Changes on the tip of a Knife

The day flew by in affairs. Everything was being decided, coordinated, changed - and evening approached unnoticed.

The princely gridnitsa was coming to life before the feast.

Here, behind massive oak tables, the boyars, voivodes, senior druzhinniks, and foreign envoys would gather. Here, those whose word carried weight would be received, and their presence - a sign of recognition of the new power.

But the feast would not be limited to the gridnitsa alone. In the neighboring banquet halls, merchants, heads of craft communities, and city elders would assemble. Kyiv's craftsmen, traders, key keepers - all those who upheld the city not with weapons, but with labor - would be part of the celebration.

And the clergy would gather in Saint Sophia of Kyiv. There, under the majestic vaults of the ancient cathedral, the metropolitan and bishops would turn to God and the people, speaking of the future of Kyivan Rus and the prince who was ascending the throne.

Torches flickered over the polished oak tables, casting living reflections of fire upon them, as if kindling the very air before the feast. Servants bustled between the rows, stretching tablecloths, arranging goblets, ensuring that every plate was full.

The air hung heavy and dense, like steam over a boiling cauldron. It carried the tart sweetness of mead, the thick heat of roasted fish, and the sharp sourness of kvass, which tickled the nostrils, awakening hunger.

The city was alive with anticipation. The evening promised to be remembered for a long time.

In the princely chambers, however, there was tranquility. The warm light of candles glided over parchment, a quill rustled softly. Only the flame flickered, reflecting in the metal of the inkwell, and Alexander slightly slowed the movement of his hand before finishing the last calculations.

Before him lay not just a set of numbers - but the course of history, which he was shaping with his own hands.

But paper - only the foundation. True power was born not at the desk, but in words, meetings, agreements.

This day was not just a step - it was becoming the foundation for tomorrow. After lengthy negotiations with the senior boyars, Alexander left the small princely chamber and headed toward Saint Sophia of Kyiv.

There, beneath the majestic vaults of the cathedral, consecrated by Greek patriarchs, the metropolitan was already waiting for him. Dignified and focused, he was in no hurry to begin the conversation - as if weighing each word in advance.

The discussion was long.

Tomorrow's ceremony required precision in every gesture, in every rite. Master Nikodim, Agafiy Scholasticus, other clergy - all who would stand beside him in that moment - had to know exactly how the ascension of the new prince would proceed.

Kyivan Rus followed Orthodoxy. But how closely - was being decided here.

When Alexander spoke of adopting a family name and returning to princely virtues, Illarion pondered.

Thin fingers traced the edge of the lectern. His eyelids lowered slightly, and his face became unreadable, like that of a man accustomed to hiding doubts behind composure. Around them, silence reigned - no one dared to interrupt his contemplation.

Master Nikodim Doux barely inclined his head. Something akin to interest flickered in his gaze. He shifted his eyes to Agafiy Scholasticus, who, though maintaining an outward calm, looked wary.

- Why, prince? - the metropolitan finally asked. - Is your father's name not already recorded in the chronicles?

- A name is given at birth, - Alexander replied. - But a lineage is strengthened by deeds. If there are no roots - they must be planted

A faint, barely perceptible smile touched the corner of Nikodim's lips.

- You speak like a man of Byzantium, - he remarked quietly. - In our lands, family names have existed for centuries. They bind lineages stronger than blood

- But I am not a Byzantine, - Alexander answered calmly. - I am a prince of Kyivan Rus

Agafiy Scholasticus straightened.

- Rus has always followed our traditions, - he reminded. - And if now you introduce something new...

- Not new, - Alexander shifted his gaze to him, - but I give form to what already exists

- How do you understand this? - Metropolitan Illarion interjected.

- Princely power lies not in blood, but in deeds. Being born a prince does not make one a ruler. Only he who creates, rather than destroys, is worthy of remembrance

Alexander paused, then continued:

- Power rests not only on strength or the right of the strongest. It demands more - honor, justice, valor, mercy, strength, and wisdom

Agafiy tilted his head slightly, while Nikodim clenched his fist, as if testing how the words settled.

- These are worthy pillars, - the metropolitan acknowledged. - But do you not place too much hope in their acceptance?

Alexander gave a slight smile.

- If a prince does not set an example, how can others follow?

The silence between them stretched taut, like an invisible thread ready to snap at a single word.

The candle flames flickered, reflected in the depths of Illarion's eyes. A shadow of contemplation crossed the metropolitan's face, but then it disappeared, giving way to resolve.

He shifted his gaze to Nikodim. The Byzantine remained impassive, yet his fingers tightened slightly, as if affirming what he had heard.

The metropolitan spoke softly but weightily - there was no doubt in his voice, only the firmness of a man who knew that Kyivan Rus would not turn away from its faith:

- Virtues are the foundation of power, prince. If your words do not diverge from your deeds, the church will stand beside you. And it is not the Lord who must confirm your path - but you yourself

Alexander did not avert his gaze.

Today - the final preparations.

Tomorrow - a new order.

Alexander lingered a little longer, discussing the final details. When the conversation came to an end, he left the cathedral and returned to the princely chambers.

