When power sits down

Evening had settled over Kyiv, and the princely hall was filling with people.

Torches along the walls crackled, stirring shadows on beams soaked in the soot of centuries.

The flames trembled - as if eavesdropping.

The air was thick with aromas - warm kvass, sharp herbal brews, baked fish. The smoke from the torches soaked into them, making the scents heavy, as if the hall itself were breathing in anticipation.

But no one sat.

Servants slid between the tables - silent, near-invisible. They straightened folds, swept away unseen crumbs - preparing the ground not for a meal, but a ritual.

The guards along the walls stood still, alert. Their eyes cut off every excess movement. Anyone who forgot himself, reached for a cup, stepped too close to the princely table - froze beneath the weight of a single stare.

Stewards moved through the hall, checking the seating without a word. One gesture, one glance - and a servant was already correcting the smallest flaw.

But all of it was only preparation.

This was not the feast the lesser boyars had expected.

Not a night of bounty, not a celebration of wine. This was a feast where food mattered less than position. Where a goblet meant less than a glance. Where silence spoke louder than any word.

Every gaze - even if only for a moment - inevitably returned to the princely table.

It rose above the rest - massive, solid, like power itself. Behind it, on a dais, stood a chair - not a throne, but a symbol no one dared to question.

The hall waited.

The chair - stood empty.

And the air - stretched taut like a string, just before the first note strikes.

Then the doors creaked open.

The hall held its breath. All attention turned to the entrance.

Even those who had been moving since early evening - stopped.

The eyes - not direct, not open - but each one watched.

The senior boyars entered first.

They walked in unhurried, with the air of proprietors. The spring chill still clung to the air, but the road had left only faint traces of damp and dust on their coats.

Fur cloaks vanished into the hands of servants. Beneath them were richly embroidered kaftans - like armor, but of cloth and gold.

They didn't simply arrive - they took possession of the space.

- Harsh days ahead, - rumbled Mikhail of Podolia, adjusting the silver clasp at his belt. - I can feel it. The feasting's over. Now every banquet is a council

- When power shifts, even wine tastes different, - Vasily Svyatopolkovich replied quietly, his sharp gaze sweeping the hall. - Some drink for strength, others - for the chance to take it

Rurik of the Caves grunted, shrugging off his heavy cloak.

- The prince wastes no time. He makes sure no one forgets who rules now

Other boyars followed - together, yet wary. Their voices were low, but their eyes were sharp.

Some were seeking allies.

Some were counting who stood with whom.

Olga of Strumensk entered last. Her younger son, Vladimir, walked beside her - his face habitually reserved. Behind them came the boyars of the Volhynian lands.

The doors opened again.

Igor Rostislavich, the posadnik of Novgorod. Oleg of Vyshgorod. Boris of Stalnogorsk. Not a word passed between them, but their eyes spoke more than mouths ever could.

They didn't look at the decor of the hall - they looked at the alignments.

When the boyars of Turov and Pinsk arrived, the air thickened.

Standing beside Boris, Gleb of Turov caught sight of Stanimir of Luninets among them.

Gleb's fingers clenched into a fist. His knuckles turned white. But within seconds, he loosened them, looked away. His talk with the prince had done its work.

But this was not a feast.

This was a placement of pieces before a game.

Soon after, the High Voivode Ignat entered.

He didn't walk - he moved as if in battle. In his shoulders - coiled tension. In his steps - precision.

Behind him came the boyars of Pereyaslavl and Chernigov.

But true silence fell when Khan Tugorkan appeared.

With him - several trusted men, more modestly dressed, but no less watchful.

Their dark eyes swept the hall, evaluating.

Ignat and Tugorkan met eyes.

Neither bowed.

Neither looked away.

The tension hung in the air. And as if in response - the doors opened once more.

Mstislav of Bel'sk from the Galician lands, and Ratibor of Slovensk from Novgorod, entered wordlessly.

