Who Paid

The shift came - not as decision, but as fracture.

They no longer counted daughters - they tracked footprints. Not the crown - but the crime. Not the brother - but the trap.

Lamp smoke drifted northward, as if the air itself knew: they weren't seeking truth - but reckoning.

Stanislav stepped out first. In his hand - a pouch, drawn tight with rawhide, as if he held not an object - but a name.

He placed it on the edge of the stand. The sound - like bone on ice. Not a scrape, not a thud - a click you hear when something breaks inside.

He didn't look at the prince. He looked at the hall. Not seeking support - but the crack.

- Plesnich has what remains of Prince Izyaslav, - he said at last. Voice didn't waver. - The ambush was laid: sixteen men. Eight fell instantly. Three - didn't leave. Alive. Two - fading. One surrendered - when his horse went down. We're interrogating them. They're talking. Location. Nicknames. Mint on the pay

He held the pause. Just long enough for a breath.

- And the five - into the woods. The trail's not lost. A week ago, two dozen of the younger druzhina left Vyshhorod with hounds. This morning, at dawn - a rider. Near Hovel - they caught the trail. Surrounded them. Holding. Gave their word: they won't return empty-handed. Nor empty-eyed. They'll be back soon

The silence stretched like a bowstring. Into it dropped the prince's voice.

Not voice. Command. From the inside.

Alexander didn't rise. But the table shook - as if jolted not by body, but by rage. No flare. No scream. But the carving cracked.

- My brother had a warband. Fifteen. Not green. Not drafted. The best flank of the shield. Shield to shield. Shoulder to shoulder. They didn't bend - they bent others

He stopped. For a moment. But didn't let go.

- Sixteen against fifteen? - Not a question. A venomous echo. - And they all fell?

No one answered. But all understood: this wasn't a question. It was a fracture.

Stanislav didn't flinch. Didn't explain - he cut.

- The site wasn't just picked. It was known. One ford. Blocked ahead. Pines - pre-cut. Not a trap. A snare. Arrows from above - from wounded trees. Not a fight. Not a skirmish. A cull

He spoke like he'd walked that ford himself.

- First - the heads. Then - the backs. They weren't even given a chance to strike. Izyaslav was in the center. And the center became the target. He realized - when those beside him were already falling. Turned - and it was a ring

And on the word ring - he faltered. Not in voice. In gaze. Flicked - left. Where two sat. For a moment - held. Then back. Seemed accidental. Wasn't.

- One warrior survived. Crawled. Through gulley. Through corpses. We found him - barely believed it. He didn't speak. He stared. Each word - as if bone torn through flesh. We didn't interrogate - we absorbed

And there - breath broke. The word absorbed came strained. As if another wanted to leap out. Cruder. Closer to the bone. But he swallowed it.

Alexander sat - as if poured into his chair. But his voice - slipped from his lips not as command, but something deeper. Like a thought that refused to believe - but had to try.

- And the ones still alive? What did they say?

He didn't add if they said anything. But it rang clear. In every syllable - cold fury: Fifteen down. His brother. And fourteen more, shoulder to shoulder - and three bastards breathing? So what do they know?

Stanislav didn't blink. Voice didn't crack. But it burned, like a scald:

- Three. A Magyar. A Steppe-man. A local runaway. Names: Boruta. Wolf's Tooth. Crooked-Leg

Not silence. Poise. Like a tensioned string ready to snap.

- They said nothing. Not like dogs. No defiance. Just - nothing. One spat on the floor. Second looked past us - as if we weren't human. Third - didn't look at all. As if already burying us. Not himself

He glanced - not at faces, but at the wall. As if speaking to stone.

- First - fingers. Then hand. Until it cracked. On the second. Third didn't blink. First fainted. Not a word. Just rattle. They feared nothing. Not pain. Not death. Someone had promised: stay silent - you'll rise. From the pit. From rot. Even if by the bones

He stepped forward. Heavy. No posture.

- It wasn't the broken one who spoke. It was the one who realized - they'd erred. We tossed a name. False. Named another - still alive. Close. Of the high. He flinched. That's when we knew: he wasn't just silent. He'd been branded - say nothing. Even if you killed. Even if they catch you. Be silent - and you'll be pulled out. Just don't mistake the name

He lowered his gaze. Slowly opened his fist. In his palm - a ring. Royal. Izyaslav's.

- On the first... this. Not on a chain. On his finger. Fresh. Not taken - cut off

He said no more. But the hall knew: the finger wasn't found on the body. It was in the pouch. With them.

Not a keepsake. Not a trophy.

