There were no words in the hall. Not even silence - an absence without intent. Like an empty vessel, not yet filled with fear.
The torch stood still. But the air - didn't.
The word hadn't been spoken yet, but the battle had already begun. Only with silence.
Gavriil the Chronicler was writing. Not a speech - symptoms. Not words - spasms of meaning.
The quill moved - but it wasn't ink that flowed. It was a pulse.
He felt it: this wasn't negotiation. It was an examination of wounds.
Whoever bleeds more - yields. The inkwell shifted. His fingers twitched. The handwriting - dense, like a bandage.
The Prince's boyars weren't unified in silence.
Ignat stared straight at the Byzantines, as if searching for bone. Oleg was counting in his head: days, miles, losses. Yaroslav was grinding his teeth - without a grimace.
The shared rhythm - like a drumhead stretched to the edge, but struck in silence.
And the Byzantines - as if in a garden. Calm. Careless. But the garden - was stone. And in its shadow, nothing sang - only hissed.
Alexander wasn't watching - he was sensing. Like a beast: not lunging yet, but already drawing a fang through the air. What sat before him wasn't a diplomat. It was a man who'd already decided: if words fail, steel will speak.
Miroslav sat slightly apart. Not outside the circle - but like a pupil: seeing more in the dark.
He wasn't looking - he was listening to the walls. The crack of timber. The warm metal of voices. Not words - rhythm. And the rhythm was off. He felt the weight building in the hall.
Somewhere a floorboard creaked. Slowly. As if someone shifted - and froze. Not from the hall. From the shadows. The sound rose - like from a throat. But no one stood. No one asked.
Nikodim inclined his head. Precisely. Without a drop of excess. But his eyelids - didn't lower. He knew where he was looking. And who was slicing him with their gaze.
Alexander nodded. Not a greeting. Not agreement. Like a blow struck against a bronze shield: it's begun.
He ran his fingers across the wood of the throne. The grain - like a scar. Old. But pulsing. He could feel it: this wood had soaked in more blood than ink. And now - it listened.
- Envoy Nikodim, - his voice rasped low. As if pulled through the tree itself. - Alliance. Support. Big words. But they don't sing. What do you bring - to make them ring in iron?
Nikodim placed his palms on the table. Not a gift. A marker. A border.
For a moment - he paused.
Not as if waiting. As if remembering exactly whom he was speaking to.
- An alliance is a request. But we - we restore balance. We don't ask. We align. And Rus' - is a crucial weight. Just not one that tips the scale
Gavriil was listening. But not to the meaning. He caught fragments. The weave wasn't in the words - it was in the tone. Not speech - but an imitation of voice. As if it wasn't a man speaking, but a carved vessel filled with poison, made to smell like honey.
Miroslav raised his head. He wasn't listening - he was sniffing out the break. Where the breath lags. Where the word sticks. That's where the truth is.
- And what does the Empire gain? - he asked. Dry. As if the question were hammered under a fingernail.
A pause. Short. But sharp.
Nikodim shifted his fingers slightly - as if to catch the phrase. But swallowed. It was the first slip. Subtle. Noticeable only to those waiting for it.
- An alliance demands stability, - he said. His voice softer now. But slick. - And what happens to those who become legends - but not action?
Gavriil shifted his shoulder. Not from tension - from chill. That wasn't a threat. That was a parable with rot inside.
- Then speak. What do you demand? - Miroslav fired back.
- Cooperation. Concessions. Open routes, joint steps, - Nikodim spoke smoothly. But each word - a stone dropped in water. The ripples spread, but didn't fade
- But not alone. All - in co-governance
- And protection? - Svyatoslav rose, like a mountain deciding to move. - From whom? From the steppe - or from you?
Nikodim interlocked his fingers. Not in humility. In a lock. And no one knew if he was sealing himself - or the hall.
- We are not a chain. We are support. But tell me, boyars: can you build with someone who is still drowning?
Gavriil blinked. There it was. The Byzantine wasn't at the summit. He was descending. Smoothly. But down.
Alexander didn't move. But his shadow - stretched. As if someone else stood within it.
He raised his hand. Not for silence. To show: the throat was already in his grip.
- We don't argue intent. But alliance isn't adornment. It's stone. And if you place it wrong - the house cracks
Nikodim bowed slightly. Almost respectfully. But his gaze wasn't humble. It had ridges. Memory. Or scar.