There, another task awaited him.

The candles burned steadily, casting long shadows over the parchments.

Alexander sat at the table, unrolling a scroll, scanning the calculations. The details of tomorrow had been agreed upon, but ahead lay something far greater.

Soon, the door creaked.

Alexander did not lift his eyes - by the time and the footsteps, he immediately knew who had come.

Dobrynya Ognishchanin, his assistant Ladislav, and his son Yaropolk.

They entered silently, without unnecessary words.

Ladislav was the first to step to the table, carefully placing the bundles.

- Data on the lands, - he reported briefly.

Yaropolk stood beside him, carrying several more scrolls. He placed them down, then stepped back slightly - without haste, without unnecessary abruptness.

Alexander glanced quickly over the records. Trade duties, the state of the garrisons, the latest reports from the borderlands.

He already knew half the numbers, but he checked again. To trust was one thing, to control - another.

Dobrynya did not move, but Alexander felt his watchful gaze. He was not just waiting - he was biding his time.

- Prince, - he finally spoke, his voice, as always, even and confident. - You should know my heir

Yaropolk stepped forward and bowed.

Young, but already formed. Tall, strong, with a clear, slightly narrowed gaze. No confusion, no hesitation - only tense focus.

Alexander noted his restraint. His ability to stand straight. The calmness behind which an inner tension could be sensed.

Yaropolk did not know what was expected of him at this moment, but he held firm. A brief glance at Dobrynya - not for advice, just to confirm that his father was there. Then - at the prince. Directly, without trying to guess what answer would be pleasing.

- He is smart, cunning, cautious. He will serve you faithfully if you take him under your wing, - Dobrynya continued.

Alexander nodded.

He saw not just the heir of Ognishchanin.

He saw in him the makings of someone he would call a secretary in his own era.

A man who could not only count revenues but think strategically. Plan, anticipate, gather information, and keep a thousand details in his mind.

For now, Yaropolk was too young for such a role. Twenty-one years old - too early to command the flows of power.

But metal does not become a sword immediately.

Yaropolk was like raw steel: not yet a weapon, but already tempered by the first fire. Flexible, yet strong. Sharp, but not yet fully shaped.

The better the man - the more resistance within him.

Like in metal: too soft - won't withstand a strike, too hard - will break. The key is not to press, but to guide.

Alexander would test what Yaropolk was made of.

- You will work beside me, - said the prince, looking him in the eyes. - You will think, calculate, anticipate. Listen more than you speak

Yaropolk nodded.

Not immediately, but confidently.

Without enthusiasm, without unnecessary words.

There was neither joy nor fear in his gaze - only conscious agreement. He had already accepted it as a fact.

But those who knew Alexander understood - he never took people without reason.

Everyone who stood beside him proved they were worthy.

Laziness, deceit, foolishness - he did not forgive.

He was kind, but he could be cruel. Understanding, but his wrath was terrifying. Just, but merciless to weakness.

People followed him not out of fear, but because they knew - he would not betray.

But those who tried to play games with him faced not his power, but his inexorable justice.

Dobrynya watched the conversation closely.

He knew Yaropolk would make the right choice.

But he also knew - his son was no longer just the son of Ognishchanin.

He was now part of something greater.

Alexander glanced over the parchments once more, memorizing the numbers, calculations, names. At the evening feast, all of this would be useful.

He already saw the steps he would take to lay the foundation of a princely trade alliance and the foundation of the Fur Empire.

The plan was clear. All that remained was to set it in motion.

He set the scrolls aside, letting them remain where, for now, they meant nothing.

He raised his head.

Dobrynya was waiting - not just standing, but attentively watching the prince, reading his state, instinctively sensing the right moment.

- Ready to go? - the question sounded not like a reminder, but like the continuation of a thought already lingering in the air.

Alexander slowly exhaled.

- Yes

He rose from the table, shifted his shoulders, as if shaking off an invisible weight of thoughts, and stepped toward the exit.

Dobrynya was the first to head for the door, Ladislav and Yaropolk following, adjusting their positions just behind him.

The door creaked, letting them into the dim corridor of the princely terem.

Mstislav and Mirnomir stood at the entrance, as befits druzhinniks. The guards did not sit at the table with the prince - they waited outside, ready to follow him at any moment.

As soon as Alexander stepped out, they moved behind him without a word.

At the far end of the passage, the servants froze. Some stole glances at the prince, some slowed their steps, as if afraid of unnecessary movement. But Alexander did not slow down.

Soon, they left the princely terem.

Heat, noise, and the smells of the feast struck their faces.

The princely courtyard was alive with its own rhythm. Servants hurried by, carrying trays, arguing in whispers. Druzhinniks conversed by the fires, their voices rolling heavily under the night sky. The torches burned steadily, casting flickering reflections on the weapons of the guards at the gates.

But their path lay further.

Dobrynya walked with confident steps, leading them along the plank walkway. The boards flexed slightly beneath their feet.

Soon, the building of the princely kitchen came into view.

Large, massive, stretching along the courtyard.

