White Lily Among Swords

While Alexander was establishing his authority in negotiations with the Senior Boyars, Detinets lived in anticipation. Like a vast heart bound by stone and iron, it pulsed with the echo of footsteps, the neighing of horses, and the dull strikes of hammers against metal.

Tomorrow - the coronation. Tomorrow - a new order.

The princely court was bustling with preparations. Servants hurried through the passages of the terem, guards doubled their shifts, craftsmen made final checks on the princely crown. The air smelled of wax, fresh wood, and metal. Even the boyars, frozen in the heavy hall, seemed to sense this movement - they did not meet each other's eyes, yet they still felt that tomorrow everything would change.

Power was born not only in council chambers.

It was forged in decisions, sealed by oaths, bound in ties.

Some submitted to it by right of blood. Others took it by the sword.

But sometimes, power came not through battles, but through an alliance.

An alliance that wove foreign blood with new land, expanded borders without a sword, and created strength where yesterday there was only duty.

In this palace, everything was part of a grand design - both those who prepared the crown and those who were to wear it.

While Alexander was bending the boyars to his princely system, his future was already entwining with another's fate.

In the gardens hidden behind the walls, amidst the morning chill, walked those who were to become part of this new power.

Sophia Lakapina, the future princess, and her cousin Clio.

They walked slowly, their thin leather soles barely feeling the sand, but the dampness seeped through the fabric, clung to their skin, as if reminding them: this land was not theirs.

The air was fresh but not warm - it smelled of damp wood and something tart, foreign. Sophia discreetly pulled her sleeves over her wrists, hiding her fingers from the cold.

Behind them, with impeccable discipline, moved the eunuchs and servants: silent, indistinguishable from the cool morning shadows lurking beneath the lindens. They were there, yet it was as if they did not exist.

A little farther back, just a step and a half away, moved the guards.

The princely druzhina walked heavily, measuredly, as if feeling the weight of their armor even in the silence. Their hands rested on their sword hilts, their gazes gliding along the alleys, noting every movement. They were not motionless - some idly played with the shafts of their spears, others stole furtive glances at the Byzantines.

But Sophia saw her own as well.

The Varangian Guard - Byzantine Norse bodyguards - moved differently. Their steps were measured, their breathing even, their gazes like dead water, revealing no depth. They did not merely observe - they recorded. There were no sharp movements, no fidgety turns of the head - only precise, pre-calculated gestures.

They did not just stand nearby - they enclosed the space. Their backs seemed relaxed, but it was the relaxation of a wolf before a leap. One of the Varangians let his gaze slide over the princely druzhina - not with suspicion, but with detached assessment, like a judge deciding whether an opponent was worthy of being an enemy.

Sophia knew that this "walk" was not a walk in the full sense of the word: every step left a mark, every word could be heard. She slowed her pace slightly, straightening her back almost imperceptibly. There were no palace walls here, yet the feeling of walking under watchful eyes did not fade.

Clio walked freely, almost playfully - her ease was irritatingly natural. Sophia, without noticing, adjusted her sleeve, as if tucking an unwelcome thought into the fabric.

She turned her gaze aside, letting her eyes glide over the trees, paths, and carved pavilions.

Kyiv appeared calm, but this calm breathed strength - not the strength of power, but of the land itself, which knew no borders.

Grand Prince Yaroslav the Wise was renowned not only for his victories and laws but also for his ambition to make Kyiv great in every sense - not just in strength, but in beauty. His gardens were proof of that.

Laid out as early as Vladimir's reign, under Yaroslav they became a reflection of the new order. Along the walls stretched alleys of lindens, apple trees, and bird cherry, casting shadows over paths strewn with white sand. The air was filled with the bitter scent of wormwood and the sweet aroma of mint - this was a place where not only flowers but also medicinal herbs were grown.

The waters, dug and landscaped for the princely estates, shimmered under the sun, swans gliding across them while wild ducks circled near the banks. Vineyards stretched along the walls of the terems, indifferent to order. The water reflected the carved towers rising toward the sky, like ships frozen in place.

Sophia did not stop to admire them as another woman might have. In Constantinople, gardens were an extension of power - their orderliness emphasized the strength of those who could tame even nature. Here, however, everything grew on its own - not chaos, but not submission either.