- Of course, prince. The Emperor sees you as an ally. And alliance - isn't a crown. It's a pact between the strong
He paused. But it wasn't a transition. It was a stall. Something got stuck. And didn't pass through.
- First condition - a non-aggression pact. Rus' does not aid the enemies of the Empire. We - do not interfere in your affairs. Neither foreign. Nor… internal
Gavriil didn't look up. But he felt the sentence quiver. The word "internal" - like a drop in blood.
Alexander nodded. Once. A clean "heard."
Nikodim's tone changed. It rang clearer. But not cleaner. Bronze, with sand sunk deep.
- Oaths are for chronicles. Bargains - for survival. Your salt is with us. Our cloth - with you. We ask: fewer duties. More security
He exhaled. Like a predator tasting the first drop.
- Rus' and the Empire - are not neighbors. They're shores. And a bridge is needed. Not a boat. So neither side drowns
And at that moment - Sophia moved. Barely. But Miroslav saw it.
Her fingers touched the armrest - lightly. Too lightly. As if she were already letting go. Or as if the chair wasn't hers.
Nikodim noticed too. But didn't understand. Detachment? Calculation? Or - a signal?
Oleg arched a brow. The others - like carved stone. Only one - exhaled. Inside. And the scent in the hall thickened. Not bronze. Burn.
Alexander nodded. Cut it off.
And in that instant - Nikodim's face changed slightly. He hadn't lost. But his voice tightened. As if the hall had narrowed. Or the air thickened - not for him, but around him.
Gavriil kept writing. But now - as if for a posthumous book. The words grew heavy. The quill - coiled. Almost resisted.
- Rus' stands between strikes. We can offer weapons. Men. But if the hordes come tomorrow - and you stay silent, the blood will be shared. Not just ours
Silence.
But not the kind that builds pause. The kind where you hear who stopped breathing.
Ignat turned his head slightly. Not toward Nikodim - toward the prince. As if asking with his eyes: You going to accept that?
Miroslav tensed. Not in his face. In his spine. As if the Byzantine's phrase wasn't a threat - but a diagnosis.
Stanislav didn't move. But his hand touched the hilt of his sword. Not gripping. Reminding. Whom - unclear.
Gavriil stopped writing. Not out of fear. Out of respect. For the move. For the moment.
Right then Nikodim realized - he was pressing. But hadn't broken through.
He leaned forward. Slightly. But it was enough. As if the table shifted - not from the motion, but from the weight of the phrase.
- Also: the title of Archon. Sebastos. Your name will enter the chronicles. Your lineage - become a shield. But a shield doesn't choose its bearer. It's taken into the right hand
The phrase - wasn't a blow. It was an echo. And for that - deeper.
Miroslav tilted his head slightly. Understanding.
- Archon? Sebastos?
It meant: "if the hordes come - you stand first."
But they won't say that. They'll say it pretty. Byzantine-style.
The scribe Danilo didn't move. But his finger - twitched. And from that twitch, the inkwell swayed, as if nudged from outside.
- A signboard, - flashed through him. - As if the lineage was a plaque nailed to the facade. With blood
He didn't write it down. But knew: that's what would remain.
- It's not decoration. It's a mark. You'll be recognized. And that means - untouched
The air in the hall - seemed to contract. As if the room exhaled once. And didn't breathe again.
Gavriil's mouth went dry. He knew that tone. He wasn't asking. He was already speaking in the past tense.
- Titles don't hold land, - Alexander said quietly. - Only respect. Or fear. But not their names - ours
Nikodim nodded silently. Without theater. As if tired of his own role.
- Precisely. And that's why - it's not submission. Allies. Let Rus' become the one they fear to touch
And at that moment - scribe Simeon.
He didn't exhale. He inhaled - and couldn't hold it.
One cough. Dry. Almost silent. No one turned. But all heard it.
As if a crack was sewn into the scene.
Gavriil shifted his shoulders slightly. Not from the cough. From the sense: someone nearby had botched the incantation.
- You're listening to them... - Yaroslav Lebedinsky began sharply. - Like...
He faltered, then immediately continued:
- Like they're reading a will - and we're already in the grave. And the bargaining - like it's on a cemetery. Pretty. But the earth is already wet
The silence didn't fall. It compressed. As if there was less air in it now.