Built of stone and sturdy logs, with wide openings to keep the smoke from choking the interior. Tall chimneys rose into the sky, releasing bluish steam. In the dark, it resembled slow-moving serpents, lazily spreading over the detinets.

The scents hung thick in the air.

Smoked flaxseed oil, pungent spices, thick steam from boiling cauldrons, saturated with smoke and coal soot.

Dobrynya was the first to push the heavy door open.

The kitchen was alive.

Oil sizzled, knives tapped rhythmically against wooden boards, the air thick with waves of heat, dough, stewed mushrooms, and roasted fish.

Alexander stepped forward.

In that moment, everything changed.

The cook's fingers froze above the dough, as if forgetting they were supposed to move. Another worker, by contrast, became flustered, lowering a ladle into the cauldron too sharply. Some averted their gaze, others forced themselves to ignore the prince, but the tension in the air stretched tight.

Yet Alexander saw - they noticed him.

Too intently.

Too warily.

The princely kitchen was not just a place of cooking - it was a living organism. Everything here worked like a mechanism, fine-tuned over the years.

A baker wiped flour from his forehead, leaving a white streak on tanned skin. By the brazier, a kitchen boy jerked his hand - hot oil had splashed onto his skin, but he dared not cry out, only sucked in a sharp breath and kept stirring the sterlet slices simmering in honey sauce with vinegar and spices.

In the far corner, someone whispered, glancing at the prince out of the corner of their eye. The air smelled of smoke, baked dough, and the sour tang of fermented kvass.

- Where are you carrying that, you ass?! - a sharp voice rang out as one of the kitchen boys nearly stumbled, almost spilling a bowl of dough.

- What's the prince doing in the kitchen?.. - the brazier master's voice came hesitantly, as if he was speaking more to himself than to anyone else.

Someone coughed, someone looked away.

- Checking on us, is he?.. - he wiped his hands on his apron, slid his gaze over the prince, but did not linger.

Some fell silent, others began moving faster. Tension hung in the air, but Svaromir did not even glance at the people - as if he hadn't heard them at all.

But Alexander saw and heard.

Near the massive ovens, bakers kneaded dough in wooden troughs, sending loaves into the searing-hot clay furnaces. Grill masters watched the fish - turning sturgeon and sterlet on iron grates, basting them with spiced broth, rubbing in crushed herbs and salt.

By the barrels, fish cutters worked with a butcher's precision, cleaning fresh carcasses, sprinkling them with coarse salt, rubbing them with dill and dried garlic. Mead brewers checked their infusions - bending close to inhale the rich aroma, stirring cautiously with wooden paddles to ensure the taste remained perfect.

At the hearths stood the master cooks - those who could judge by sight how much salt was needed in the broth, when to pull the fish from the fire, and the exact moment to add dried berries to the spiced sauce.

Around them, kitchen boys bustled - apprentices trusted with little but working quickly, fetching water, clearing dough scraps, picking up fallen spoons.

In this chaos, there was no disorder - every hand knew its task, every step had purpose.

The kitchen lived, breathed, moved as one organism, and in its relentless rhythm, there was more order than in the strictest army.

An army obeys its voivode.

A kitchen obeys its Kukhmistr.

Svaromir.

He did not rush, did not shout - but his gaze spoke louder than words.

A single nod, and a baker returned the excess dough to the trough. A barely noticeable hand gesture, and the cook at the cauldron knew it was time to add salt. This entire chaos moved to his rhythm, and he held it together the way a voivode commands his ranks.

Tall, strong, with sun-weathered arms and deep lines on his forehead. No ornate kaftan - just a dark, belted tunic and a heavy leather apron, stained with flour and flecked with grease.

He did not raise his voice, but the slightest twitch of his brow, and the baker was already removing the dough. A single sharp look - and a servant, without waiting for an order, changed direction.

He controlled everything.

Not just the kitchen - but the order, the rhythm, the very air, thick with the heat of the hearths and the scents of food.

Alexander looked at him and already knew: this man could not be broken.

But he could be guided.

When Dobrynya stepped forward, the Kukhmistr turned his head. There was no haste in his movement - only the precision of a man accustomed to seeing everything at once. His gaze swept over the newcomers - quick, assessing, almost indifferent.

- Prince, - his voice was low, quiet, but carried the firmness of a man who commanded not just a kitchen, but an entire battle formation of a hundred hands and eyes. - How may I serve you?

- The prince came to see, - Dobrynya replied calmly. - How the preparations are going, what is being cooked, how the kitchen holds up in its work

Something flickered in Svaromir's eyes - perhaps surprise, perhaps doubt. But he did not argue.

- We cook as is customary, - he said simply. - So that both guests are well-fed and hosts satisfied

Alexander gave a silent nod and stepped deeper in, letting his gaze glide over the rows of tables.

Everything here was arranged with purpose.

On one table - fresh vegetables: onions with thin roots, round garlic heads, bundles of greens tied with coarse twine.

On another - fish: pike and sterlet laid out on wide boards, pieces of smoked sturgeon dusted in coarse salt. No meat, no eggs, no butter - not a single food forbidden during the fast.