- Confirmation, - whispered Ignat. Too quiet. But all heard

Stanislav stared at the ring in his hand. No longer an item - a verdict.

- The hiring - at the Three Fish tavern. Near Terebovl. The coin - Hungarian. Old. Not in use. Not for buying - for reminding. This wasn't a purchase. This was a debt. Revenge. Or a contract from one who cannot - but remembers everything

He didn't look up. Just spoke. As if each word was already carved.

- They were paid to leave none alive. Not the prince. Not his men. Not those who'd come after. So Rus' - couldn't strike back. So none would remain to remember

After that, no voice needed raising. The words fell like iron to skin.

And then - another sound. Not a word. A click. An arrowhead - on the table. Not loud. But struck like a spike to the chest.

It wasn't just an object. It had been pulled - from the body. From the chest of the second. The one who never flinched. Even in death.

Not evidence.

Collateral. Signed in blood.

In the hall - not a movement. Only listening.

Into that listening - Vyshata's voice. Not loud. But like a crack in a hearth: unseen, but it burns sharp.

- All clear, Stanislav. But one thing I'll ask. Not to shout - to measure. How did it happen the prince's son was without you?

Not a blow. Not a challenge. Like tossing a stone on ice - not to break it, but to test its thickness.

- You - head of the Guard. He - a Prince. Yet alone. You weren't there. And you're alive. He's in a pouch

Stanislav didn't flinch. But his voice - was lead.

- Prince Izyaslav said: 'Alone.' Didn't ask. Ordered. Alone. Without fear. And we - let him go. Not just me. But I took the blame. Easier. I didn't hide. I'm standing

He stepped forward. Precise. No pose.

- I didn't forget. Didn't bury it. I was with him - and I remain. Those closer - are silent now. Those near - sit on these benches

Vyshata exhaled. Not relief - recognition.

- A blade doesn't justify itself. It breaks. Or it holds. You're standing - then look in the eye. And stand - till the end

He turned. Not to the prince - to the shadows. To the hall.

- We look outward. But the rot - it's here. In shields. In chambers. In boats. Under the benches. The one who sold the prince's blood - is nearby. Not beyond the Danube

He didn't rise. But his voice was like a stone dropped into water with no splash - just depth.

- You didn't betray. But you're the last who was there. Which means - the first they'll ask if the next... is a prince too

And in that moment - the hall froze. Because Vyshata didn't condemn. He gave a condition. And Alexander understood. Not wrath. A measure.

A step. One. Not threat - but weight.

Stanislav took it - like a slab shifted not by strength, but by right.

He stared straight. Not with words. With weight. No shout. But as if he'd walked through fire - and still stood.

Vyshata didn't step back. Didn't nod. But said no more. Because he saw: unbroken. Holds. And not his call to make.

And in that silence - it wasn't the hall that shifted. It was the prince. Not with voice - with shadow.

As if he rose not now, but back then, beneath the earth, with his brothers. He hadn't seen - he'd lain unconscious. All thought: him too.

That's why they buried without him. No word. No cross. But now - he knew: those who'd stood at that grave - had to be found here.

The silence didn't end. It hardened. Like a blade that hadn't yet struck.

The air - thick, like a smithy before the hammer. Not noise. Not quiet. Tension.

And when it seemed the steel would snap - Ignat rose.

Not fast. Not slow. Like a beam braced under a fallen roof.

The benches parted. Not to yield - but in understanding: he speaks.

He didn't straighten - just moved closer, filling the gap.

Eyes low - but voice aimed at every chest. As if each held a vessel. Empty. And he meant to break it.

- Enough. We didn't gather to weigh blame - while princely blood still smokes under the sky. Personal scores - later. Now, the trail. Now - the filth that burned Rus' for coin

He raised his head. Calm. As if everything else had already been burned away.

- Pereyaslavl held the border. I and the main guard - on the Sula, near the town of Voin. The signal - smoke. The strike came from behind, along the road. We were facing the steppe

He tossed something on the table. A buckle. Silver. Charred. Twisted sigil - three rings. Pereyaslavl's guild.

- Prince Vsevolod's convoy came from the south. Twenty wagons. Escort - fifty. Not a force - a state run: forty-two guards, eight servants. Forest camp - northwest road, to the Desna headwaters. The attack - at dawn. The vanguard - distracted. Scouts disguised as Arabs. Claimed they sold tallow, salt, parchment. While the scribe haggled - archers hit the rear

The words - weren't paint. They cut.