- Very serious, - Oleg snorted. - They call it a title - but it smells like harness. Choose, prince. Before they offer a chain next. A gilded one
There was no laughter. But fear - started to reek.
Nikodim didn't respond. Just turned his gaze. To Sophia.
- We offer not only titles. Blood. A bond. A new marriage alliance, - Nikodim said. And the pause - was longer than needed. Almost like a memory
Somewhere near the wall, a scribe coughed. Quickly. Too quickly - as if afraid to be noticed. No one turned.
Nikodim looked back at the prince:
- There were alliances before. Everyone remembers: Prince Vsevolod and the Emperor's daughter, the Monomakhini. Imperial blood on Rus' soil. But the prince is no more. His crown - crumbled in the grave
And those who held it - now beneath the earth.
Only one remains. You.
- And the crown - seeks a head
Gavriil didn't look up. But his fingers twitched. The quill strayed off course. He had to lift his hand.
Nikodim lowered his gaze - slightly. Almost like pity.
- We don't resurrect. We just pretend death is a road
Somewhere, a drop of wax fell. Once. As if the scene shifted - not from words, but from heat.
And only then - he spoke:
- Sophia Lakapina. Granddaughter of a magister. A woman who can become a bridge between Empire and Rus'
Lebedinsky gave a joyless smirk. Like a man who had seen bridges built - not to cross, but to leave.
Sophia didn't flinch. But her breath - broke. Not upward. Sideways.
As if her lungs refused to be part of the scene. The name - was spoken. But not to her.
As if it had been said in a room she used to stand in.
And now - only the shell remained. In her chest - not pain. A blockage.
As if a thought tried to break through - and lodged in her throat.
Her movements - flawless. The body - trained. Even the tremor - pre-suppressed.
But inside, something was building - an assessment.
- A bridge?
She felt that word like a blow to her lower back.
A bridge - is when they walk over you. Without asking. Without looking. They just - walk.
In that moment she knew: if things go as they say, she will not be here. Only her name. Her figure. Her lineage. But Sophia - will vanish.
She closed her eyes not from fear. From calculation.
Like turning off a lamp. So in the dark, you can hear only yourself.
Alexander wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the stakes. Where the air had turned to lead.
He dragged a nail across the armrest of the chair. Not a finger - a nail.
A crack. Thin. As if from somewhere inside.
And then - silence.
As if someone had just decided: this wood is weak. And went to find an axe.
- The Lakapines aren't a family. They're a seal. You stamp it when there's no one left to ask, - Miroslav exhaled. - This isn't an alliance. It's fear, tied around the neck. Beautiful. Until it tightens
Sophia wasn't looking at anyone. But suddenly - a thought surged. As if her mother stood behind her. And whispered:
- First they're silent. Then - they vanish
She didn't change. But a nerve in her neck twitched. And that tremor - only one person caught. Miroslav.
- We're building a house, - Nikodim continued. - And a house stands on blood. And stone. Only the mason decides what's a wall - and what's a cellar
Pause. Not a reply - a notch.
Ignat didn't turn. Just said, off to the side:
- A Byzantine smile - is like salt in a seam. Burns at first. Then - splits open
Stanislav wanted to add something. But fell silent.
He looked at Sophia - not as a treaty. As a niece. Or a daughter.
And turned away.
Gavriil kept writing. But no longer a chronicle. A sentence.
Nikodim raised his hands. Quietly.
- This is not a deal. It's a verdict. Only the signature - isn't yours. Not a marriage. A lock on the door. Open it - and we come in together. Close it - we'll wait
- But no longer with gifts
Alexander didn't reply. But his gaze - was that of a carpenter. Measuring wood for the axe.
But Sophia - looked not at him. At the door.
No one was there. Only a shadow. And a swaying doorframe.
Alexander nodded. Almost imperceptibly. His gaze - not at Nikodim, but through him. He wasn't reading a speech, but fabric - undertone, timbre, snags.
But suddenly - like a tooth scraping bone: in Nikodim's voice flickered hunger. Not confidence. Anticipation.
- We are not the ones afraid, - thought the prince. - They are. Just politely. If they offer a title - it means they've lost footing. The Empire doesn't gift - it buys itself out. From age. From the future
He scanned the hall with his eyes. Not a gaze - a probe. For pulse.
- If Byzantium speaks of marriage - it means they're in need. And if they're in need - I'm not a pawn
They were all expecting a speech. But he - heard someone's heart tremble.