Off to the side - dishes ready to be sent to the banquet hall: boiled sturgeon with aromatic herbs, slices of smoked sterlet, bowls of hot mushroom broth.

But he was not only interested in this.

He noticed the barrels of water standing in the corner. One was half-empty, with rare dark particles floating on the surface - dust or sediment. Someone had recently dipped a ladle in, and droplets had spread along the rim.

Spices lay in open sacks, loosely tied - left so that a hand could scoop them up quickly. Convenient, especially when the kitchen was at full speed. But along with the air, ash from the hearths settled inside.

Porridge was being stirred with the same wooden spoon that had been used for other dishes before it. It was rinsed hastily, merely dipped in warm water. Nearby, bowls of flour stood open, and in one of them, tiny black specks wriggled - flour mites or just debris carried in by a draft.

At the cutting table, a young cook brushed fish scales off the board but did not bother to wash them away completely. Further down, dough was rising in a large trough, covered with a cloth already dusted with flour, its edges darkened by old kneading stains.

A baker pulled rye loaves from the oven and placed them directly onto the wooden table without bothering with a cloth underneath. One of the apprentices, rushing past, accidentally brushed them with his sleeve, leaving a barely visible mark.

This was routine.

This was how things had always been done.

But Alexander noticed the mistakes.

Alexander stepped closer, lowering his gaze to the table.

The wooden boards were darkened with oil, etched with deep knife marks. Beside the cleaned fish carcasses lay heavy, forged knives with bone handles.

One of the young cooks, working on a sturgeon, did not notice the prince - his fingers held the handle firmly, the blade gliding over the dense skin, slicing off the bony plates in long strips. From time to time, he dipped the knife into hot water to keep its edge sharp, then carefully lifted a layer of scales and peeled it away along with the skin.

Nearby, another cook was gutting a sterlet: with a swift motion, he slit the belly, removed the entrails, and carefully set the liver aside - it would be given to the cooks for sauce. The rest he tossed into a wooden tub, where the fish was already being rubbed with coarse salt.

Drops of fish oil trickled into a clay bowl set underneath.

- Why is the fish stored like this? - Alexander asked, pointing at the hanging carcasses and neatly arranged fillets on the boards.

Svaromir remained unreadable, but a shadow flickered in his eyes - wariness or irritation?

- This one's for drying, hung briefly to let excess moisture drain. The fresh ones are kept in tubs of cold water until it's their turn for the cauldrons

Alexander nodded.

- And if the feast lasts longer than expected?

The Kukhmistr held his gaze.

- Then we'll salt some, store some in the cellar. The cooked ones - we'll keep by the hearths so they don't go cold

Dobrynya watched them both without interfering.

Alexander's eyes moved back to the hanging fish.

The slow drying process was visible - thin droplets of water, mixed with salt, trailed down from the carcasses, leaving dark stains on the wooden boards. The scent of raw scales and briny moisture wove into the thick kitchen heat. Everything was being done as it always had been.

But how?

He turned and stepped further in.

The air was already thick with spice - sharp, bitter, mingling with the smoke from the hearths.

Alexander ran his hand over a sack of seasonings. His fingers came away stained in brown-red dust, the scent striking his nose - fiery, pungent, biting like a lash of pepper on the tongue.

He shook his palm, but the fine powder had worked its way into his skin, settled beneath his nails.

- Do you always store them like this? - he asked, without looking at the Kukhmistr.

Svaromir was unfazed.

- We tie the sacks, but not too tightly, - he answered evenly. - Otherwise, the spices will absorb moisture

- From dampness or because they're kept too close to the hearths? - Alexander clarified.

Svaromir shifted his shoulders slightly but did not argue.

The prince did not press further.

Alexander scooped up a handful of spices, clenched his fingers. The powder settled into the creases of his skin, sharp, acrid. Granules spilled, catching beneath his nails.

He turned to a kitchen boy - the boy stood frozen by the sacks, unsure if he should answer.

- Would you put ash in the soup? - Alexander asked softly, but in the hush of the kitchen, his voice was sharp.

The boy flinched.

- No, my prince...

- Then why are they in the spices?

The kitchen boy pressed his lips together. No answer.

- Fix it, - Alexander shook his hand, letting the last of the powder fall.

He did not look at Svaromir - did not argue with a man too certain in the order of things.

Instead, he chose the one who would yield first.

The Kukhmistr would not be swayed by a single remark.

But the kitchen boy?

He would remember.

He would remember the dry pepper sifting through the prince's fingers, leaving stains on his skin.

He would remember how Alexander clenched the spices, then slowly opened his hand.

How the granules slid down, scattering in the air.

How the kitchen suddenly became too quiet.

How everyone was waiting.

He would fix it.

And the others would notice.

Then, they would begin to do the same.

The kitchen would change on its own.

Not from words.

But because people would see the difference.

Alexander let his gaze slide over the rows of sacks.

Pepper, caraway, crushed garlic, dried thyme leaves - some spices were scattered across the table, some sacks torn, and in one, ash had mixed with grains of salt.