- Pitch under wagons. Kindling. Fire - at once. Panic - was planned. While ranks formed - cavalry hit. Steppe riders. Half a hundred. No armor. Struck through smoke. Through the fleeing. The prince - in the center. Fire - around. He never left the circle

Silence - like ash. No rustle. No breath. As if the hall stood in that smoke.

Someone stirred. Someone scratched a bench. Only the void remained - with the taste of burned silver.

Then - a voice. Not a shout. Cold. Like rain at the window.

- Strange, - said Oleg quietly, without raising his head. - You speak... as if you were there. As if you saw the circle burn. But you weren't... were you?

He lifted his gaze - not to Ignat's face, but past it. As if speaking to all.

- I only ask. For accuracy. So we don't get carried away. Patrol is one thing. Words - another. And the army may move on smoke - or on rumor. And then we truly won't wash it off - before God, or all of Rus'

Not a shout. Not an attack. But after those words - it felt like a draft swept the hall. Not wind. A shadow. As if a candle flickered.

The scribe's quill slowed. One boyar touched his belt. Vyshata said nothing. Just looked. Not at Oleg - through him.

Ignat didn't blink. But his voice - turned to steel already heated.

- Everything I said - was from the scouts. From the tracks. From the ash. From what was left of the circle. And what was left - was soot, scorched metal, and coal. But when you've seen men burn - you don't need to be there to hear how they screamed

He didn't raise his voice. But with each word - the hall seemed to close in.

- Those who arrived - came on foot from the Ros. They saw flesh blacken in kindling. I came - later. But the place remembered. And if you, Oleg, from your bench and scrolls, can't imagine how cavalry forms - then ask. Or be silent, like those who reached it

The pause - not heavy. Not cruel. But like a stone placed dead center.

Vyshata - nodded. Stanislav - exhaled. Oleg - said nothing. Not because he couldn't. But because he understood: his word now - would be hollow. And better to be silence than a cry no one would heed.

Ignat didn't move. Didn't exhale. Just went on - as if nothing had stirred.

- They took the banner first. The treasury - bagged. Worked fast, knew where it lay. Took no bodies. Left no noise. Only a mark. Only ash

Then - what shook wasn't a word. Not a face. The table.

Alexander's voice - wasn't loud. But cut. Like a blade already blooded.

- Get to the point, Ignat. We know what happened to the convoy. Did you find the killers?

Ignat didn't answer at once. Blinked. Once. Slowly. As if holding back something nearly spoken.

- The camp burned to the ground. Not a single survivor. Not one enemy. No trace. Only coal. Only heat

The prince didn't shout. But his voice scraped like carving into dry wood.

- So... you let all the killers... go?

Silence fell. Thin. But sharp.

Ignat didn't nod at once. Turned his head - as if hoping another would say it. None did. So he - did. Dull. Dry. With what hadn't burned.

- Yes. We lost them. Because the strike came from behind. Because the smoke rose skyward - not toward the scouts. Because I was where I was supposed to be. And that's why - I wasn't there

Alexander frowned. Not anger. Doubt.

- Not even a trail? This is your ground. They came, killed my brother - and vanished?

Ignat clenched teeth. Fists. All he could hold.

- They didn't vanish. My men and trackers saw: the riders fled to Khan Kirchan's ford. Across the Ros. The trail was clean. But the exit - prepared. Horses swapped. Soil muddied. They knew how to disappear

He exhaled. Not exhaustion. Containment.

- To chase them - meant losing the best. No answer. No prize. Just a scream - and empty land

He fell silent. Because more - wouldn't hold.

Silence rose like a wall between words and trust. No one breathed - but the hall cooled. Not in blame. In judgment.

Someone looked away. Someone let their fingers slip from their belt. Even Alexander didn't answer at once - as if he hadn't heard an excuse, but an end. Not failure. Emptiness.

There had been fire. But no trail. And that meant - no vengeance. Only smoke. And bitterness.

Silence hung. Not empty - tense. And then - Vyshata. Not with rage. Like a nail.

- That's it? Nothing more? No name. No mark. Just a direction - steppe?

Oleg nodded immediately - as if waiting.

- That's enough. They went to the ford. Whoever walks to Kirchan - pays with his silver. No digging needed. Vengeance is due. The steppe waits for blood. And will get it

Vyshata didn't flinch. Didn't flare. He chopped - like with an axe.

- No, Oleg. The trail is steppe. But the steppe isn't a man. One can vanish there. Today - a Pecheneg. Tomorrow - a Kipchak. Then - already with the Hungarians. Or beyond the Danube

He looked - not at Ignat - but at the hall.

