To some, Bread, To others, a Sword

At the western gates, where the doors barely had time to close, new caravans, riders, and messengers appeared.

Not just guests. Not just merchants.

Those arrived who were accustomed to shaping destinies not at public assemblies but behind the closed doors of palaces.

The people of Kyiv did not crowd at the gates like children awaiting a miracle. They stood a little farther away, assessing, measuring with their gazes. Merchants calculated which prices would rise. Craftsmen held back their sons so they wouldn't jostle the foreigners. Warriors did not move, but their eyes keenly followed every gesture.

Merchants were greeted as always - briskly, with an eye on profit. But when warriors appeared behind them, the market fell silent. People did not hide - but neither did they smile. Their gazes were sharp, assessing: was this a friend, or was it trouble?

When the riders approached the gates, speaking a foreign tongue, the city froze.

The noise of Kyiv, like a crashing wave, struck an invisible wall and dissolved into silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The caravan halted, the horses snorted, swatting away flies.

Polish riders merely tugged at their reins - unhurried, as if testing the firmness of the ground beneath their hooves. The Hungarians dismounted easily, as if they did not feel the weight of the road. Their horses stepped proudly, and their bridles gleamed as if in a triumphal procession.

On the crimson Polish banners shimmered an embroidered eagle - the symbol of the House of Piast's power, familiar even from the coins of Bolesław the Brave.

Beside them, the Hungarian banners bore the patriarchal cross - a reminder of Saint Stephen, the first king who brought his land to Christianity.

These symbols were known on the roads of Europe and Rus'. But in Kyiv, they meant one thing - the neighbors had come to see what kind of ruler the new prince would be.

The envoys did not hurry to enter.

Stanislav of Ratyn, a close confidant of Prince Casimir I, sat in the saddle straight as a sword in its sheath. His black cloak, devoid of unnecessary embellishments, accentuated his lean figure, and his cold gaze glided over the fortress walls, catching details.

Thin cracks in the stone. Uneven spots of fresh masonry. Traces of repairs.

Stanislav was not merely looking - he was reading. Kyiv was strong, but it was still healing old wounds.

- These walls seem sturdy, - he muttered, but loudly enough to be heard. - Only any crack is an invitation to an enemy. I wonder if the young prince understands that?

But his gaze caught more than just the masonry.

The crowd at the gates did not scatter, did not whisper fearfully. The people of Kyiv watched calmly - too calmly. Like a merchant who has long set his price but lets the trader think he is still considering.

Beside him, György of Eger, representative of the Hungarian King Andrew I, tilted his head as if listening to something of his own. His demeanor was sharply different from the Polish. A restrained smile, a soft gaze, a friendly expression.

He brushed his belt, inlaid with Byzantine stones, tossed back his cloak, and responded with a slight touch of irony - in Latin, distinctly, as if these were not mere words but a position in a diplomatic game:

- Simulacra, amice, simulacra. Symbols, my friend, symbols. Walls are merely reflections of a city's will. The true strength of Kyiv lies in the people who defend it

Stanislav slowly turned his head toward him but did not argue.

György continued, as if thinking aloud:

- But you are right. The young prince must prove that he can not only build walls but also strengthen allies

As he spoke, the gazes around them latched onto the approaching riders. The murmur, at first distant like the sound of surf, grew louder. Merchants cast sidelong glances, whispering to their servants, passersby slowed their steps, listening to the foreign speech.

Lachs. They were known. They traded with them, fought them, avenged them. Today they brought gold. Tomorrow - perhaps fire.

The Ugrians were softer. Their smiles were courteous, their speech respectful. But this was one of those cases where the blade lay so elegantly in its sheath that one forgot its sharpness.

- Look, the Lachs!

- And with them, the Ugrians… What have they come for?

- Look at the gifts! Do you think they brought them for nothing? Everything is calculated

Others picked up the discussion, but before the crowd could start buzzing louder, a dull stomping sounded behind the gates.