The expensive spices were kept in ceramic jars, but there were never enough clay pots. Clay was costly, while sacks were common. They were tied tighter, stored farther from the hearth - but the spices still lost their potency. They faded, settled in the dust.

It wasn't just carelessness - it was habit. This was how it had always been done.

This was not chaos. Everything here followed its own logic. But that logic lacked precision.

He saw the system - and knew it could be improved.

Alexander noticed how young cooks at the cutting tables wiped their hands on dirty aprons. One absentmindedly smeared his palm across his sleeve, leaving a dark streak. Another leaned against the table, then grabbed a knife with the same flour- and grease-covered hand - without even checking if it was clean.

By the hearth, a servant scooped a ladle of water, poured it into a cauldron, then placed the ladle back without changing it. The water had already turned murky, a thin residue clinging to the edges, but no one paid attention.

Hands moved quickly at the hearths, but in some places, they hesitated - chopped vegetables sat too long on the tables, dough rested for too long, hot dishes cooled before they could be served.

At that moment, one of the cooks stole a glance at Alexander - a quick, cautious look, as if trying to guess what the prince was after. Someone stirring a pot in the far corner tensed. They weren't used to power descending here, into the kitchen's smoky air.

Alexander turned his gaze to the young cook.

- How often do you change the water?

The cook didn't lift his eyes right away.

- When... when we see it's time, my prince

Alexander slowly ran his finger along the rim of the barrel. A cloudy film remained on his skin. He didn't hurry to wipe it away, giving the young cook time to see what he saw.

Only then did he look at him.

- And do you see?

The young cook swallowed hard.

They worked as their fathers and grandfathers had worked. Not because they knew no better, but because here, anything new had to prove itself first.

He could start reforms right now.

But he knew: an order would force obedience, yet change nothing. People would bend - but they wouldn't change.

He was used to commanding, but he understood that if you broke a system too abruptly, it would break you.

So he wouldn't command. He would show.

People had to see that things could be better. Feel it.

Alexander smiled slightly.

- Good, - he said, glancing again at Svaromir. - Then we'll try something new

Silence dropped into the kitchen like boiling water into a cauldron - tense, scalding.

Svaromir ran his hand over the spoon he had been using to stir the sauce. His face remained calm, but his fingers tightened slightly around the wood.

- Prince... Are you the Kukhmistr now?

Alexander looked him straight in the eyes. Not mockingly, not arrogantly - the way a man looks when he has already made a decision.

- If needed, I'll show you

He didn't explain. He simply stepped toward the cutting table.

The knife flashed in the light of the hearths, sliding swiftly over the fish's skin. The blade lifted the scales, and they fell away in silver flakes.

- What's next? - Alexander asked.

- Into the cauldron or onto the grill, - the fish master replied reluctantly, watching the prince. - Rub it with salt, splash it with vinegar, and onto the fire.

Alexander took a sterlet. Not the fattest, not the best-looking - one that would usually go into the stew.

For him, this was easy.

He had done it hundreds of times.

In the field, where you couldn't wait for the coals to burn down.

In empty rooms, where silence greeted him instead of dinner.

Cooking had never been foreign to him. He never waited for someone to serve him food - he made it himself.

In the army, he quickly learned: if you want a proper meal, cook it yourself.

Even before that - when his wife left, and no one set a plate before him anymore.

When he had to get up and do it himself, because there was no one else.

He knew how fish smelled when left too long over the fire.

How dough felt in his hands when it lacked salt.

How to slice an onion without losing too much juice.

His hands remembered.

Right on the board, he ran his fingers over the sterlet's skin, feeling the roughness of the scales. He took the knife, swiftly cut the skin at the head, and pulled. A strip of silver scales peeled away easily, leaving behind a smooth layer of white meat.

He rubbed in the salt with his fingers - not on the surface, but deeper, so it would soak through. He ran his palm over it, spreading it evenly.

The fillet landed on a heated iron sheet with a drop of flaxseed oil.

A hiss.

One of the kitchen boys flinched instinctively.

That's not how it's done. Not without a large amount of oil.

But the prince wasn't looking at them - he was feeling the fish. He felt the first drops of melting fat on his fingertips, listened to the sound change, caught the sharp, spiced scent of crisping skin.

The fat ran on its own. Enough.

Alexander tilted the iron sheet slightly, letting the excess drain.

Behind me, someone barely audibly muttered:

- So... is it possible?

Someone else drew in a sharp breath but didn't speak.

Another cook gave a low chuckle but didn't object.

The young kitchen boy swallowed hard. Just a minute ago, he had eyed the prince with suspicion. Now, he looked at him differently. Intently, as if trying to understand something important.

Alexander flipped the fish.

Golden crust.

The senior cook didn't blink, didn't make a sound, but the prince saw - he had memorized it.

But Alexander was already moving on.

He stepped to the bakers' table. Took a bowl, scooped in flour, added salt. A ladle of water. Two strong motions with his hand, and the dough stretched, yielding to his fingers.

A baker opened his mouth but didn't manage to speak.