- The significance of alliance to Rus' is great, - he said aloud. Evenly. Like through a sieve. - But significance - is not currency. It's pretext. What will you lay on the table, if you want to speak seriously?
Silence - dense, compressed.
Nikodim didn't avert his eyes, but his face - micro-shifted. His cheek shifted slightly, as if he swallowed. Almost unnoticeable. But Eustathios saw it.
The quill quivered - and then silence again.
- True. Words fly. We offer what won't burn: the title. Kuropalates, - it slipped out as if he had kept it in his cheek. And accidentally swallowed
This time - not only he tensed.
As he spoke, Sophia - for the first time - looked not at Alexander. At the map. Intently. As if seeking where the border will lie after the alliance. Or where it will be crossed.
Nikodim, noticing it, faltered. Not aloud. But his right shoulder pulled back - and for a moment... he paused. For the first time.
Alexander noticed. And Ignat snorted:
- Kuropalates?
- Kuropalates, - Nikodim replied too quickly. Before the question even finished sounding.
One of the guards tugged at his collar - heat. Or fear. Or maybe the shirt just tightened. But no one repeated the gesture. Because everyone waited: who would blink first.
Oleg smirked:
- Bait. But for what kind of beast?
- A title of the strong. Iberia, Armenia, Abasgia. Those who walked beside - not beneath. Now - Rus'
- Strong title, - Ignat nodded. - For us - loud. For the enemy - threat. With such a mark, you don't just trample Rus'. Even the steppe will think twice. Maybe pass by altogether
He spoke not with excitement - with weighing. Like a man measuring - is it armor or a mask.
Eustathios looked at him - not like a Byzantine scribe. Like an executioner. But said nothing.
- Only strange, - Miroslav drawled. - The Grand Prince Yaroslav wasn't offered it. Though he had lineage, laws, charters. But to the young Alexander - Kuropalates. All of a sudden
He looked up.
- Or not all of a sudden? A title like that - isn't a gift. It's a wedge. So the structure doesn't crack right here in this hall
His voice - not accusing. Cautious. Like a healer who feels the fever - but doesn't name the illness yet.
Nikodim didn't answer right away. Took a pause. As if deciding: treat the wound - or let it fester.
- Grand Prince Yaroslav was a pillar. And he stood alone. He wasn't offered - because they didn't need to
In the hall - not a rustle. Only the quill twitched - as if history itself decided not to interfere.
- To you - we offer. Because now, Rus' isn't held by a wall. But by an axis
He leaned slightly forward.
- An alliance - is not a yoke. It's a mark. Power that is recognized - is stronger than power shouting alone
Pause. The quill trembles. Then glides.
Gavriil the Chronicle-Master finally spoke. Not loudly. But it wasn't a word - it was a blow to the skeleton.
- And if we accept everything - and become another Iberia? Kuropalates without a flag?
No one expected him to speak. And especially - not like that. Miroslav looked at him - as if for the first time.
One of the guards slightly shifted stance - foot forward, hand closer to the hilt. Not a step. But as if he felt: something is about to break.
And the boyar's fingers - found the cross. Not from faith. From memory, where death smelled exactly the same.
- Careful, - someone muttered. But too late.
Gavriil continued:
- You bargain. We - sign. But who will sign the cross over the children? Over the future?
He didn't ask for an answer. He cracked the ground.
The pause - stretched. Not like a bowstring. Like a tendon. And everyone felt: if no one responds - something will be cut.
Eustathios Kallistrat raised his eyes. Slowly. But in that gaze - no fear. Only the cold of one who knows the cost of a word.
- Kuropalates without a flag? - almost a whisper. Almost a verdict. - A flag is given to a vassal. A sign - to an ally. If someone sees a chain in it - they're already lying down. The Empire doesn't give power. The Empire - acknowledges. And so, the world listens to you. For now
He tilted his head slightly. Not as a bow - as a sentence.
Nikodim didn't move. Only his palm - slid across the table, as if smoothing its surface, calming a wave. And his voice - softer. But in the softness - a current.
- Senior Boyar Gavriil is right, - he said. - As are you. An alliance - is a path. But a path without names - is forgotten. We give a name. How it sounds - is no longer our voice
Several seconds - not even a rustle. As if the hall didn't fall silent - it vanished. And then someone inhaled - and with that breath, the hall came alive again.
