Sun over the Abyss

Kyiv lived, but not peacefully - it seethed like a cauldron in which the boiling brew was already beginning to spill over. Steam burst from the cracks, scalding the hands of those who tried to hold down the lid. Cracks crept along the walls, and only the blind could believe it would not explode.

The air over the city was heavy, as if before a storm, and every crossroads, every street, even the narrowest alleys, breathed with commotion.

From the Dnieper docks, caravans of boats flowed like a dense stream spreading along the shore. People, hunched under the weight of bundles, dragged furs, fabrics, and sacks of grain to the prince's warehouses.

Loaded carts trembled on potholes, their axles creaking wearily, like an old man grumbling about a hard lot. The drivers urged their horses on - short, rough, with familiar irritation. The lathered horses tossed their heads, shaking off the dust of the road.

The hum of human voices rolled in waves, like the tolling of the Saint Sophia bell - long, muffled, echoing in every alley.

The markets roared like a battlefield before the first clash. The guttural cries of merchants cut through the air - sharp, heavy, giving no respite.

Words collided, intertwining into a continuous din, which could not only be heard but felt on the skin. In this noise, there was life, but there was also something else - something slipping between the words, like the foreboding of a storm.

In the churches, on the contrary, voices faded, like candles touched by the wind. But in the forges, steel rang: hammers struck red-hot metal with a steady, almost warlike rhythm. Behind the bustle, behind the human clamor, behind the merchants' cries, a tense silence seeped through, perceptible to those who listened closely.

Tomorrow, Prince Alexander would rise over the city like the sun over the Dnieper. Or he would fall like a falling star, leaving behind only a trail of ash.

On the eve of that day, Kyiv was transforming.

There was not a single place in the streets where the wave of preparations had not reached. By day, traders rushed back and forth with goods, filling the prince's warehouses; craftsmen worked without rest; boyars received guests, discussing how Kyivan Rus' would change under the new rule.

But above all, tomorrow had to pass without turmoil.

The Kyiv guard resembled a pack of hunting hounds that had caught the scent of prey but awaited the signal.

At the crossroads stood the druzhinniki - silent, alert. The wind tugged at their cloaks, as if testing the strength of those who wore them. They did not block the roads, but they stood like a beast before a leap - breathing steady, yet ready to lunge.

Their gazes pierced the faces of passersby, and their fingers twitched near the hilts of their swords. Their hands were relaxed, but if anything disrupted the city's rhythm, blades would gleam in the air.

In the detinets, the walls seemed taller than usual. As if the very stones understood that tomorrow would decide Kyiv's fate.

Archers stood at their posts, unmoving, like figures carved from stone. Below, at the gates, foot guards paced slowly along the walls, while in the palaces and corridors, men moved with downcast eyes and spoke more quietly than usual.

In the watch, one of the druzhinniki muttered, as if voicing a thought aloud:

- And if tomorrow does not go as planned?

Another exhaled, shook his head.

- Then there will simply be a new prince. The only question is - who among us will remain in his druzhina?

Near the cathedral, the air seemed to thicken - no one walked there without sensing someone's gaze upon them.

But the most important events were unfolding beyond the detinets.

In the alleys, there were no voices - only shadows gliding along the walls, dissolving before they could be noticed. Faceless people, silhouettes without names - they did not haggle, did not drink, did not laugh.

Their movements were smooth, but beneath that smoothness lay coiled tension. Their eyes - watchful, almost predatory. Their hands - too close to their belts, as if ready to grasp steel.

Merchants? Pilgrims? Or shadows waiting for their moment?

They listened.

They watched.

And if anyone lingered their gaze upon them, they met a coldness as sharp as a blade. Amid the city's clamor, they discerned not just words, but intentions.

In movement - not just passersby, but strangers who did not belong in Kyiv.

Some disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.

A potter, laying out his wares, noticed how a buyer suddenly fell silent mid-sentence, staring into the crowd. His face twitched, but he said nothing - only followed with his eyes the cloaked figure slipping into an alley.

There, in the shadows, others watched as well.