- And the starter dough?.. - someone asked belatedly.

Alexander didn't look up.

- If you have three hours, - he said calmly, - of course, starter dough

He didn't wait. He kneaded the dough in his palms, shaped it into a flat round, pressed lightly at the edges.

The flatbread landed on the hot stone with a muffled slap.

The cook at the fish table no longer concealed his interest.

Alexander took a knife.

The thin steel sliced through the onion like wind through grass.

The onion fell in transparent half-rings. The garlic - crushed with a single strike. The herbs weren't hacked apart - they were cut precisely, evenly.

Svaromir's eyes narrowed slightly.

He saw how the prince held the knife.

- Fast, - someone murmured.

The fish was ready. The flatbread crisped at the edges. Everything gathered onto a wooden plate. A pinch of salt - precisely in the center.

The plate was set before the cooks.

- Here, - Alexander said shortly.

The air froze, as if the very heat from the hearths had gripped the kitchen, but no one dared to move first.

The kitchen boy broke first.

As if forgetting who stood before him, he simply reached out his hand. Took a piece of fish - hesitantly, as if afraid it might be dry.

Placed it on the flatbread, added onion, folded the edges, and pressed it together with his fingers.

Took a bite.

For a second, he went still.

He chewed slowly, almost thoughtfully, as if testing the taste by touch.

His eyes flickered toward the prince - quickly, furtively - but he said nothing.

He simply took another piece.

The head cook stepped forward.

Slowly, without a word, he broke the flatbread in half. Ran his fingers over the dough, as if checking if it was too dry. Took a piece of fish, rubbed it between his fingers, testing the texture, and only then tasted it.

He chewed.

Silently.

But everyone saw how he now looked at the prince.

Not like an outsider sticking his nose into someone else's business.

Not like a stranger who dared to teach the masters.

But as one looks at a man who knows what he is doing.

Svaromir did not avert his gaze, but now there was more than just critical scrutiny in it.

He had seen how the prince held the knife, how he worked the dough - without hesitation, without uncertainty, without seeking approval from others.

It wasn't luck.

It was too precise. Too confident.

Too much like someone who had done this many times before.

Svaromir frowned slightly, as if piecing something together.

- It's impressive, prince, - he said slowly. - But impressive doesn't mean right

Alexander smiled slightly.

- And what's familiar doesn't mean better

Silence hung in the air, stretched like a drawn bowstring.

Svaromir ran his finger along the table, collecting a grain of salt. Rubbed it between his hands, as if weighing his answer.

- We'll see

He didn't want to concede.

But the firmness in his voice wasn't the same.

- What now?

Alexander looked at his plate.

Someone silently reached for another piece.

Someone else hesitated.

He saw it. Saw that the skepticism in the cooks' eyes was no longer the same.

He wiped his hands on the hem of his tunic, looked at the kitchen differently - not as a place where he had just proven something, but as a mechanism that had already begun to shift.

- Food is more than just taste, - he said, letting his gaze pass over the tables. - It's how we live. And if we can cook better... we can live better

Dobrynya Vsevolodovich remained silent, like the others.

But Alexander saw - he was looking differently too.

Not with doubt. Not with amusement. But with calculation.

Like a voivode watching his ranks march straighter.

Like a seasoned merchant observing another's trade and recognizing profit.

Like a man who saw change.

And yet, he did not ask, "Where did you learn this?" or "How do you have hands like these?"

He simply tilted his head slightly, watching closely.

- You've got something in mind, prince?

Alexander slowly ran his finger across the table, leaving a clean streak through the layer of flour and grease.

- Everything here works... - he paused.

Only the steady hiss of the cauldrons filled the silence.

Alexander looked at Svaromir.

- But now you know - it can work better

Svaromir frowned but said nothing.

- How? - Yaropolk finally asked, crossing his arms.

Alexander slowly let his gaze sweep across the kitchen, but his eyes stopped on the barrels. One was nearly empty. Gray specks floated on the water's surface.

He stepped closer.

- When was the water last changed?

- In the morning, my prince, - one of the senior cooks replied.

Alexander dipped a ladle in and lifted it to the light.

The water trickled down slowly, leaving a murky, grayish film on his skin.

- Fresh?

There was no immediate answer.

By the hearth, a kitchen boy lifted a ladle to his lips - and froze. Someone wiped their hand on an apron, as if trying to rid themselves of a sticky residue. Another, without looking, set their bowl aside.

- This is how we always do it, my prince, - a voice finally spoke. - We change the water in the morning, and by evening... well, it's still fresh

Alexander tilted the ladle and poured the remaining water back into the barrel.

- Keep two barrels. One for use, the other to settle. Switch them daily. The sediment stays in one, and the other stays clearer

Someone moved a bowl. Someone else froze with a spoon in hand - the air tightened, but no one spoke first.

Svaromir simply wiped his hands on his apron.

- And if water is needed immediately?

- Then boil it

- Boil it? - another cook glanced at Svaromir.

- We never did that before, - someone murmured off to the side.

The idea felt unfamiliar.