- So what now? We butcher encampment after encampment? Search every yurt for that smoke?

The hall didn't respond. No protest. No agreement. Only silence - like after a missed stroke of an axe.

And then - a step. Precise. Even.

Ignat.

He didn't argue. Didn't rise. Just made that step - as one who wasn't waiting for a question, but for permission.

He pulled out a second object - slowly, as if he knew it would now fall into place.

- Arrowhead. Steppe. Turkic. Red hair on the shaft - not woad, madder. Herd mark. Tamga of the Deremel clan. Not just a strike. Senior raiding party. A leader's hand. A clan under oath. Not a band

The hall didn't move. But gazes shifted. No longer - "who". Now - "which clan".

One gaze stayed. Stanislav's. He wasn't surprised. Just exhaled slowly, as if he'd known the name all along.

If the senior party rode - then the oath had been fulfilled. Which meant - the commission had weight.

Chief scribe Gaavril didn't lift his head - the quill went on, slicing birch bark. But to the side, almost silently, Simeon moved his lips:

- Tamga?

Gaavril nodded, barely:

- Clan sign. For the Torks, the Berendei - like our seals. On iron, on skin, on a horse. They know the clan by it - like by a name

- And "senior raid"? - still a whisper.

- Not a gang. A unit led by a clan elder. They go by oath, not for loot. Take a commission - the whole clan is bound

Simeon nodded, glanced again at the shaft.

- Red hair... madder?

- Madder, - short. Harsh. - They dye the herds. Not for beauty - to see their own through smoke. So in battle - they don't strike kin

He bent again over the tablet. The quill scratched, but in the hall all knew: this wasn't men. It was blood. And the oath - not theirs - but all of them.

Someone sighed - through the nose. Someone rubbed a brow. No one spoke. Because after a trail like that - any word was a mistake.

The silence wasn't shock. It was precision. Because this wasn't mercenaries. This was kin-vengeance. And someone had paid for it.

Ignat didn't raise his voice. Just said it - flat. But pressed, as if leaving a footprint:

- Many here understand what that means. But that's not all. There's a mark - not from a spear. From a hand

Alexander tensed. Not in body - in gaze. As if the whole hall vanished. Only Ignat remained. And what he would bring forth.

Ignat didn't rush. And it showed: he'd held this for a while.

The third - not onto the table. Into his palm. Like weight. Like a price.

- A grivna. Silver. Novgorod make. Six facets. Notches and the rare sign 'Ꙋ'. These aren't for life. These pay for silence. For passage. For closed eyes

A moment - and the air thickened. Somewhere far - a creak. Not a door. A threshold.

Ignat didn't continue at once. He stared at the grivna - as if it were an ear, sliced off behind someone's back.

- Such coins aren't lost. Not carried for show. Not left by accident

He looked up. But didn't rise - stood firmer.

- It's either a mark. A tag. So we know - who paid. Or... - he paused. As if not wanting to speak it

Dobrynya spoke for him. No pomp. No shout. As if closing a lid.

- Or someone betrayed the client. Decided they wanted us to find out

Not silence - a shift. As if the hall - inhaled. Sensed: a blow was coming.

And then Ignat - not a look. Not a turn. A word.

- Novgorodka. Yours, Igor?

Not a challenge. As if already known. As if not a question - but a naming.

It wasn't silence. It was the thud of a heart - in another chest.

Igor didn't rise. Didn't flinch. But the air around - shifted. As if the hall's center - was now him.

- You look at me, - he said. - As if silver can speak. And chose my name

Voice - steady. No break. But not a defense. A sentence without a judge.

- Yes, the grivna is from Novgorod. But Novgorod isn't a stall. Every coin may be ours. But not every coin - comes from us

Ignat had already leaned in. Not with a foot - with breath. With chest. As if the next word had already leapt. But didn't land.

Dobrynya - cut. Not loud. Sharper than a blade.

- Where did you find it, Ignat?

The hall shifted. Not outrage - weight.

Because a grivna isn't proof. Not if you don't know where it was found. Then it's not evidence - it's a trap. And if it could be brought from anywhere - maybe it was.

Ignat didn't look away.

- When I arrived - the Ros patrol was already there. On foot. From a small town near Yuriev. Scanning the ash. Gathering what hadn't burned. Putting it into sacks. Some - recognized. Some - not

- The grivna wasn't found near bodies. Not in the convoy. On the other side. Where the attack came from. Where all burned - fast. Where the prince's men no longer stood. Only traces. Only splinters. Only prints - not ours

He raised his head - not higher. Firmer.