Inn yards and drinking houses were checking newcomers. In these days, the city was filled with hundreds of people - boyar servants, envoys, merchants, wandering warriors, pilgrims, drifters. Who among them was merely seeking shelter, and who was lurking, waiting for the right moment?

In the alleys, movements were silent. There, where an honest man's foot would not tread, shadows melted into darkness, and whispers ran swifter than the wind.

Petty thieves, cunning spies, disguised messengers - all were under watch.

In the courtyards, fires smoldered, their smoke clawing at throats, making speech difficult. The druzhinniki sat in tight groups - eating tasteless bread, chewing without noticing.

Others sharpened their blades. The scraping of steel sounded like a countdown to the coming day.

No loud laughter, no conversations, no drunken jokes - only hushed phrases, footsteps in the dark, and silent glances.

A heavy weight hung in the air. No one knew whether tomorrow would be a peaceful day or whether Kyiv's streets would ignite with fire.

In one of the alleys, a cry rang out - short but piercing.

- Hold him! - a voice called, filled with alarm.

For a moment, the crowd fell silent; a druzhinnik standing nearby was already stepping toward the disturbance, making an unseen gesture to summon three more.

In such days, the word "Feud" sounded like a sentence.

That was what they called turmoil in Kyivan Rus' - when the streets became a trap, and people became prey. On such days, no one knew where the slaughter would begin - in an alley, at the market, or right at the gates of the prince's court.

The druzhina watched. The guards scanned every face. But could they see the blow that was already looming over the city?

That day, the air was strangely heavy, like before a storm.

In Podil, amidst the dense market rows, it was as if nothing had happened. People still bargained, laughed, and raised their cups.

While they still could.

The market rows expanded like the living flesh of the city, filling every free corner of streets and courtyards.

The air here was thick, heavy. It clung to the skin, stretched with the sweetness of sbiten, soaked with the soot of braziers, while fat dripped from spits, sizzling on the coals.

Merchants, craftsmen, traveling traders, beggars, apprentices - all merged into a single, resonant stream. Someone rushed by with bolts of fabric, another carried buckets of mead on a yoke, while someone else, already drunk and flushed, embraced the first passerby, singing bawdy songs.

By order of Prince Alexander, a festive market was held in Podil.

An entire square was set aside for bread stalls - the bakeries never cooled. The crowds buzzed, as if at a meager catch, but today there was neither hunger nor despair. Only the scent of fresh dough, roasted barley, the crackle of hot crusts under fingers.

Boys squeezed between the stalls, trying to snatch a piece. Old men conversed, recalling that in their lifetime they had never seen such generosity from a prince.

- Alexander is kind! - someone shouted, raising a loaf above their head, and the crowd roared in response.

The prince's druzhinniki stood aside, observing the human tide. They did not interfere - yet. Only their gazes were sharp, watchful.

Off to the side, near the sprawling market rows, a commotion rose, as if a thousand throats cried out at once.

- Gold! Pure gold, prince's minting! - a merchant from the Galician lands waved his hands, showing grivnas with fine engraving.

- Silk from Persia itself! Smooth as a maiden's skin! - a trader ran the fabric through his palms, while his assistants kept a keen watch to prevent any theft.

In the weapon stalls, steel rang out.

- A sword that will cleave chainmail but not break! - a blacksmith bellowed, raising a blade that gleamed in the sunlight.

- And this one is of princely craftsmanship! Only the druzhina carries such! - another chimed in, drawing a sword from its scabbard, its blade flashing with a predatory glint.

The crowd surged, boiled, argued. Kyiv lived as a river does before the flood - restless, with a hidden current beneath the mirror-like surface.

But in waters full of gleam, there is always lurking murk.

Behind the merchants, blacksmiths, traders, and drunken revelers, no one noticed the others - those who did not shout, did not bargain, did not drink.

They did not buy silk, did not test swords. They listened. They watched.

In the noise of the fair, one could dissolve.

In the crowd - disappear.

In the shadows - leave a trace no one would find.

And behind heavy oak doors, decisions were already being made about which traces would remain after tomorrow.

The air held the scent of soot, wax, and something stale - as if the very chamber knew that dark deeds were being plotted within.

