not seemed so cunning, so deliberate in his every step.

But now, a new question arose.

Was this his true nature?

Or was he simply playing the role required of him today?

And what if this had all been planned?

What if, from the very beginning, he had wanted them to see only what he allowed them to see?

What if he had made them believe they were facing a young ruler who had yet to ascend his throne?

They couldn't be sure.

But one thing was clear.

They could either acknowledge his power or attempt to break it.

But retreat was no longer an option - the door had closed, and someone already held the key.

The only question was, who would realize first

That they were locked in?

Or that they were the ones who had been locked out?

Alexander had no doubts.

He was not just building power - he was building a structure that would wield it.

Not men. Not cities.

Principles.

A system.

It was not yet complete, but its shape had begun to emerge.

This was a path that could not be turned away from.

Not power for the sake of strength. But strength for the sake of power.

And he knew exactly how it worked.

In the modern world, power was not held by swords. It was held by contracts, resources, and control over the flow of money and energy.

Alexander did not just see this system - he was part of it.

He had been one of the managing officials in the British Ministry of Resources.

What would oil cost in a year? Where should new supply routes be opened? Which corporations would gain access to government contracts?

He did not just calculate the answers - he decided what they would be.

His work was power.

A single calculation could collapse a market. A single forecast could ruin a city or enrich a nation.

He knew how to control dependencies.

Cut off one supply chain - and an entire region's economy would begin to suffocate.

Redirect a single contract - and one man would gain influence while another lost everything.

He lived by these laws himself.

His world functioned like a machine. Precise. Emotionless. Devoid of personal decisions. Only calculation.

And he had believed that this was the only correct way to live.

But if his former world had been a mechanism running on fixed rules, this one was something else.

Not chaos - but something alive.

Here, people still pursued profit, still sought ways to survive.

But there were things they were willing to die for.

Here were those who believed in honor - even when it defied reason.

Who fought to their last breath, even when the battle was lost, even when death was inevitable.

Like knights dying for the Holy Sepulcher, knowing their bones would be left in foreign soil. Like samurai who walked the path of death, even when their blades had shattered in their hands. Like the princes of Rus', whose cities burned behind them, yet who did not take a single step back.

Here were those who defended freedom - even when it led to their destruction.

Like the steppe warriors who broke their spears against chains but refused to bow to a master. Like the Veche Cities, where the cry of "Freedom!" thundered louder than church bells and the square was drenched in blood. Like the Spartans who fell at Thermopylae, knowing they were dying not for victory, but for the very meaning of freedom.

Here were those who placed loyalty above gain - even when it cost them everything.

Like vassals who followed their lords, even as they fell into the abyss. Like the druzhina that stood by their prince, knowing that by tomorrow, their heads would decorate the palisades. Like court physicians who drank poison alongside their sovereign, because they had sworn to serve until their final breath.

Here was Piety bordering on fanaticism.

Faith strong enough to lead armies.

Like in the First Crusade, when thousands who had never met crossed continents to die for Christ. Like monks who vanished into forests and wastelands, renouncing the world for the sake of a single prayer. Like heretics who walked to the pyre with a prayer on their lips, never pleading for mercy.

But among all of this - amid gods and blood and oaths, amid crowns and swords - there was one more force.

Here was love, for which men gave up lands, power, and even their lives.

Like Troy, burning beneath Achaean blows for the sake of a single woman. Like kings who cast their crowns at the feet of their beloved, knowing their empires would not survive it. Like those who died in monasteries, surrounded by candlelight and silence, because they had chosen love over power.

Love.

Alexander frowned slightly.

Love was the enemy of reason. The enemy of logic. The enemy of knowledge.

Like warm ice - an absurd contradiction that still melts in your hands, no matter how tightly you grip it.

It defied analysis. It broke patterns. It severed connections. It erased the boundaries between what was right and what was impossible.

It demanded recklessness. And he had seen how strong men became weak, how the greatest minds put entire nations at risk for something that could never be held.

But that, too, was a lie.

Love didn't always drive people mad. Sometimes, it was just weakness. Sometimes, nothing more than a habit - one that snapped like a thin thread.

In his world, men did not throw their crowns at a woman's feet. But they burned down business empires for a single kiss. Oligarchs squandered fortunes, politicians destroyed careers, presidents put entire nations at risk - just to hold on to the ones who made them forget reason.