The air was oppressive. Damp, sharp, it settled on the skin, clung to her wrists, crept beneath the light fabric of her dress. Sophia shifted her shoulders slightly, as if shaking it off, but the scent remained.

Too rough. Too alive. It seemed to cling to her, seeping into her breath. It smelled different than in Constantinople - and not just different. It smelled of something that refused to be subdued.

The paths crunched underfoot rather than echoing dully like marble galleries. The light was softer but colder. This world felt different. What did they value here? What kind of power did this garden reflect?

She stepped softly but confidently, like a pattern embroidered with the finest silk. Yet fabric, no matter how masterfully woven, still obeyed the hand of the artisan. Her fingers tightened around her cuff. The air was humid, the ground unsteady, and her footprints seemed too deep, too visible, as if this land was in no hurry to accept them.

She wasn't merely looking - her gaze lingered on the curves of the paths, on the trees stretching upward, as if nature itself here was striving to break free from someone's will. It was foreign, wild, yet it had its own logic. Sophia caught herself trying to decipher it.

Everything here was foreign. Not hostile, but not hers.

Beside her walked her cousin Clio with ease - the one who always smiled, even when there was no reason to. Her mother used to say: - The most important thing is to keep smiling. As long as you smile, the world won't see your weaknesses

Clio listened to her - and smiled. Always.

- Well, it's not so bad, - Clio ran her fingers lightly over an apple branch, shaking off a drop of dew - as if brushing away an unnecessary thought. Her voice was light, almost careless, like laughter used to mask unease.

- Well, they could use a bit more order... - Clio nudged a fallen leaf with the tip of her shoe. - It's as if they're waiting for someone to say, "Alright, line up in neat rows!"

Clio tilted her head slightly, touching the branch. A faint smirk flickered across her face - not quite mockery, not quite doubt.

Sophia shifted her gaze from the peony to Clio herself. She, too, had been taught to smile once - but not like this. Sophia was meant to be a statue, marble with the faintest curve of her lips. Clio, however, smiled either genuinely or convincingly.

Sophia turned away, slowly taking in the alleys, the vines, the trees growing as they pleased.

- This is not a garden, - she finally said. - It's… nature, only lightly touched

Clio raised a questioning brow but did not answer right away. Her gaze swept over the garden - assessing, with a slight trace of amused curiosity.

- Look, - Sophia gestured. - Here, the trees grow as they wish, and no one interferes. There, the vines wrap around the gazebo, but they haven't been pruned into neat arches like ours. Here, grasses grow among the flowers, and no one pulls them out to leave only roses

She spoke calmly, but her eyes betrayed a strange feeling. Not admiration, not rejection - rather, an attempt to understand.

For Sophia, raised in the strictly structured world of the Byzantine court, this garden was something else entirely.

In Byzantium, a garden was an extension of power.

There, even nature obeyed man. Fountains shot water in precise streams, not a single drop falling outside the sculpted basins. Marble paths remained dry even after rain.

Lemon trees were planted not for their fruit but for their beauty - their blooming was calculated so that in spring the air would be filled with fragrance, and in summer, their canopies would provide exactly the right amount of shade for the empress's walks.

Cypresses stood like temple columns, and every shadow fell exactly where it was intended. Flowers were planted according to a precise design - to ensure harmony of shades, to prevent a single stray sprout from ruining the composition.

But here...

Here, no one set rules. Grass sprouted between the paving stones, vines stretched as they pleased, apple trees spread their branches wide, as if no one dared prune them. This was not a garden, but a place where nature did as it wished. And no one stopped it.

Lilies reached for the sun wherever they pleased, unrestricted by white stone borders. The ponds were not enclosed in marble, and the wind rippled their surface, blurring reflections.

Sophia frowned - water should be still, so that reflections remained sharp. Byzantine fountains never wavered under the wind. But here, in Kyiv, even water did not obey man. Apple trees grew as they pleased - their branches intertwined, and their roots lifted the ground, forming small hills.

Here, man did not command nature - he lived with it. Here, the garden did not serve man - it stood as his equal.

- And is that such a bad thing? - Clio leaned down, brushing a petal with the tip of her finger. - It's beautiful... and, really, no one asked its opinion

She smiled, not waiting for an answer.