- Too many people will be in the square, - a first voice whispered, tension flickering in its caution.

- Too many? - a second voice snapped back, almost irritated. - That's even better. Easier to vanish in the crowd

- But not easier to strike, - a third muttered hoarsely, as if his voice had grown rough from long silence.

A candle cracked. The silence shuddered with it. In the darkness, someone sharply drew in a breath, as if it was not the wick that had burst, but the last chance to turn back. Someone exhaled too quickly, carelessly.

- If it happens before the people… - a slow, drawn-out voice, as if the speaker himself hesitated to finish.

- …He will not become prince, - a fourth voice cut in. There was neither doubt nor triumph in it. Only cold inevitability. - He will become a dead symbol

The candle's flame wavered. Black shadows flickered across the walls, stretching like foreign eyes peering through a window.

On a dark street, under a low awning, two figures pressed against the damp stone.

One held a crossbow. The other a sword - but did not draw it. The blade might betray them with the breath of steel.

- While they look up, you keep the target in your line of fire, - the first one's voice was quiet. Uncertain.

- For how long? - the second exhaled through clenched teeth.

- As long as necessary, - but he knew himself that this was a lie.

A shadow flickered in the alley. Someone passed by, did not stop.

- If something goes wrong… - the second man's voice faltered. He wiped his sweaty brow with his palm, swallowed hard. - We're finished. Do you understand that? They won't just kill us. They will erase us

The first tightened his grip on the crossbow's stock.

- There's nowhere to run, - he said. - So nothing must go wrong

But there was no certainty in his voice.

In a tavern in Podil, someone slammed a palm against the table.

Wine spilled. A thin red stream ran across the wood like an open wound. No one wiped it away. Let it soak in.

- Money first, - a voice said, quiet but pressing, like a blade at the throat.

The man sitting across slowly nodded. His fingers clenched his cup so tightly that the whiteness of his knuckles stood out even in the dim light.

- Tomorrow. When he speaks

In response - a short chuckle.

- You are not alone, - they told him. It was neither comfort nor support.

It was a sentence.

The tavern hummed as if nothing was happening. People drank, laughed, argued.

But an old man by the entrance did not drink. He gazed into the distance - toward the place where tomorrow had already begun shaping its fate.

He said nothing, only clutched his prayer beads in his fist, because he knew:

- Tomorrow there will be blood

And in the alleys, shadows were already moving.

In the weapon stalls, two daggers had vanished. The owners did not ask who had taken them. On such days, questions were asked less frequently.

In the markets, traders still argued over the price of fish - it seemed as if tomorrow did not trouble them at all.

But in the shadows, hands grew accustomed to weapons while the steel was still cold. Tomorrow, the blades would be warmed by another's blood.

And at that very moment, on another road, guests were entering Kyiv.

Mud at the fords. Rain-soaked cloaks. Heavy hooves of horses. Caravans, convoys, dusty riders.

The princely court was waiting, and guests were arriving from all corners of Rus'.

Some had taken their places long ago.

Others hurried to arrive at the last moment.

Still others remained far away - and now their voices would not be heard at the feast.

Kyiv welcomed guests, but not all in the same way.

Some were awaited with halls and feasts. Others - with cold stares and locked gates. And some would not see the dawn at all.

The city lived in tense anticipation.

With each passing hour, boyars, envoys, druzhinniki, and priests gathered in the Detinets. Nobles - but of different kinds. Some shaped the prince's fate, others ensured he did not forget it.

From the west, from the boyar estates, the senior boyars of the Peremyshl and Terebovl lands walked at an unhurried pace. They knew Alexander not by hearsay, but by his decisions. They had seen how he ruled, how he judged, how he forged power.

After the death of Yaroslav the Wise, it was he who became their prince, and now they walked to where the new fate of Kyivan Rus' was being decided - not with submission, but with calculation.

Those who had only just set out would find neither roads, nor time, nor fate. The spring floods had cut off their path - or had they themselves decided it was better to stay away?

But those who were here were already moving the pieces. At the table, those who arrive last do not get a seat. They can only watch.