And right behind them - footsteps foreign to this land.

The Byzantines entered the Gridnitsa.

Their arrival was different.

Their fabrics - soft, intricate, gleaming. Silk and purple shimmered in that hall like light in a cave.

They didn't intrude - they glided.

Magister Nikodim Doukas led the way, unhurried. Accompanying him was Miroslav the Wise - and it was unclear who was guiding whom: the princely advisor or the Byzantine diplomat.

Behind them moved Leo Komnenos - upright, focused. His gaze did not search for seats - it measured the hall's readiness for war.

Following him - Sebastian Phokas, the trade representative. His smile was light, almost mocking. He wasn't afraid - he was calculating.

Their spiritual envoy, Agathios Scholastikos, did not come to the hall. He remained in another part of Kyiv - at Saint Sophia's Cathedral, with the bishops and abbots of Rus'.

Not observing. Inspecting.

Not the prince - but the faith.

Sophia Lakapene kept slightly apart - not behind, not beside, but in that fragile in-between where the foreign is not yet rejected, but already provokes unease.

She held herself with restraint, as befits the daughter of a noble house.

But in the gridnitsa, where a seat at the table meant as much as land underfoot, her presence felt alien.

A man's feast - ruled by a man's order.

So it had always been.

Even widowed princesses, matriarchs of ancient houses, appeared only when duty demanded - when honor or fate of the land was at stake.

And now - a girl. Sixteen. Byzantine.

And though she had not yet sat, her place had already been marked. At the table. In plain view.

Not a handmaiden. Not a companion. A delegate.

The boyars looked. Not openly - on the sly. But their gaze caught.

In some eyes - irritation, as at a challenge.

In others - doubt, as if someone had misstepped, and no one yet knew the cost.

And in the most silent - a wary attention, not to a guest, but to a harbinger.

She was not a guest.

She was a question.

And no one knew whether there would be an answer - or only consequences.

Almost at once after the Byzantines came the envoys from Poland and the Kingdom of Hungary.

György of Eger and Stanisław of Ratyn.

Their conversation, begun on the road, did not cease here - only softened. But their glances were sharp, gripping.

- Destiny, - muttered György as he crossed the threshold.

- Or calculation, - replied Stanisław, not even looking his way.

A hushed murmur swept the hall.

Someone exchanged glances. Someone smirked faintly. Someone tensed.

They spoke as if only to each other - but loud enough to be heard.

What about - they didn't say. But everyone felt - it was no accident.

Closer to the center, Tugorkan did not smirk. He watched - like the steppe watches autumn: awaiting winter.

Behind the foreign guests came the merchants.

From Kyiv and Novgorod, Byzantium and the Varangians, Persia and the Bulgars.

Different tongues, different tallies - but the same gaze.

They equaled the boyars in wealth, but carried themselves differently.

No loud greetings, no ceremonial airs - as if they had entered not a hall, but a marketplace.

They didn't debate politics.

They looked at it like a price yet to be named.

Stefan the Greek, a merchant from Constantinople, was the first to cast his gaze over the tables, the dishes, the goblets.

But he wasn't weighing them.

- What news from Greece? - Lazar' Torgovich, a Kyivan merchant, asked quietly.

- Byzantium is the same as ever, - Stefan glanced at a goblet as if weighing it, but did not touch it. - The Emperor stands firm, but his thirst for gold outpaces what the land can yield

Olaf Longbeard, a Varangian with a silver beard and eyes used to the coastal dusk, smirked.

- The Emperor should sell swords, not hoard them. Then the gold would come back from war

Lazar' nodded:

- But how much of that gold will stay here - and how much will flow to Tsargrad - that's what matters

The word hung in the air.

Nikodim turned his head. Not sharply - almost lazily - but many noticed the motion.

He was listening.

And what he heard was not just a word - but a name. Tsargrad.

That's how these people of Rus' called Constantinople. Not a capital - a lord.