Water had always been drawn from wells, rivers, springs - places where it was considered clean. If sediment gathered in a barrel, they simply waited for it to settle or poured from the top. The hearth was kept burning for food, not for water.

Why waste firewood on something that was "already drinkable"?

But now they looked at the prince - and thought.

Alexander lifted the barrel lid. Ash clung to the edges. He ran a finger across it, showing the grayish stain to the others.

- Water may seem clean. Until you look closer

He brushed off the residue, but a thin film still clung to his skin.

- And in your stomach, it settles the same way. Day after day.

Those holding bowls glanced into them. Someone grimaced.

Dobrynya's gaze slid silently over the barrel.

- We don't know what causes illness, prince, - he said. - One man falls ill - it's a curse. Another suffers - he prayed to the wrong god. Are you certain it's the water?

Alexander knew this conversation was inevitable.

Before, they wouldn't have even asked.

But now, they were waiting for an answer.

He wasn't going to argue.

- I know that when water is left to settle and boiled, people fall ill less often

Dobrynya squinted at him.

- Why are you so sure?

Alexander leaned in slightly, looking into the barrel.

- In foreign lands, they know this. Arab physicians say that water may look clean, but that doesn't mean it's safe. If you let it sit for weeks, it becomes like food that's begun to spoil. You wouldn't eat meat if it already had spots, would you?

Now, the silence was different - not just waiting, but weighing his words.

The thought was too foreign - boiling water not for broth, but just for drinking.

Someone instinctively glanced at the wooden bowls where fish lay.

- But it's just water, prince... - one of the senior cooks said cautiously.

- And in water, there are things you can't see - but you can feel them when your stomach starts to ache

Dobrynya said nothing, but Alexander could see him assessing the words.

Svaromir ran a hand over his spoon.

- We'll try it, - he finally said.

His voice was steady, but his gaze had changed.

Alexander didn't reply.

He saw the thought already working in their minds.

At that moment, one of the kitchen boys had almost lifted the ladle to his lips but hesitated - and set it back down.

The kitchen still buzzed with activity.

But the air had changed.

Alexander looked over the tables and stopped at the spices.

Open sacks, frayed edges, dark stains on the fabric.

He reached out, took a pinch of ground pepper, and brought it closer.

The scent was weaker than it should have been.

- Why is the pepper just sitting in open sacks? - Alexander ran his fingers over the fabric, leaving a dark trace on his skin. - It's losing its strength

The kitchen boy glanced uncertainly at Svaromir, as if waiting for permission to answer.

- It's… more convenient, prince. That's how we've always done it

- Convenient doesn't mean better

Alexander shook his hand, dusting off the last of the spice powder.

- Expensive spices need sealed pots. For the ones you use every day - waxed sacks. Waxed sacks won't let moisture or dirt in, and the spice will stay dry and fresh longer. You'll use less and get more

He examined the sacks more closely.

Some spices were indeed stored in ceramic: heavy pots stood farther from the hearth, covered with tight lids. Pepper, cloves, cinnamon - everything that had to be brought from thousands of miles away - was costly, and no one wanted to waste it.

But there wasn't enough ceramic for everything.

Some imported seasonings were still kept in sacks - next to bay leaves, caraway, and dried herbs. Tied tightly, stored farther from the heat, but still left open.

They were stored like the cheap ones.

Yet in one sack lay black pepper, and in another - salt, already tainted with ash from the hearths.

Alexander ran a finger across the fabric of the sack and lifted his hand. A dusty shadow remained on his skin.

- The expensive spices are stored properly, - he said. - But the ones left in sacks are worth silver too

A nearby cook blinked and muttered:

- Why? Spices don't spoil. If the expensive ones did, we would've changed the way we store them long ago

- They don't spoil, but they weaken, - Alexander replied calmly.

- They still smell a year later, - another cook added. His voice was firm, but there was doubt in it.

- They do. But they lose strength, - the prince ran his fingers along the sack's fabric, leaving a faint trace of spices. - Moisture, dust, ash... It all settles

Not everyone understood at once, but the thought had already taken root.

Svaromir smirked, measuring Alexander's persistence. He didn't like being taught - especially by outsiders. But he couldn't dismiss plain logic.

- And where am I supposed to get that many pots, prince?

- Are there potters in Kyiv?

- There are

- Have them make more

- That's extra expense, - someone muttered behind him.

Alexander smirked. He turned to the cook, tilting his head slightly.

- Extra? Fine. And if you have to use twice as much to get the same flavor? Where's the extra in that?

The cook frowned, glancing irritably at the sack, lips pressing together. He couldn't deny the prince was right, even if he didn't want to agree.

Svaromir shifted his gaze from the prince to the sacks.

Alexander could see - he was already thinking about it, but not yet convinced.

- I'll tell the potters, - Svaromir admitted with slight reluctance. - Looks like we'll need more pots than people soon

Yaropolk, meanwhile, watched what was happening with undisguised interest, but there was doubt in his eyes.

He saw that Alexander wasn't just changing the order of things - he was doing it without orders, without force - softly, but inevitably. That the long-held ways of the kitchen were crumbling not under the weight of power, but under the weight of common sense.