Not sharp, but weighty - steps the city was accustomed to.

From the gates, at a measured pace, unhurriedly, as if they themselves were part of the city walls, came Miroslav the Wise and Dobrynya of Pereyaslavl.

Behind them moved a small procession. Warriors in ceremonial chainmail, their helmets polished to a shine. Servants carried princely banners - a crimson cloth rippling in the morning wind.

Two young women in long embroidered dresses stepped forward, holding loaves of bread and bowls of salt on snow-white towels.

Miroslav calculated the game moves ahead. Dobrynya knew how to strike precisely, at the right moment - both with words and with a blade. One set traps. The other broke defenses.

Miroslav was the first to bow his head in a courteous greeting. But it was not a gesture of submission, but a move in a game where each step meant more than a word:

- Welcome to Kyiv, gentlemen. Your visit is a sign that Kievan Rus' continues its greatness. We are glad to see such esteemed guests

Dobrynya did not bow, only nodded - respectfully, but without submission.

The women presented the loaves.

- Kievan Rus' welcomes guests in the honor of its ancestors, - Miroslav said in an even voice. - Accept bread and salt

Stanislav of Ratyn slowly extended his hand. He took a piece but did not taste it. He squeezed it between his fingers, as if testing how it would break.

György broke off a piece and ate it immediately.

- A good tradition, - he remarked with slight approval. - When there is bread in a house, there is strength in it

Stanislav barely curled his lips but said nothing.

A moment later, he stepped back, turning to Miroslav and Dobrynya.

- I hope the might of Rus' is reinforced not just by words, - his voice was even, but his fingers tightened slightly on the reins. - Poland wants to know that its neighbor will remain strong

Miroslav paused.

- Greatness is reinforced by actions. Tomorrow you will see Kievan Rus' as it should be

Stanislav did not respond, but his gaze hardened. György shifted his eyes from Miroslav to Dobrynya, as if assessing how firm their position was.

Dobrynya noticed. He held the pause. Then, calmly, he added:

- Walls hold a city. Strength holds borders. But power is not held by orders, but by those willing to die without them. Kyiv does not speak of its power. It shows it with history

György did not look away, but his shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he had made a decision.

- Gentlemen, let us leave sharp questions for the reception hall, - he said conciliatorily, spreading his arms as if steering the argument aside. - Kyiv is a magnificent city. I think the young prince may surprise us, perhaps even more than we expect

Stanislav barely smirked - the way one looks at an enemy who is still an ally.

- Surprise? - he repeated, tilting his head. - Kievan Rus' is great, but every new rule brings change. It is important to understand what path the prince will take

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

- Your king looks at Rus' like a marketplace. He would buy it - if only he had the coin. He would take it as an ally - but there is no faith. Then what are you? Buyers? Or are you bargaining?

György held his gaze a moment longer than usual. Then he smiled - lightly, almost kindly, but a flicker of caution appeared in his eyes.

- Between our courts flows not gold, but blood. Family blood, if you will. The Queen of Hungary is the sister of Prince Alexander. And a family should know who will take the throne

There was no threat in his voice - only a pointed statement of fact.

- We do not simply observe. We remember that as Kievan Rus' shapes its tomorrow, so too will our alliance be shaped

Stanislav curled his lips slightly but said nothing.

At the side, near the walls, two boyars exchanged glances. One raised an eyebrow, the other barely pressed his lips together. Those who knew Latin had already understood everything. The rest only sensed that what had been said meant more than it seemed.

The crowd did not grasp the meaning, but they caught the intonations.

A dull whisper swept through like the wind across the steppe.

- About what?

- About the prince

- About the alliance

- The alliance?

Rumors spread faster than words.

- The Ugrians want something

- To bargain?

- Or to set conditions?

The delegations had already passed through the gates and moved further, slowly but without hesitation. Horses clattered their hooves against the stone, the scent of wood and fine fabrics trailing from the wagons. Along the streets, the townspeople watched the envoys intently - some with curiosity, others with caution.