Nikodim leaned slightly forward. He didn't loom - he marked a boundary. His voice had a coaxing quality, like a jeweler reaching the final strike.
- But a name is not everything. Let's talk about the body. The Empire's second proposal - trade
- Our merchants will enter Kieva, Chernigova, Nughgorod - as allies, not spies. In return - your traders in Rome. In the Empire's heart. Not as outsiders - under protection. Warehouses. Guards. And yes - no duties. The agreement is not fabric. It won't tear at the first wind
Pause. Light. As if letting the taste settle.
But it wasn't the prince who fired first.
- Rome? - Oleg Vyshgorodsky's voice cut through the hall like a nail over copper. - That's what you call it. We say - Tsargrad. And in Tsargrad, no merchant finds a warehouse - only ten "gifts" before the gate
He didn't wait for an answer. He stood - not in support, but because something had boiled over in him.
- Duty-free trade? Both ways? Are you serious?
Nikodim didn't answer right away. Just smiled. Thinly. Like a man who knew - that had already been accounted for.
Alexander watched Oleg. He rarely raised his voice - but when he did, the walls listened.
- Oleg is right, - the prince said quietly. - This is not an equal exchange. We don't have their fleet. And Byzantine bureaucracy - it's a lock on the gates
Nikodim raised a hand. Not a threat - a calming gesture. Like a shepherd whose flock is about to lunge at wolves.
- A fair point, prince. But trust - isn't built on mutual fears. Oaths crack. Fabric holds. Let trade prove what the alliance is worth
Oleg smirked - without joy:
- You've got fleets, officials, channels. We've got stalls. That's not equality, envoy. That's a chain in gift wrap
Miroslav nodded. Stanislav didn't react, but his lips tightened - he felt the tilt.
Alexander - cut in sharply:
- Five percent. Both sides. That's enough. For growth, and for defending our own
Nikodim squinted. Sharply - almost like a blink.
- Allow me to clarify, - voice even, but steel underneath. - We're prepared for a temporary measure. Three years - duty-free. Then - a review. Profit will show whether the alliance is honest
Oleg let out a laugh. Not with lips - with his throat. Like something bitter.
- Three years? You'll need one. While we're still counting stalls - you'll have bought the streets. We're the gate. You - the flood. This isn't a deal. It's submersion
Nikodim inhaled. For the first time - not like a diplomat. Like a man who's lost his move.
He opened his mouth - but Alexander was already looking. Straight. Hard. No need for words.
Nikodim - went silent.
Just a sideways glance. At Eustathios. Almost invisible. But precise. In it was a question:
- You accounted for this?
And in the senior scribe's eyes - a flicker. Not fear. A misfire.
Sophia leaned forward slightly. As if a thought stirred in her that hadn't yet dared speak. But on her face - no twitch, no play.
And it wasn't the gaze of a hostage. It was the gaze - of an accomplice.
Nikodim straightened, as if restoring shape. But his voice - slightly lower, slightly drier:
- Five... - he repeated. And stopped.
For the first time - silence came not from a pause, but from a failure.
Someone shifted a belt. Another reached for the pitcher - but didn't drink.
The air wasn't heavy - it was sticky.
Somewhere a strap creaked. Someone clenched their teeth. Or a seam split - in the air, not the body.
No one expected the envoy - to stumble.
- Five percent, - repeated the prince. - That's not a concession. That's a chance. Whoever doesn't drown - will rise
The envoy nodded. Slowly. Measured. But his eyes narrowed.
- Then we offer: your merchants - priority in our depots. Let it be known - the Basileia Rhomaion does not only take. It gives. To those who don't hide. It will help... balance the flow
Oleg said nothing. Just cracked his knuckles.
Miroslav smirked - not with mirth, with bitterness.
- Seems like balance. But it's not a gift - it's leverage. Our merchant will be in your depot. Which means - on your list, under your guards, at your prices. And on your terms - will be "free"
Nikodim tilted his head slightly. Not apologizing - marking.
Voice - dry. Not velvet. Sand.
- You're right, boyar. A depot - is not a stall. It's a node. Whoever holds it - holds weight. But... weight isn't shared by force alone
He swept his eyes across the hall. Didn't say it aloud, but it rang: "You are not weaker. But prove it."
- The Empire doesn't gift. The Empire places. Not gold - trust. Where it feels - foundation. Not a vassal. A partner
He looked straight. No threat. No oath. A tally.