Not merely a city. A center. A weight. A pull.

To them - a summit of power.

To him - the pulse of empire.

He knew how it sounded in their tongue - drawn out, pressing on the "tsar." Not like in their own, not like in the Rhōmaîoi - the name the Byzantines, heirs of Rome, used for their empire.

Here, every syllable bore both acknowledgment - and rebuke.

They spoke in Slavic. Not fast. Not soft.

But clearly - like men used to bargaining, not submission.

It wasn't a language they learned from grammars. They heard it on docks, in caravanserais, over jugs of wine and under threat of the blade. Where gold moved faster than words.

Nikodim didn't look toward the merchants.

But he understood: the phrase wasn't a complaint. It was a key.

So that the one who was meant to hear - would hear.

Leo Komnenos exchanged a glance with Sebastian Phokas.

Sophia Lakapene shifted her shoulder slightly, as if in indifference. But Nikodim caught the tension in that posture - the stillness born not of calm, but of effort.

It was her first feast beyond the empire.

And every glance, every step, every flicker on the stone walls reminded her: she was not in Constantinople.

Not in the palace. Not beneath marble arches.

Here - everything was different.

Rougher. Colder. Heavier.

And more important.

In the imperial capital, women were allowed near power.

They had the right to be present - at the senate, at feasts, at decisions.

And that was enough.

They knew how to wield their place - quietly, finely, with strength hidden in silk.

In their Constantinople, power flowed like oil over marble - not with the sword, but with the letter, the smile, the absence.

Here - it struck the table like an axe.

Here, power was not wrapped in words.

Here, the feast was power.

Sonorous. Dense. Like the clang of iron.

Here, they did not speak - they severed. With a look. With a cup. With silence.

The three pillars of this land: Men, Oak, Stone.

Men - not by blood, but by word.

In the voice that decides who dies and who is spared.

In the law, unwritten - dictated.

In the weapon that makes any decision final.

Oak - not just in the table where they argue.

In the court - where words are spoken once.

In the bench - where they sit not to rest, but to pronounce.

In judgment - that does not bend, even to pleading.

Stone - in the walls that do not ask, but remember.

In memory - that forgets neither betrayal nor debt.

In the order - that stands, even when men fall.

And if someone falters - only it will remain.

Here, there was nothing left to a woman. Not a glance. Not a word. Not memory.

All the more so - if she was young.

All the more so - if she was foreign.

But she stood.

Beside the magister, within the Byzantine suite, under gazes that held everything: from disdain to wariness.

Her place at the table was still empty - but it already existed.

It grated. It caught the eye.

It meant something - and no one knew what.

The boyars' stares scattered like arrows from many walls.

Mikhail of Podolia stared openly - not hiding his irritation. To him, this wasn't a challenge - it was an insult.

Rurik of the Caves didn't look at all - but leaned closer to his neighbor, as if the affairs of the moment were more pressing. He did not acknowledge mistakes - he ignored them.

And Olga Strumenskaya, one of the few women whose voice weighed as much as a boyar's, watched intently. Not with outrage - but with caution.

She understood better than anyone what it meant to be a woman at a table where the fate of lands was decided.

Sophia saw it.

And did not look away - not toward the throne, nor the hall.

But her fingers slowly clenched around the hem of her gown.

As if the fabric might hold the balance that was slipping from beneath her.

Nikodim did not turn to her. But he knew.

He felt the tension in her spine, the tremble in the cloth beneath her hand.

He made no gesture. Gave no sign. But deepened the silence beside her - so she would know she was not alone.

She held.

Not in step. Not in word. Not in motion.

But inwardly. At the root.

And only her fingers knew with what force she breathed.

It was her first step.

And in another corner of the hall, away from the words and stares - stood the Steppe.

Khan Tugorkan.

Not a guest, not a servant, not an ally. He was unto himself - like wind, like night, like the land beyond city walls.

He did not touch the food.

Did not glance at the drinks.