Sophia looked at the garden - but not the way Clio did.

In Byzantium, every tree had its place, every shadow fell precisely as intended. Here, even the flowers did not know where they belonged. Sophia was not sure whether this could be called order… or freedom.

She looked at the lily, but she did not see a flower. She saw herself.

The same white, flawless petal - as long as someone deemed it necessary. One motion - and it would be gone. One command - and it would be broken.

And the roots… Roots did not save you if they could be torn out in an instant.

She slowly touched the flower, her fingers lightly pressing the petal. It bent under her touch but did not break. Sophia held her breath. Everything depended on the hand that would pluck it. And whose hand that would be - was not up to the flower.

In Constantinople, no garden grew on its own. Vines were trained along arches so they would not block the sunlight, roses were planted strictly by color so that white would not mix with crimson. If a sprout appeared where it was not needed, it was removed. Not out of cruelty - out of necessity.

So it was with her.

She had been raised like a rose in a palace garden. Beautiful, convenient, without thorns. Sharp words were pruned, unnecessary emotions uprooted like weeds. She had been taught to be an ornament. But ornaments did not choose where they stood.

Yet here, among these flowers that reached for the sun not by someone's command… For the first time, she thought:

- What if I am not an ornament?

Her father built her fate as he built his plans - precisely, without leaving a single unnecessary step.

He was not cruel. He was not kind.

He spoke to the emperor not as a friend, but as a man who knew his worth. As one who remembered that in Byzantium, loyalty was valued - but even more so were those who could be replaced.

And he had no intention of being replaced.

Nor did she.

He knew that to remain indispensable, his lineage had to be woven into the game like a thread into silk fabric. Sophia was part of that pattern. She did not choose what her pattern would be, but she knew that more than just her life depended on it.

Her grandfather - a magister who had served at court - knew the price of influence and what lay hidden behind the throne's shadow. He was not cruel, but he was cold. He did not speak of love, but of necessity. He saw in her not a granddaughter, but a link in the dynasty.

She had grown up among marble galleries, where the floors were smooth and cold, among books that taught her not to dream, but to understand.

She had been taught many things: to speak softly, yet so that she would be heard; to move lightly, yet so that all would see - she was noble. She had been taught that duty was more important than desires, that beauty was power, but power that could never be held directly.

She knew that one day she would have to leave. To leave her home, her country, her name - and become someone else.

That was how it had happened with her aunts, with her father's sisters, with the daughters of great Byzantine houses.

In Constantinople, girls of noble families did not belong to themselves. They, like rare trees, were planted in golden pots - carefully, with calculation, with the thought of how they would fit into the design of palace gardens.

Many dreamed of becoming princesses. In fairy tales, it sounded beautiful - silks, crowns, majestic palaces.

But fairy tales did not say that a crown was a chain. That gold was a cage. That a princess was not the one who ruled, but the one who was given away.

Their childhoods passed in chambers where carved columns and mosaics replaced the world. Their hands touched silk and parchment, but never the earth. Their voices were heard only where they were permitted.

Little Byzantine girls were taught how to speak, how to move, how to lower their gaze with grace - but never how to stand against the wind. They were taught to be as silent as the eunuchs' steps, as flawless as the embossed patterns on the walls of Hagia Sophia.

But if a tree was planted in a pot, it grew exactly as the gardeners intended.

If a flower sprouted where it should not have, it was uprooted.

So it was with them.

They married those who were chosen for them - emperors, generals, allies whose dynasties intertwined like the patterns on the carpets of imperial chambers. Their fates were decided behind closed doors, their lives dictated by orders signed by men.

They were not even called by their names, but by their lineage - "daughter of Lakapenos," "the emperor's betrothed," "the consort of the Caesar." Their existence held meaning only in relation to someone else.

But there were others. Those who did not submit.

Zoë Porphyrogenita - three times empress, whose power they tried to take away. Theophano - a woman who chose poison over obedience. Irene of Athens, who ruled alone and then blinded her own son.

They were not just daughters. Not just wives.

But they were not happy either.

They did not sit in golden pots.

But too many paid for it in blood.