It was... unusual.

He was used to change arriving with orders. When someone said, "Do it this way," and people obeyed - even if through clenched teeth.

But here, everything was different.

The cooks weren't given strict commands, yet they were already looking at the barrels, the sacks, the water - not as they had just an hour ago.

Yaropolk smirked, shaking his head.

- Are you trying to turn their kitchen upside down, prince?

There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also a trace of challenge. He was testing Alexander - did he truly believe he could change something that had stood for decades without a single order?

Or was this just a clever act that would crumble the moment he left?

Alexander shook his head calmly.

- No. I'm making it so they can work better

Yaropolk narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing back at the cooks.

After all, the prince could have ordered them. He could have issued commands, forced them to do as he said. But he didn't.

Instead, he made them agree on their own.

Dobrynya had been silently observing all this time, but now he nodded, as if agreeing with some private thought.

- Do you always do this?

- Do what?

- See what's wrong and fix it?

Alexander smiled slightly.

Yaropolk watched him and suddenly realized - this wasn't just a game. Not some random interference.

The prince truly lived this way.

And if even a kitchen - just a kitchen - was already shifting under his words…

What changes awaited everything else?

- I just always think about how to make things better

After speaking, Alexander turned to the tables where dough and fish were being prepared.

- Would you cut onions on your own board like this? - he asked one of the kitchen boys, pointing to the flour embedded in the wood.

The boy hesitated.

- N-no, my prince

- Then why is it acceptable here?

There was no answer.

- If you don't separate the boards, the onions will smell of flour, and the fish will taste like bread. The work will get sloppy, and the food will be worse. Is that what you want?

The cooks remained silent.

Someone wiped their hands on an apron. Another glanced around the tables with surprise, as if noticing the stains, crumbs, and ingrained flour for the first time.

Svaromir looked at the prince differently now. His gaze had become sharper, more focused - but the mockery was gone.

He was starting to see what Alexander saw.

The prince could feel it - he had found the right thread. Now, he just needed to pull it further - carefully, patiently.

- Then we'll change it, - Svaromir said slowly, clearly forcing himself to admit it. - The boards too

Alexander's smile was almost imperceptible.

Now, they weren't just listening.

Now, they were agreeing.

The prince looked at the kitchen, feeling the struggle within.

He could have given orders.

Forced them to wash their hands more often, separate tables for raw and cooked food, establish strict inventory rules. One decisive act could turn the kitchen upside down and make everything run by his rules.

But if he pushed too hard, it wouldn't just break the old ways - it would break the people.

They would work out of obligation, without understanding or desire.

The moment he turned away, everything would return to how it was.

Change would last only if it became their choice. People needed to see the benefit, not just hear a command.

Alexander was used to a different world.

There, he could implement new practices simply by ordering and explaining. Here, that wouldn't work.

Not command - guide.

Not criticize - demonstrate.

Not say: - You are doing everything wrong

But show: - You are already good - but you can be better

And then, they would want to learn more themselves.

And after that - everything would become possible.

Separate knives for meat, bread, and vegetables - not because the prince commanded it, but because it was practical.

Food inventory - not for reports, but to avoid empty barrels.

Separate areas for raw and cooked food - because no one wanted to fall sick again.

People would see for themselves that meat in brine didn't rot, that towels should be changed more often, that ash mixed with water was almost like soap.

But everything in its time.

When they feel the difference, they will ask:

- Prince, what else can we improve?

Alexander glanced across the kitchen once more. The people worked. At first glance, nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Now they knew they were being watched - not with shouting and threats, but calmly, attentively. They were no longer just waiting; they were observing every move, every word of the prince.

One of the young cooks hesitated by the barrel, frowning as he stared at the murky sediment.

Alexander said nothing - he simply met his gaze and gave a barely perceptible nod.

The silence was no longer empty.

Change hadn't happened yet, but the air had already tightened - like a drawn bowstring.

Alexander turned toward the exit. He was leaving, but he could see it clearly - they were already waiting.

Behind him, water splashed. He turned back.

The young cook carefully tipped the barrel and drained the murky water. The others froze, watching him.

The prince nodded again, silently.

Now, they weren't just listening.

Now, they had begun to repeat.

***

Thank you for reading.

In this chapter, I slightly changed the style - made the text lighter. I'm curious to hear your thoughts: is it easier to read this way, or should I bring back the previous detailed approach but with more balance?

I aimed to capture the atmosphere of a medieval kitchen and to show how Alexander doesn't impose change through force but through natural processes. He doesn't break traditions or enforce reforms - he makes people arrive at them on their own, as if these changes had always been part of their lives.

In an era where tradition held more weight than any command, this approach seemed to him not just the right one, but the fastest.

Next, we move straight to the evening feast.

I'll show how banquets were held in Kievan Rus and much more. There, Alexander will meet with various delegations - Khan Tugorkan, great merchants, Mikhail Podolsky, and most importantly, the senior boyars of the Turov-Pinsk lands.

His primary goal? Securing control over Soft Gold - the fur trade.