György still smiled - easily, serenely - but something else flickered in his eyes.

Stanislav of Ratyn slowly turned his head toward Miroslav.

There was no open challenge in his gaze, but the question meant more than mere formality.

- Alliances are fickle things. Today a friend, tomorrow a threat. We want to know that Rus' will remain strong and stable. The sudden fall of such significant figures as Yaroslav's sons raises doubts

The words were spoken calmly, but a hidden sharpness could be felt even through the balanced tone. Silence hung in the air - heavy, like a storm that had yet to strike but was already pressing against the temples.

Miroslav did not answer immediately. He looked at Stanislav as if weighing not only the question but also the man who had asked it.

Then, slowly and confidently, he spoke:

- Kievan Rus' has endured sorrow, and its path continues. The young prince is taking on a burden that many would consider unbearable. Your visit is a sign that you are ready to assess his resolve

Dobrynya, crossing his arms over his chest, added:

- The one who knows how to rise after a fall rules longer than the one who has never fallen

Stanislav remained silent. His gaze slid over Miroslav's face, but his expression remained the same - grim, thoughtful, concealing his thoughts.

However, György, tilting his head slightly, smirked:

- True strength lies in foreseeing consequences. His decrees are impressive. We have been told that he is already taking his first steps

The phrase sounded almost careless, but his gaze was sharp. These words carried not just interest - but a careful evaluation.

The air seemed to thicken. In this silence, one could hear someone in the crowd shifting nervously from foot to foot.

But before anyone could respond, the sharp voice of the herald rang out. The words of the prince's decree cut through the air like a blade, echoing across the square.

Miroslav stepped forward, his steady movement putting an end to the conversation.

- Kyiv has always known how to welcome those who arrive in peace. Your men are weary from the road, and the prince has ordered that you be given a fitting reception

He turned, his gaze indicating the depths of the city, where, beyond the rows of streets, the walls of the citadel rose.

- Your quarters are ready. Lodging within the fortress is a sign of trust that not everyone is granted

Stanislav did not immediately look in that direction, but he noted it out of the corner of his eye. The corner of his lips twitched into a faint smirk.

- Trust? Or convenience for you?

Miroslav inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging the implication, but his voice remained steady:

- Both. Poland is used to seeing calculation in its allies. Kyiv prefers to see allies in its calculations

György chuckled - lightly, almost kindly, but a glint of interest flickered in his eyes:

- A clever move. Being closer to the prince means being closer to decisions

Dobrynya, who had been silently observing this play of words, tilted his head slightly, studying the Poles' reaction. Then he folded his arms across his chest and, without changing his expression, said:

- And it also means that whoever decides to act foolishly will remain here. Forever

Stanislav met his gaze - long, intently, as if trying to determine how strong these walls truly were.

Miroslav let the silence linger, but not for long. He continued, not allowing the conversation to slip into cold tension:

- Of course, before meeting with the prince, you will have time to rest. This evening, the prince is hosting a feast

For some - a celebration. For others - a battlefield. In the upper halls, it would be decided who was an ally and who was a shadow at one's back. Below, in the banquet halls, the common folk would raise their cups, thinking that this feast was about merriment.

Stanislav ran a finger along the strap of his cloak. He was neither surprised nor amused.

- A feast before the decisive day... The prince makes the first move

György inclined his head - but without a bow.

- He who calls to the table expects a gesture in return

Miroslav held a pause.

- The first strike is always a word

György nodded, but calculation flickered in his eyes:

- And he who sits closest to the prince chooses whose voice will become a weapon

Stanislav said nothing, only smirked slightly.

The delegations moved on, accompanied by the prince's warriors.

The crowd watched them for a long time.

In their whispers, there was everything - admiration, distrust, fear.

Tomorrow, some would raise a cup to the new prince.

And some... would start counting those who would not rise from the table.

But not all whispers were born in Kyiv.

Somewhere far away, beyond the hills, beyond the Dnieper, other conversations were taking place - under the open sky, among dry grass and the steppe wind.