Sophia's gaze lingered on the lilies. Which flower would survive longer - the one that bent before the wind, or the one that sent its roots deeper than they could be torn out?

They did not sit on thrones, but they could rule through the ears of those who did. Sophia had seen how the mothers and sisters of Caesars whispered decisions that later became law. How strength hid beneath the mask of submission.

But this strength was different - not open, not obvious. And those who too boldly reached for power were remembered by history not as rulers, but as conspirators.

Sophia had seen it since childhood.

She had seen how her mother lowered her eyes when men spoke, how her aunt counted the jewels in her caskets as if they held even a drop of real power. She had seen how her father's sister was sent to a foreign land without anyone asking if she wanted it.

It had always been this way.

And Sophia?

She did not know what she would become.

But she knew one thing - no matter how carefully flowers were cultivated, one day they took root where no one expected them to.

She shifted her gaze from the lily to her hands.

- I don't know, Clio...

Sophia slowly touched the petals, running her finger over them.

- Maybe this garden really isn't worse than ours

She frowned slightly.

- But I think... the flowers here grow on their own. Or do I just want to believe that?

Clio looked at her but did not answer immediately.

A quiet breeze stirred the leaves.

The roots had already touched foreign soil. But if someone tried to tear them out - what if the earth refused to let go?

- Look, - Clio crouched slightly, tilting her head, and traced a petal with the tip of her finger. - It stands alone. Even if no one expected it to grow here

Sophia lifted her gaze to her.

- But it grows, - Clio smiled. - Even if the soil is foreign

Sophia frowned slightly, but her cousin was already watching her with a mischievous glint in her eye.

- And if you put down roots... who decides whether they will be allowed to grow?

Clio was smiling, but her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her sleeve. Sophia noticed - there was something extra in that smile. A bit too much lightness, too much carefreeness. As if saying it too seriously would make it frightening.

- What do you mean?

Clio smiled - not cheerfully, but too easily, as if brushing aside her own thought.

- The prince, of course. Or do you really think... that flowers here grow on their own?

Sophia gave a small shake of her head.

- I didn't choose. Does it even matter?

Clio hesitated for a second, then shrugged.

- What if he smiles at you in a way that makes you forget why you came here?

- Falls in love?.. - Sophia flinched, as if the word had slipped out on its own.

She wanted to scoff, but suddenly she realized she had been staring into the water for too long.

The reflection wavered, blurred.

- That's just... a fairy tale, isn't it?

The wind sent ripples across the surface, distorting the image.

Sophia ran her finger through the water. The line of her face trembled, dissolved into waves.

One strong breath - and it would disappear completely.

Like a woman's fate, if it was decided for her.

Clio also looked at the reflections.

- It's when you look at someone... and fear that one day they will be gone. Even if they were never yours

Sophia slowly shook her head.

- And if emptiness is all that remains? Then no matter what it costs, there is no choice anyway

Clio glanced at her, the corner of her lips twitching.

- You speak like a poet

Sophia did not smile.

- And you speak like a father

Clio snorted but did not argue.

Sophia remained silent as well.

She did not know what love was. She had been taught that there was duty. There was calculation. There was power.

Everything else was just a beautiful lie.

Her finger slowly glided over the velvet petal. The flower was cold, like the morning air.

Sophia knew - it would wither.

But what if it managed to bloom first? What if it left a trace, even if only briefly?

Clio kept talking - lightly, carelessly, but with that smile that concealed everything that could not be said aloud.

She laughed - softly, as if joking, but Sophia saw that it was not just laughter. It was something more. A final defense.

Clio smiled the way she had been taught - because smiling was easier than fear. Because if you laughed long enough, you could believe you weren't afraid.

But did laughter save you from what had already been decided?

Could a smile stop the hand poised to pluck the flower?

How long would their flowers last before someone tried to tear them out by the roots?

But here... here, no one tore them out.

Sophia lifted her eyes. No one transplanted flowers to where they looked "right." No one pruned them if they stretched sideways instead of upward.

They simply grew.

Without borders. Without someone's will. Without a hand deciding where they should reach.

And for the first time, Sophia wondered - what if here, she could take root however she wanted?

What if no one could decide for her?