The Turiv-Pinsk, Pereiaslav, and Chernihiv boyars had long settled in Kyiv. Their servants behaved like masters, their advisors tried to predict the prince's next steps - but it was too late to guess.

Alexander was already tightening the knots.

Hlib of Turiv did not merely own land - he controlled a web of agreements. Trading courtyards, lesser boyars, druzhinas defending the borders - all of it was held together by his word.

But Hlib alone was not enough. One senior boyar is a key, but not an entire fortress.

To take control of the Turiv-Pinsk lands, it was not enough to secure their governor. At the evening feast, Alexander intended to tighten the noose around half the senior boyars of the region - not with iron, but with silk, soft as Furs, yet just as unyielding.

But not everywhere could be handled the same way.

With Borys of Stalnohorod, the conversation was different.

Chernihiv was accustomed to independence. Borys's power rested on a balance - the princely lineage, the voivodes, the boyar elders. If that balance was shaken, Chernihiv would no longer be an ally but a part of the princely design.

While the senior boyars argued over their places at court, their world was already changing without them.

The Smolensk boyars did not come.

Too far. Too unexpected. Even the fastest messengers would not have brought them in time.

But the world did not wait. Their places at the prince's table were already taken by others - and when the cups were raised tomorrow, their voices would not be remembered.

No one came from Polotsk either.

The city was wealthy, its old families influential, but distance made it remote not only geographically but politically.

The road from Polotsk lay through forests, swamps, and rivers - travel took weeks even in the best of times. Spring floods and sodden roads made it even slower. Even if Vseslav Bryachislavich, Alexander's cousin, had decided to send his boyars, they would not have reached Kyiv for another two weeks.

Tmutarakan also remained on the sidelines.

Rostislav Vladimirovich, the prince's nephew, and the senior boyars of the Rostov-Suzdal lands were even farther.

For them, the road to Kyiv passed through the Polovtsian steppes - dangerous routes where caravans could be delayed not by days, but by months. Spring in the south brought not only rain but raids.

The fortresses of Rus' stood on alert, and the boyars dared not leave their lands, knowing that in their absence, slaughter could begin. Even if Rostislav had set out the very day he learned of the coronation, he still would not have arrived in time.

More than a thousand versts to Kyiv. And in such matters, the latecomers are not awaited.

From the lands of Volodymyr-Volynskyi, covered in road dust, the senior boyars arrived, led by Volodymyr Strumenskyi. Their horses, lathered and dark with sweat, struggled to walk, their servants barely stayed in the saddle, but there was no time to slow down. They had made it - and that meant everything.

Looking at the Detinets, Volodymyr felt confident. His mother, Olga, was a strong, wise woman - if she had said "go," then he was going exactly where he needed to be.

Only he was not the one choosing where.

Unaware of it yet, he carried himself as an ally. As one who had come to the prince's table with honor and right.

But his place at that table had already been decided. Not as a warrior. Not as a friend.

As dice in another's game.

Dice that had been cast - without asking if he wanted to play.

Churchmen were also arriving.

Hegumens, bishops, priests - their heavy robes had not yet shaken off the road dust, but the crosses on their chests already glimmered in the twilight.

Some gravitated toward the metropolitan - reserved, dignified, with faces that bore power, not prayer.

Others sought the prince. They understood that on this day, a blessing meant no less than an oath upon the sword.

Still others remained in the churches. They lit candles - but in their whispers, there was more than just the name of the Lord. On days when power is decided, prayer often becomes conspiracy.

And only Novgorod did not ask for a place at court - it came to see who was worthy of it.

Novgorod never bowed its head. It did not live under the prince's hand - it bargained, waged wars, forged alliances, and broke them when it was profitable. It respected strength but obeyed only its own.

The princely governor of Novgorod, Igor Rostislavich, knew this better than anyone.

He was not the most powerful boyar of Kyivan Rus', nor did he command countless druzhinas. But Yaroslav the Wise had placed him here not for his sword, but for his ability to maintain balance.

Novgorod could not be ruled - it could only be guided.