News traveled the roads faster than horses. At roadside inns, people murmured:

- The Cumans are coming

In the merchants' shops, they asked something else:

- They came with gifts. But how many warriors do they have?

Old men at the gates exchanged glances:

- What does the wind bring from the steppe - gold or a raid?

Kyiv did not greet the steppe with smiles.

Kyiv waited.

The Cuman caravan stretched along the road, leaving a dusty trail behind. The steppe breathed - the wind drove waves of dry grass, the sun made the air shimmer, as if the very earth was slipping away from beneath the hooves.

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the hills, the city began. But for now, it was silent - only the rustle of feather grass and the torn gusts of wind carrying the scent of sun-scorched earth. The air trembled, blurring the riders' outlines, as if the steppe itself was trying to hide them from prying eyes.

Horses tossed their heads, shooing away flies, men squinted against the scorching light, peering into the horizon. Ahead lay not just a road but the boundary between familiar freedom and the unknown.

At the front rode Tugorkan.

A man of the steppe winds, a man who had lived through hundreds of campaigns and dozens of worlds, yet had never learned to trust them. His gaze did not simply skim the horizon - it dug into it, searching for every shadow, every movement. He was not looking for enemies, but he was certain they were near.

Behind the khan rode his guard - not just warriors, but a pack. Men who did not love peace because they knew:

Any peace is only the calm before the storm.

Their light armor did not hinder their movements, sabers at their belts swayed in rhythm with their horses' steps, as if ready to leap into battle at any moment. The wind played with their garments, teasing out the patterns - encrypted stories of battles, blood, and agreements that had cost no less than war.

For the Cumans, Kyiv was like a distant relative - too important to be at war with, too dangerous to trust. Their freedom depended on its strength, and its weakness could be their opportunity.

The rumors of Yaroslav's sons' deaths had forced the khanate to move faster than they had wished.

- We must show that we come in peace, - Tugorkan had said at the council before departure. His voice was steady, calm, yet there was neither doubt nor concession in it. - If we are accused, war is inevitable. And war with Rus' now is death for the steppe

The younger warriors protested.

- Is our honor worth gold? Let them fear us, not us justify ourselves to them!

Tugorkan interrupted firmly:

- Without Rus' bread, your tents will be empty. And the steppe does not forgive hunger. If the prince strengthens his power by blaming us, it will be the end of our world. We must get ahead of their suspicions - but not bow before them

The wagons, covered with embroidered cloths, concealed furs, gold, and silks. The caravan moved step by step toward Kyiv, and now the hills ahead had risen, beyond which the city began.

Last evening in Kyiv, they said: - They are near

At night: - They will be here tomorrow

At dawn: - Prepare

The prince's retinue heard this calmly, without fuss. They knew the Cumans came in different ways. Some with gifts. Others with fire.

Today, they came with the first.

But what would come tomorrow?

Kyiv did not greet the steppe riders as it had the Hungarians and Poles. There were no offerings of bread and salt, no embroidered tablecloths, no respectful bows. They were not awaited in the halls, they were not invited to the table.

The Cumans were met differently.

First - the rumble of hooves. Heavy, steady, like the tide before a storm.

Then - rows of riders.

Lances pointed upward, like lightning frozen in anticipation of a strike.

The sun cast reflections on helmets, but there was no warmth in that light.

Only cold, measured strength.

The prince's druzhina did not wait for them in the city. They rode out into the field.

Not as masters, but not as servants either. They stood motionless, as if they were part of the land itself, making it clear - the steppe riders could come, but they could not rule here.

At the head of the detachment rode the Supreme Voivode, Ignat Slavyansky.

His chainmail, blackened by time and countless campaigns, fit him like a second skin. On his head - a dark, spherical helmet with a narrow nose guard that concealed emotions but emphasized his piercing gaze. He did not grip his sword's hilt - he was in no hurry to reveal his intentions, but he did not loosen his grip either. Everything in his appearance said: this was a man accustomed to resolving matters, but if necessary - he would do so with iron.