In Byzantium, fates were not decided in battles but in the shadows of curtains. They were shaped with words, sealed with treaties, bound by alliances.

Here, no one spoke twice. Here, decisions were made with steel, not words.

If in Constantinople, conspirators were poisoned or exiled, in Kyiv, they were met with a sword. Here, power was not held by parchment, but by steel.

Sophia had thought Kyiv would be like Constantinople. At first glance, it was - the same walls, the same domes, the same marketplaces where the prices of silk and furs were shouted. But the longer she listened, the more the differences became clear.

Even the guards moved differently here.

Byzantine guards stood motionless, like marble statues. Their discipline was absolute - no one moved without an order. But here, the warriors did not stand stiffly at attention. Their eyes searched for danger, their stances were alive, ready for movement.

Kyiv lived differently. Louder. Harsher. More direct.

In Byzantium, to take power, one had to weave intricate webs. In Kyiv, one had to have warriors standing behind them.

But even here, power was not taken by the sword alone.

Conspiracies were born not behind palace tapestries but at men's feasts, in heavy nods, in the exchange of oaths and betrayals. Here, intrigues were not hidden behind silks - they were discussed at tables, with a cup of mead in one hand and a knife in the other.

In Constantinople, conspirators died from poison. In Kyiv, they were buried with swords in their chests.

But what if you had no sword? No warriors?

What if you were born not as the one who could take power, but as the one who was given away?

Sophia did not know what power women could hold here.

Byzantium taught them to rule through whispers, unseen, through silks and smiles. But here?

Here, there were no marble corridors where decisions were made in the shadows. Here, one either took power - or perished.

But what did taking power mean in this world? Sophia did not know.

She had seen men who bent not only enemies but fate itself to the sword. She had seen how the boyars spoke to each other - not in veiled phrases, but directly, without the refined play of words. She had seen how some hesitated to make decisions, while others waited to see which way the scales of power would tip.

But Prince Alexander did not wait.

He was not an heir sitting behind palace walls, waiting for a crown. He did not rule through alliances and marriages.

Sophia had watched him during audiences and negotiations with her uncle, Magister Nicodemus. She had seen how he held himself before the boyars - unhurried, yet impossible to ignore.

He did not let the Byzantine set the pace, but he did not yield to another's rhythm either. He refused easy solutions, choosing a path that took more time but gave more power.

Alexander did not seek comfort.

He did not fall for tricks, did not let Nicodemus dictate the game. He listened, weighed his options - and then cut through the conversation like a knife, forcing even an experienced diplomat to change his strategy. Sophia saw how her uncle - a man used to guiding others' decisions - had met someone who could not be led.

Alexander did not rule with words. He ruled with the weight of decisions.

He did not ask if he could.

He simply took.

She watched him - and realized that beside him, she could not remain just a name.

And for the first time, Sophia wondered: in this world, where the sword ruled, was there a place for a woman who did not want to be just an ornament?

And if there was - what was it?

What if, beside him, she could do what was impossible in Byzantium?

What if this land was not a cage, but a battlefield? Where it was not bloodlines that decided, but strength. Where the victor was the one who refused to break. Where even flowers, to survive, had to push through swords?

What if beside him, she would have to choose - remain a shadow or find her voice?

She did not believe she could change a man.

But if even the flowers here broke through stone, without asking…

Then why couldn't she?

And if she could - why ask?

***

Thank you to everyone who reads.

The story of Alexander and Sophia is one of the most complex and captivating.

He is a man who subjugates everything to a system, even his own feelings. She is someone who was taught from childhood to hide her emotions, to speak and act as befits the daughter of great Byzantium.

What will happen when two wills, bound in the armor of duty, collide? When one who is used to ruling meets one who has been taught all her life to obey - but never to break?

This story is one of my favorites. I hope you will enjoy it as well. Because overcoming all of this means embarking on a journey that will take years.

And as you know, with me, everything always follows its own course.

I hope I was able to convey the atmosphere to you - what the gardens looked like in both Kievan Rus' and Byzantium, what the world of noble Byzantine women was like. But this is only the beginning.

Soon, you will see how women lived here, in Kyiv. And how, over time, everything will begin to change.

Alexander does not just take power - he transforms it. Step by step, he will change every aspect of this world.