And some simply walked away.

Grew cold.

Stopped fighting.

Love cost no less than a throne. Only the currency changed.

But what was it worth when nothing of it remained?

He had always known this.

But once, he failed to understand the most important thing.

Alexander tried to build a system even within his own feelings - to subject them to the same principles as his work, where every step was logical, every investment paid off, where weakness was a risk, and risk meant loss.

But love signed no contracts. It drafted no agreements. It did not obey even the most flawless system.

It offered no guarantees. It brought no stability. And when the moment came to choose between reason or emotion, he chose the one thing he could not betray.

Logic.

And lost his wife.

She did not follow rules, did not offer a guaranteed outcome. He did not understand why one should do what was unprofitable, why one should go against reason when it only led to loss. He could not accept her irrationality.

Not because he did not love her.

But because love demanded what he could not accept.

To accept chaos. To break his own laws for feelings that could not be calculated. To step into the void, knowing there were no guarantees.

It demanded unprofitable choices. Sacrifices without calculation. Loyalty not to reason, but to something that defied logic.

Alexander had never been able to go against his nature.

Nor had he ever wanted to.

Why should he?

After all, a man who willingly chooses loss...

Is he not an idiot?

He was certain he was right. That logic was stronger than emotion. That love could be built like a strategy.

In his past life, he chose calculation. He believed in profit, in precision, in control.

And he lost much.

But now...

What if he had encountered something he could not force into a system?

He was used to calculating people. Controlling them. Placing pieces on the board so that every move was predictable.

But could a heart be structured?

For the first time in a long while, he hesitated:

- What if not everything can be calculated?

What if this world held things beyond logic?

Sophia Lakapina.

His future wife.

He knew he could handle war. He knew how to rule over boyars, lands, and armies.

But what if power was not the hardest thing?

What if the hardest thing… was learning to live where there was no calculation?

He had seen people die for love. Sell everything for it - honor, status, crowns. Burn to ashes in it.

And he had seen them lose it.

He knew that once, he had already made his choice.

But this time…

This time, he wasn't sure.

***

Thank you to everyone who reads.

I originally wanted to lay out Alexander's upcoming economic trap in full detail - one that will ensnare half the regions - but I decided to move that moment to the Evening Feast. That's where I will reveal how he starts with the weakest Turovo-Pinsk land, how he will counter Novgorod, and how, step by step, he will seize economic control over the other territories.

Sometimes, people tell me I don't clarify enough details. Other times, they say I give too many thoughts, emotions, and explanations. I understand that I can't please everyone, but I will write this story as I see it. That doesn't mean I ignore opinions - on the contrary, I value each one, and everything I add passes through my own vision of this world.

Recently, a reader noted that the negotiations with Gleb were too drawn out and that too many events were packed into one chapter. But in reality - whether in the Middle Ages or today - this is exactly how politics works. No one can simply say yes or no. Every word, every pause, every glance carries weight.

Power in those times was held not only by swords but by words. One wrong step - and you don't just lose influence; you become a pawn in someone else's game.

Alexander does not say this outright. He does not threaten. He does not demand. He offers. But in such a way that refusal is impossible. He is creating a system where saying no is not an act of strength, but a step into the abyss.

Gleb, Boris, Vasily - none of them are fools. They understand they are being pulled into a new game. But they are given the illusion of control. And they accept the terms because the alternative - uncertainty - is far more terrifying than a princely seal.

This is the essence of power. Not iron. Not blood. But the ability to make a man submit - so that he wants to.

Medieval negotiations were not quick exchanges of words, not simple agreements. They were a delicate trade of influence, where the one who hesitates is not the one who doubts, but the one who forces others to speak first.

Alexander does not break their will. He gives them a choice - a choice where only one path truly exists. And when they agree, they believe they have preserved their freedom.

If you think politics is simple, this chapter proves otherwise.

Medieval power is a web.

Entry is free. There is no way out.

If you find it difficult to immerse yourself in this era, if you prefer books where politics is just "I am king, you are my vassal, swear loyalty to me," then you are always free to turn to simpler stories, where an oath is enough.

But my style is not watered-down pop fiction.

It is a deep, powerful, and detailed immersion into the reality of the 11th century - of Kyivan Rus' and the other nations of its time.