He observed.

- The boyars are always fidgeting, - he said quietly, without turning his head.

Bagatur Aigazi gave a low grunt.

- They don't know what to expect. Some wait for the prince, others - for who will make the first move

Ascalan Kutlug-Ata, grey-haired and impenetrable, narrowed his eyes.

- They're counting chairs, khan

Tugorkan smirked.

- Let them count. As long as they watch each other, they don't watch us

But among all these gazes and movements, there was one group that knew its place.

The guslars and skaziteli stood by the far wall.

They did not play.

They waited.

At first - there is no music.

At first - there is silence.

Not dead, not deaf - but alive, breathing.

The hall whispered.

Benches creaked, garments rustled, someone drew in air through clenched teeth. All those sounds flowed around the empty prince's seat - avoiding it, like water avoids a stone.

The music did not begin. No goblets were raised.

Only when the prince would take his seat - then the knot would uncoil.

But now - expectation.

Silence stretched taut, like a bowstring.

In the next moment, the Senior Master of Ceremonies stepped forward.

The staff in his hand was not merely a symbol - it was a boundary.

And then - a strike.

A dull, firm blow, like a command.

The hall froze. Sounds fell away like soldiers under a warlord's gaze.

His voice, sharp and clear, cut through the tension like a blade:

- The Prince enters the Gridnitsa!

The murmur of voices died, as if the very air had compressed within the walls.

The crackling of torches, hushed breaths, the slow creak of benches - the hall stilled, not with calm, but with expectation.

Some turned immediately.

Others hesitated, drawing out the last seconds, as if it might change something.

First to enter were those who were not merely the prince's men - they were his unyielding borders, his swords and shields.

Dobrynya Ognishchanin stepped in first, like a watch at the gate. His gaze - heavy. His step - measured, unwavering.

He did not walk beside the prince. He walked ahead - like a strike before a word, a warning that needed no explanation.

Beside him - his son, Yaropolk. Still young, but already woven into the fabric of power.

Behind them came the Prince's Voivode, Stanislav - tall, broad-shouldered, bearing the confidence of one who leads, not follows.

Behind him marched the princely druzhina - seasoned warriors, his personal guard.

Then came the senior druzhinniki - those who not only bore swords, but made decisions at the prince's side.

Further behind - the Sotniks(100), aligned like in battle formation.

And behind them - the Desyatniks(10), and finally, the rank-and-file. Their dark cloaks merged with the shadows at the entrance, but within that shadow - there was strength.

The hall trembled - not in sound, but in movement.

Someone tensed, as if the prince's step had drawn too near.

Someone bowed their head - not too low, so as not to lose face.

Someone stayed too still - unnaturally so.

The senior boyars watched - assessing, waiting.

The Byzantines - tense, as if they knew: here, words could turn to blades.

Khan Tugorkan remained motionless, but his companions exchanged glances.

The Poles and Hungarians fell silent, sensing that this rite of power was no formality, but a trial.

The merchants sat nearby - gold beneath their nails, fear beneath their hearts. Their wealth meant much, but not before one who held the right to execute without bargaining.

The junior boyars glanced at one another - none moved, but tension passed through them like wind through wheat.

The hall did not roar.

The hall adapted.

And then came those who bore no sword - but carried the Cross.

They were not guards. Not vassals.

They were the ones before whom oaths are sworn.

The clergy entered.

Metropolitan Illarion - tall, in vestments heavy not with gold, but with memory. He moved slowly - as the law moves, with no need to hurry, because it is already everywhere.

In his hand - a staff. Not merely the shepherd's crook, but the axis upon which power turns.

Behind him - Bishop Luka of Chernigov. In his hands - the Cross.

No less than a sword. No lighter than guilt.

He bore it like a weapon never drawn - because it is already raised before all.

The hall did not greet them with applause.

But in this hall, where every motion meant more than words -

many heads bowed.

Not from faith. From memory.