- No one could have dropped it who died in the circle. Only someone who struck - and left

Outside - a dull thud. Like a smith's hammer into beam. Not loud. But enough to prickle skin.

In the hall - not a sound. The air thickened, like before a storm. And then - a gaze. One. Weighted.

Alexander.

He said nothing. But the look - not anger. Doubt. Not at Ignat. At the logic itself.

The ones who struck the prince's convoy - weren't fools. Wouldn't leave a mark. Wouldn't plant a trace. Not those kinds of hands.

Which meant - they wanted to be found. Meant - they were guiding. Meant - if Rus' rose, it would strike where they wanted.

Igor saw it. And drove it home. Not a sting - a nail.

- You say you found it. Away from the dead. Not among ours. I don't deny that. But think - wasn't it too clean? Too convenient?

He didn't raise his voice. But each word pressed the air tighter.

- A Novgorodka. Loud. Straight. Gleaming, on southern ash. Next to a nomad brand. Everything set up - like for a lesson. Only not for us. For the crowd. To point. To pit

Ignat tightened - down to bone. But didn't break. Not yet.

- You think I brought it - for you?

He stepped - not to him. Forward. Into the word.

- This isn't a challenge. It's a remnant. What the fire spared. I came because my prince burned - on my land. And I never even drew my sword. And now you say - 'too convenient'? -

- Yes, - said Igor. - Too. For the ones who want us to burn the wrong hill. You don't see it - they're leading you. Like a stallion tearing the reins. But whose arena?

Their tension - wanted to break the floor.

And then - cut. No anger. No shout. From the Prince.

- Enough

Alexander rose. Like a spire's shadow. Straight. Not loud. But final.

- Ignat. Igor. Novgorod might be tied. Or not. We'll find out. But not here. Not in heat. Not in noise

His eyes crossed the hall.

- Novgorod's not going anywhere. But the steppe - that moves. The killers are there. If we follow the track - we either reach the truth, or find the next thread

He didn't raise his voice. But every word - direction. Not guess. Trail.

Ignat didn't bow. Just nodded. Low. Like a soldier who again knew where the blade was aimed.

Yes, Novgorod - maybe. But the steppe - definitely. And the blood of Prince Vsevolod - was still warm.

And just then - they heard it.

Outside - a bell. One strike. Low. But right in the chest.

Sofia. Morning. Already begun. Or just about.

Not a call. A reminder. Day waits for no one.

Alexander heard it. And turned breath into speech. Even. Not sharp. Just - onward.

- Good. That's settled. What of Prince Svyatoslav? And Vyacheslav?

Stanislav looked aside - as if weighing. Not words. Blood.

- For Prince Svyatoslav, vengeance is taken. Yaroslav Lebedinsky and the boyars of Chernigov found the killers. They're on the trail now

- And who? - the prince asked. No emotion. As if the question was a blade, and the answer - what clings to it.

Stanislav didn't answer.

Vyshata stepped forward. Quiet. But like nailing a heel into earth.

- Chernigov made it clear. Their prince - their blood. They didn't inform Kiev. Said one thing: they'll take tenfold blood in return

Alexander didn't nod. But the corner of his mouth - twitched. Not in anger. In knowing.

- Chernigov. Already alone. Not under the hand - drifting from it, - he muttered. - We'll deal with them. At the ascent to the throne. I'll ask them myself

He turned. Slowly. To Stanislav.

- And Vyacheslav?

Stanislav inhaled. Short. Like he wanted to spit coal - but had to swallow.

- Smolensk's boyars fell with him. Ambush - in the woods. But the prince died. The rest lived. Messenger says - the enemy struck from the forest. Didn't expect resistance. But in the confusion - he fell. The rest pushed back. Gave chase. Captured them. They're being held. Interrogated

- Who? - said Alexander. Word - like a knife at the throat.

- Nomads again

Alexander didn't speak. Stared - not at faces. But deep. Like counting something ancient - behind his teeth.

And then - Ignat rose.

Not him - what he carried inside.

- These goddamned nomads... - The air dried, like a forge door left open. - Something must be done

He looked at the prince.

- This year - we need a campaign. Not a raid. Not a punitive swing. A purge. So the smoke's on their land. Not ours

It wasn't a challenge. It was the sound of burnt carts.

But in his voice - not only rage. Something else. As if the smoke still clung to his throat. As if he knew the names of the ones they didn't find.

And the hall felt it: the question wasn't if. The question was who leads.

And if Rus' lights the pyre - no rain, no coin will put it out.