On either side rode Vyshata, head of the garrison, Senior Boyar Svyatoslav Polovetsky, and Boyar Boris Dneprovsky. Each kept a hand on their sword's hilt.

Two hundred warriors of the Senior Druzhina, clad in steel, sat in their saddles, shoulder to shoulder.

They did not charge in reckless assaults like the Frankish knights. They did not crush their foes with sheer weight like the Byzantine cataphracts. They killed differently - with cold calculation, with the precision known only to those who had survived dozens of campaigns.

There was no haste in this formation, no unnecessary movement, but there was the unmistakable feeling that any word, any gesture from the Cumans - and the air would be sliced apart by the whistle of blades.

The detachment halted a few dozen steps away. Close enough to catch the movement of a hand toward a weapon. But not so close that a single spark would turn this into slaughter.

Between the two sides stretched an empty space. But it was more than just land.

It was a boundary no one dared to cross first.

Silence stretched on for several moments.

The horses struck the ground with their hooves, as if eager to bolt forward, but waiting for a sign.

The steppe riders remained silent.

The wind tore at their cloaks, but no one moved first.

The sun glinted off chainmail, but the light was as cold as a blade.

All that remained was to wait - who would move first?

Finally, Ignat leaned forward, like a predator studying a foreign pack. His gaze swept over the caravan - not superficially, but with precision. Who was tense? Who was relaxed? Who watched from beneath furrowed brows, and who held themselves with defiance?

- Khan Tugorkan, - his voice was even but loud enough for not only the Cumans to hear, but also the Senior Druzhina behind him. - Kyiv knows you are approaching. Was your journey peaceful?

It was not a question.

It was a test.

Tugorkan slowly inclined his head - not in submission, but in evaluation. His eyes, dark as the steppe nights, remained still. He heard not just the words, but what stood behind them.

- Rus' remembers war. We remember trade. Today, we bring gifts

He paused, letting them hear the silence between the words.

- But if tomorrow the steppe hears lies about itself, the roads will change

His voice was steady. Calm. Without threats. But also without submission.

- The death of the princes is not on our blades. And we wish to know if their deaths will become your advantage

Ignat did not answer immediately.

He looked at Tugorkan the way he would look at a battlefield before a fight - searching for weakness, for strength, for lies, and for truth.

Beside him, Boyar Vyshata tilted his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.

- Words are rarely proof, Khan, - he said. - In Kievan Rus', peace is confirmed by deeds

In the Cuman crowd, someone shifted a shoulder, another adjusted in the saddle as if shaking off an invisible yoke. They hated such meetings.

In the steppe, strength was truth.

In Kyiv, it was law.

But the steppe knew laws.

Tugorkan held his pause. A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes.

Behind him, a young warrior leaned forward, but the Khan raised his hand - a sharp, barely noticeable gesture. The warrior froze at once.

The Senior Druzhina watched closely.

- Look how they look at us. As if we were begging them for bread, - someone muttered quietly in the ranks.

- Silence, - another replied. - Let them speak. The one who justifies himself is the weaker one

Tugorkan slowly turned his head. Unhurriedly, with the measured slowness of a man used to being obeyed. A single short gesture was enough for several Cumans to dismount.

It was not just an order - it was a sign.

They lifted a heavy chest from the wagon, adorned with fine carvings and metal inlays, and carefully placed it before Ignat.

- This gift is not just a gesture of respect, - the Khan said, and steel slid into his voice. - It is a reminder. Peace between us is profitable. But is it worth destroying what feeds both Rus' and the steppe?

Ignat did not immediately lower his gaze to the chest.

Instead, he studied the men. Who stood too straight, as if afraid to betray their tension? Who was already searching for a way to retreat? He did not see just warriors. He saw weak points.

They called it diplomacy.

He called it a test.