The Cross required no gestures.

But reminded of every one ever made.

And only then - he entered.

Alexander.

No wind turned. No doors slammed.

Simply - the prince was in the hall.

Like a verdict already passed, yet not yet spoken.

Behind him - two figures.

Mstislav and Mirnomir.

Two blades, two shields.

The first who would walk behind him.

The last who would fall with him.

Their steps made no sound, but the hall felt their presence - like steel, sensed even when sheathed.

They didn't look around. They needed no appraisal.

They were not there to represent - but to sever.

Alexander didn't walk - he moved like floodwater: silent, unstoppable.

His steps didn't echo - they resonated.

As if authority itself was listening.

The first step - and the air thickened, like before a storm.

The second - and glances drew toward him, as if pulled.

The third - and it was clear: no matter who had entered before, everything now revolved around him.

On his chest - a grivna, flaring in the torchlight.

Reflections slid across the clasp, the goblets, the eyes.

The light didn't illuminate - it marked.

The prince didn't glance - he absorbed.

Seeing without effort.

Some watched - openly.

Some - sideways, as if by accident.

And some - turned away just a moment too soon.

Recognition isn't in the nod. It's in avoidance.

And somewhere in the hall - those who had seen him before. Not long ago. At the audience.

And they held their breath.

- He even walked differently then, - muttered Sviatoslav Polovetsky, without taking his eyes off the prince. - As if he carried not power, but guilt

Not a prince - an heir. Not a decider - a waiter.

Slow. Heavy. Eyes to the ground. Shoulders drawn forward.

He entered not as will - but as its shadow.

And now - the same figure. The same man. But the stride was different.

Not a supplicant. Not a son.

A Predator.

Back then he entered as doubt: restrained gaze, clenched fingers, stifled voice.

Now - not a trace remained.

He wasn't searching for certainty. He carried it.

He didn't enter as a man.

He entered as a decision.

- There he is, - someone whispered by the wall, - the real one

And the hall responded. Not with sound - with attention.

By the far wall, in the half-shadow, Gavriil the Chronicler paused his pen.

He caught Polovetsky's words - and not he alone. Many boyars, who had seen it then, exchanged glances without speech.

The one who had once shown veiled weakness now stood in strength. And they knew: this wasn't the same face.

This - was another.

Gavriil made his mark.

History was being written. Not later. Now.

And in that moment, the hall's attention, as if by an unseen command, shifted - to those who were not looking up, but from the side.

Not judging - observing.

Not choosing - weighing.

Among the Byzantines, there was no confusion.

They didn't turn away, didn't fidget.

They watched - like one watches a tsar not yet acknowledged, but already feared.

Leo Komnenos tensed his jaw - like before a duel, when one cannot strike first.

Sophia Lakapene did not stir, but her fingers clenched the hem - a movement noticed only by one man.

Nikodimos Doukas didn't look away.

He stood nearby - and saw everything.

He didn't need to turn to know: his intuition hadn't failed him.

Not fear - but something shifted under the skin.

That was why shadows behaved differently in negotiations.

That was why this young prince's silence seemed weightier than words.

He hadn't yet made a move - but was already changing the arrangement.

Nikodimos noted to himself:

One does not negotiate with such a man.

With him - one bargains for time.

Neither the Byzantines nor the Western envoys remained indifferent.

The Polish and Hungarian delegations held themselves differently.

They didn't bow - but neither did they rise.

They tilted their heads just a moment slower than they should have - just enough not to offend, yet not to acknowledge a power not yet proven.

And from the other end of the hall - a steppe gaze.

Tugorkan's face remained unchanged, his body motionless.

But his stillness was not emptiness - it was an ancient waiting force.

He looked at the prince like one looks at a rival not yet touched - because the hour has not yet come.

But in his eyes flashed a glimmer - not of respect, not of fear. Recognition.

He had seen such men. In the steppe, they were called otherwise. Not lawmakers. Not heirs.