Where other governors tried to subjugate the city, Igor negotiated. He did not break - he wove himself into trade alliances, supported the veche, prevented the boyars from pulling power to themselves, but also did not allow the prince to lose influence.

His power was not built on orders but on mutual interests.

And so he remained in power when others fell.

He did not know the words "the prince's grace." He knew deals, agreements, the necessary votes at the veche. Where others bowed, he bargained.

A posadnik. A merchant. The ruler of a city where words were worth more than swords.

To some - a man of business. To others - a schemer. To still others - a wolf, patiently waiting.

And today, he was not merely observing - he was meeting those whose word would decide where Novgorod would lean.

Not the merchants - they were already in Kyiv.

Novgorod's ships, laden with furs, wax, and honey, had descended the Dnieper long before news of the coronation. They traded, negotiated, strengthened ties - and when the time came, Novgorod already knew what was happening.

But merchants were one thing. And power - another.

And now those who made decisions were entering Kyiv.

Kyivans were used to the bustle of the docks. But today, among the arriving ships were those who were not welcomed with open arms.

The ships nudged the pier like beasts feeling solid ground. The water receded, leaving behind silt and the stench of decay. The wooden planks trembled under the weight of footsteps, and the air smelled not only of the river - there was something else. Something old. Expectation? Distrust?

From the shore, they were being watched.

The first to step ashore was Ratibor Slovensky - the senior boyar whose word at the veche carried more weight than that of a dozen merchants.

Behind him came others - trading men, minor boyars, those who had come to Kyiv for deals but found themselves at the heart of change.

They walked onto Kyiv's soil unhurriedly, without unnecessary words. Their gazes slid over the city walls, the druzhinniki, the merchants who gave them slight nods upon recognizing familiar faces.

Someone in the crowd shook their head, muttering, as if to themselves but loud enough to be heard:

- They're not counting the walls, but those who rule them

Nearby, an old Kyiv merchant smirked and spat into the dust.

Ratibor stopped, his eyes sweeping over the docks, the druzhinniki at the gangways, the faces filled with more questions than answers.

His lips twitched - not quite a smile, but not mockery either. Like a merchant who already knows the price but lets others think the bargaining is still ahead.

- And the price of power too

Igor stepped forward, casting a quick glance at the newcomers.

- Was your journey long?

Ratibor squinted, as if the sun was too bright, but he was not looking at the sky - he was looking at the people, at the docks, at Igor himself.

- Long enough to understand that we were expected

Somewhere to the side, someone muttered quietly:

- The question is, were they expected with bread or with a knife?

Igor barely nodded.

- Kyiv welcomes everyone. Differently

Behind him, someone chuckled - short, like the sound of a knife being tested for sharpness.

Ratibor smirked - dully, without mirth.

They spoke no further. Because they knew - they would not be the ones making the decisions.

Igor watched his own as they disappeared into the noise of the docks.

The Novgorodians did not rush to declare themselves.

They wove themselves into Kyiv, like merchants choosing a place for trade. Without noise. Without fuss. They did not need to prove their significance - it was already with them.

But Kyiv was not just a game of internal politics. It was also the border of worlds.

Those who came from the north watched to see whom they should recognize.

But from the west, those were coming who could recognize - or reject.

Their gaze was colder than the Novgorodians'. Their words carried more weight. Their decisions could determine not only the prince's fate - but future wars.

***

I thank everyone who is reading.

I understand that this day turned out long, but it was important for me to show not just Kyivan Rus' itself, but the entire world of that time - alive, multifaceted, full of events and moving forces. I wanted you to see how everything intertwined: people, fates, intrigues.

Going forward, I will not dwell in such detail on what has already been shown. In this chapter, you have seen Kyiv not just as a capital, but as a living organism - a city that breathes, acts, and prepares for change. Ahead lies the arrival of the boyars and the Novgorodians, new players on the chessboard of power.

And in the next chapter, an even broader panorama awaits you: Western delegations, their reception according to all traditions, the first moves in a political game that begins even before the official negotiations. And, of course, the arrival of one of the khans - his reception, customs, the hidden tension, glances full of calculation and expectation. Every meeting is a test, and every word can become a weapon.