- Gifts are silent, - the voivode finally said. - And silence is worth nothing if no actions follow

Boyar Rodion Prechisty shook his head.

- They want to show their importance. But this feels more like an excuse than confidence

Boyar Igor Svetogor crossed his arms over his chest, his voice firm:

- The Cumans see weakness where they look for it. Let them find only a wall this time

Khan Tugorkan straightened in the saddle, looking down at the Senior Druzhina as if weighing their sense.

- Our deeds are the roads on which your merchants trade, and the steppe that keeps enemies from your borders. Or do you think such things happen on their own?

Boyar Vyshata narrowed his eyes slightly.

- Everything has meaning, - he said. - But peace stands not on offerings, but on trust that must be earned

Ignat slowly nodded, his voice steady but absolute:

- The Khan and his closest men will enter Kyiv. But their warriors will remain outside. Kievan Rus' is not accustomed to foreign swords near its hearth

The Cumans remained silent, but reins tightened, backs stiffened. They were not being stopped at the threshold. They were either received as guests - or shut out entirely.

Right now, they were being shut out.

The air grew heavier.

Someone in the Senior Druzhina gripped a sword hilt. Someone among the Cumans shifted their horse, as if ready to turn back to the steppe.

But Tugorkan did not let it show. He looked at Ignat the way old leaders do - not offering a challenge, but showing no submission either.

He only gave a slight nod.

- A reasonable decision, - he said. - Time will tell if it is the right one

Ignat did not reply.

He tugged sharply on the reins, and his horse, sensing its master's command, threw its head up and turned briskly. Behind him, the Senior Druzhina followed without breaking stride. Calmly. Without looking back. The way men leave when they have already spoken their word.

Tugorkan did not rush. He watched as the figures of the Druzhina disappeared around the bend, listening to the silence that remained after them.

When the last helmet vanished behind the hill, the Khan finally nudged his reins. The Cumans moved to follow - but not immediately.

One of the warriors, young and nervous, glanced between the chest of gifts and the Khan. He wanted to say something, but held his tongue.

Another, older, with eyes the color of scorched grass, lingered. Without turning his head, he let his gaze skim over Kyiv's walls, the people at the gates, the sentries frozen on the hills.

He tightened his grip on the reins.

- Not today, - he murmured almost to himself. - But the steppe does not forget

He did not move first.

First, the wind tugged at his cloak, as if inviting him forward. Then the horses, shaking their heads, impatiently scraped their hooves against the ground. Only then did he slowly turn and ride after the Khan.

Behind them, on the plain, the Cumans did not move at once.

They did not like to wait, but they knew that haste was the first step to weakness.

Someone dismounted, glancing around for a place to set up the tents.

The river was too far, but the trees at the foot of the hill offered shelter from both wind and prying eyes. Those who knew the terrain noted immediately: the spot was visible from Kyiv's walls, but distant enough that Rus' could not track their every movement.

Servants stretched the tents, untied sacks of provisions, while seasoned warriors did more than just scan the hills - they were already marking vantage points for their sentries.

But those in the front rows remained still.

One clenched his fists. Another ran his hand over the hilt of his saber. But none of them spoke.

They watched in silence - not just with wariness, but with the heavy stillness of men deciding whether to withdraw or to wait for the hour of vengeance.

Kyiv did not throw open its gates.

In the steppe, the wind made the decisions.

Here, the prince did.

***

Thank you to everyone who reads.

I have shown everything I wanted - except for the arrival of Anna Monomakhina, the boyars from Pereyaslavl, and how Nikodim, along with Metropolitan Hilarion and others, determine their places for tomorrow's ceremony. But it is best not to overload this day.

Better to move straight to the evening.

Alexander and Dobrynya are heading to the Kuchmister, and with them, we will take a look into the kitchen of Kievan Rus' - to see the bustling preparations for the feast, the dishes being made, and how the process itself is organized.

Only after that - the Evening Feast, where not only matters of the table will be decided, but also upcoming reforms, the submission of the boyars, and new moves in the game of power.