- Those who begin with silence, - Bagatur Aigazi once said, - are the ones who end the loudest

And among all those gazes, there was one that didn't search - it knew.

Unmoving. Not out of respect. Not out of fear.

But because all had already happened. The board revealed. The game begun.

It was him.

Alexander didn't notice the gazes - he read them.

He saw the hall like a field. Not of battle - of claims.

Each glance - a dice thrown.

Each breath - a wager.

Who stands by one they avoided yesterday.

Who meets a gaze - and who hides.

Who affirms loyalty - and who probes for weakness.

He walked.

Each step - like a line on the scroll of fate: already written, already read - and not to be erased.

All that remained - was to sign.

The torches flickered. The light clung to his torque, to the clasp, to his eyes.

He stopped.

At the table.

Like a storm that reached the border - and stood still.

Before the line.

Before the beginning.

A moment - heavy, echoing.

Someone drew breath through their teeth. Someone lowered their eyes. Someone clenched their cup - as if holding onto the last thing.

As though the hall itself waited: would he be accepted - or rejected.

And then he sat.

Not heavily. Not ceremoniously. No gesture.

As one leaves a signature - that cannot be erased from the map.

And in that moment, silence did not return - it swore allegiance.

Someone flinched. Someone held their breath.

As if the earth itself judged: to accept or reject the one who dared sit at its head.

But it did not reject.

No one moved.

Not a single person.

Not a single gaze looked away from him.

But then - movement began.

Like water bursting from a dam: slow at first, but with growing force, sweeping away stillness.

Everyone took the place assigned to them in advance.

There were eleven seats at the princely table.

To the left of the Prince, the first to sit was the Princely Voivode Stanislav the Great - the guardian of power, the one who holds it by the sword.

Next - Supreme Voivode Ignat Slavyansky, senior over all the warriors of Kievan Rus.

Then - Olga Strumenskaya. She was neither a voivode nor a retainer, but her influence over the lands and senior boyars made her place beside the prince natural.

Closer to the edge - Boris Stalnogorsky and Gleb Turovsky. Both - rulers of lands, both - players whose weight could not be ignored.

To the right of the Prince, the first to sit was Metropolitan Illarion - the voice of the church, the one who sanctifies the prince's power.

Next - Dobrynya Vsevolodovich Ognishchanin, the princely majordomo, keeper of order in the terem, and a man whose word within the court weighed no less than that of a voivode in the field.

Beside him - Miroslav the Wise, advisor and diplomat, the one who knew when to speak and when to remain silent.

Behind him Oleg Vyshgorodsky, steward of the lands, and Igor Rostislavich, posadnik of Novgorod, the one who held the North in control.

Further, two long tables stretched perpendicular to the princely table.

The left table - for foreign delegations.

The Byzantine delegation took the places of honor closer to the princely table.

Magister Nikodim Doukas, who headed the embassy, sat first. Next to him were Lev Komnenos and Sofia Lakapina. They were accompanied by Sebastianos Phokas, a trade representative, whose presence emphasized the importance of economic ties between the states.

The Polish delegation was seated next.

At the head sat Stanislav of Ratyn, a renowned voivode. Beside him - Bishop Wladyslaw, representing the clergy of Poland, and Castellan Kazimir of Krakow, responsible for the defense of the kingdom. Their presence underscored Poland's desire to strengthen diplomatic relations.

The Hungarian delegation took seats further on.

György of Eger, an experienced diplomat, headed the group. With him came Chancellor Laszlo and Knight Miklos, representing the royal court. Their restraint and attention to detail reflected respect for the host side.

At the end of the table sat Khan Tugorkan with his retainers. His independence and confidence were felt in every movement, emphasizing the status and power of the steppe rulers.

The right table - for the senior boyars of Kievan Rus.

Closest to the princely table sat Mikhail Podolsky, Vasily Svyatopolkovich, and Rurik Pechersky - those whose lands and retinues were inseparable from the power of Kiev.

Behind them - the senior boyars of Pereyaslavl and Chernigov: Svyatoslav Polovetsky, Boris Dneprovsky, Dobrynya Pereyaslavsky, Artemy Chernigovsky, and Yaroslav Ladozhsky.

Further - the senior boyars of Turov and Pinsk: Vsevolod Pinsky, Davyd Mozyrsky, Stanimir Luninetsky, and the boyars of Volodymyr-Volynsky.

The last of the notable boyars at this table was Mikhail Sofiyevsky - one of the influential representatives of Kiev.

At the end of the table sat Mstislav Belsky from the land of Peremyshl and Ratibor Slovensky from Novgorod.

No randomness.

Here, place - is not convenience, but weight.

What you mean. What you risk. What you can lose.

This is not a feast. This is a map.

And everyone who sat at this table was a piece on it.

The farther from the princely table - the quieter your name becomes, the less often your word is heard.

But a place at this table still meant more than a bench by the wall among the junior boyars and merchants.

Along the tables passed a murmur of breaths - as if the walls had finally let go. Someone exhaled, as if just returned from the depths.

Someone quietly gripped their cup, hiding the trembling of their fingers. Others - on the contrary, tensed even more, as if in that moment realizing that now the main part begins.

But the silence did not vanish.

The Prince raised his cup.

The light of torches flared, as if picking up the gesture.

The voice rang out evenly, but with weight:

- May Kiev be strong, and Rus glorious

The clang of cups spread through the hall like steel against steel.

As if by that clang, power was not proclaimed - but sealed.

And only then, for the first time that evening, the strings trembled.

The gusli players, who had stood in the shadows until then, touched the gusli - cautiously, as if testing whether the very fabric of tension would shatter from the sound.

At first - a barely audible tone, like breath before a storm.

Then - a rippling sound, as if water flowed over stones.

The music did not intrude - it wove in, dissolved the clots of silence, softened the stone of stillness.

But did not carry it away - left it in the depths, like a memory that everything is only beginning.

One of the junior boyars - very young, with a face not yet hardened - exhaled slowly, almost in relief. He did not even notice that he had spent the entire evening with fists clenched.

It was not the end of tension - but the first crack in it.

The feast began.

***

Thank you to everyone who's reading.

I've been a little under the weather and still haven't fully recovered, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Moving forward in the plot - after the coronation - politics, intrigue, and court struggle will fade into the background. Volume II: Reformation will begin. In it, the focus will shift to the economy, urban development, and everyday life. I want to portray this beautifully and in full detail, without losing the rhythm of the narrative.

I've slightly changed the book's description and reworked the prologue - if you have time, take a look. It's not very long.

I'm continuing to work on a more balanced style: less overload with facts, fewer excessive descriptions - more rhythm, depth, and clear delivery. If you have any comments about this style, let me know. I'm always open to criticism - if it's well-reasoned and really points to a weak spot, I'll take it into account.

I lean toward a detailed approach: I see every scene - the movements, the glances, the balance of power - and I try to capture it right away down to the smallest nuances. But at the same time, I understand it's important to maintain accessibility, expressiveness, and keep the reader engaged. So I'm looking for a balance between richness and rhythm, between depth and pace of perception.

In this chapter, I tried to convey the festive atmosphere, to show the traditions of Rus and how feasts were held in that time.

After Alexander's coronation, I'm taking a short break and starting to edit the entire material - from the first chapter to the last.

I'll divide the overly long chapters into more compact ones, bringing everything into a unified style that we're gradually developing now.

Yes, I understand - there are many boyars, voivodes, governors. It's hard to remember each one - but without that, it's impossible to portray the living political web of such a vast power as Kievan Rus.

It's comparable in scale to the Holy Roman Empire or Byzantium.

This is not just a chronicle of power.

This is the management of an empire - in an era when the ruler's word determined the fate of entire lands.