- If you fear being on our list - it means you're already seen. Which means - you're no longer on the shore. You're in the flow
Oleg already shifted his shoulder. Fingers - almost on the armrest. Ready to answer. Again. But - didn't make it.
- Enough, - said the prince. - Without fairness - there is no deal
Eustathios froze. The quill - still. But the hand - trembled.
Nikodim didn't move. But his face - tightened. Like a chess master seeing the loss of a piece - and calculating how to live with it.
Silence - heavy. No longer politeness. Already - residue.
He spoke. Not smoothing. But not breaking either.
- Fair. I don't argue. But understand: the Empire doesn't offer. The Empire chooses whose blade wavers last. We don't promise gifts. We offer to invest - in those who can hold. Not burn. Endure
He scanned the hall. Not a threat. Not an oath. A tally.
- Everything we give - will be used. Against you or with you. Your choice
Alexander didn't move. But the air - thickened, as if a sword left its sheath.
- We choose to live, - he said. - But not at another's cost. We'll discuss trade later. When it's not the pulse debating - but reason
He didn't raise his voice. But the hall - heard the period land. Not an ending - a comma with an edge.
Nikodim didn't nod. Didn't argue. But his gaze - shifted slightly.
As if the map in his mind adjusted: Rus' isn't about bread. It's about density. You can't drown them - you can only calculate.
- Wise, - he said, nearly dry. - The Empire values precision. And respects a delayed decision, when it's ripe
He exhaled. Not as a defeated man. As a woodcarver: sanding complete. Nails come next.
- Even blood - is sealed with a stamp. Not instantly. But drop by drop
Pause. Not courtesy - a seam between blocks.
He looked - not at the prince. Not at the boyars. At Sophia. In silence.
Sophia didn't flinch. But inside - something shifted. Like cloth being stretched into a future flag.
She had been taught to be silent. But a woman's silence - is also speech. Just with delay.
To the Empire - she was a key. A knot. If the alliance is bound by marriage, the flank of Byzantium becomes a wall. But Sophia - remained cold.
The fan twitched slightly - not as a signal. As if something within her moved, but didn't come out.
Alexander saw. But didn't flinch. He knew: the trump cards weren't laid out yet.
Gavriil adjusted the quill. Scribes exchanged glances. The hall - didn't relax. On the contrary. It felt: what's next - won't be about stalls.
Nikodim waited. As if letting the deal settle. But that was only the first card.
- Beyond trade, - he began, - the Empire offers something else. What binds an alliance not with paper - with steel
He wasn't speaking of gain. Of weight.
- The Emperor speaks differently. Not in words - in arms. A fleet - in the Pontic Sea. Advisors - on the ground. Support - if the border cracks
He spoke as if it wasn't war, but grain logistics. Yet in the words - no help. Just weight. And calculation.
Stanislav stood. Without a sound. The air - like it tore. His steps - not noise, weight.
- Whose border? Rus' is not a shield for the Empire. Not its anteroom
Leo Komnenos shifted. Voice - restrained, but with metal in it.
- The hordes don't ask. If they move - they don't stop. Today, they're at your fords. Tomorrow - at the passes. Then - at the walls of the Imperial City
Stanislav turned. Smoothly. Without threat - with memory.
- Today? We cut through the steppe under Grand Prince Yaroslav. Drove them to their plains. Stood at Kyiv - with our chests, not with treaties. Since then - nearly twenty years of silence. No arrow. No pike. Not from fear - from damage
He leaned in. No threat. Just weight.
- While we cleared the south - you traded. While we buried our dead - you wrote treatises. And now - when the prince is young, you arrive with advice. And garrisons. As help. Or as cause
Leo Komnenos didn't flare. But his voice - darkened. Not from offense. From carry.
- You think we're merchants with banners? You think scribes stood on the southern walls?
He stood. Not to threaten - to weigh.
- I buried mine. Without parchment. Without barter. If you think the Empire stands on scribes - go to Ani. Count how many guards are left in the stones
He wanted to say more - but couldn't. His fingers clenched at his belt. Almost a fist.
As if the speech was tearing to get out - but hit bone. Not from fear of falling - from fear of howling.
Stanislav said nothing. But his eyes - a whetstone.
Yaroslav didn't rise. But his voice - stepped. Not through the hall. Across the border.
He didn't look at the map. He knew it - in dust, in bones, in the taste of smoke.
- The Polovtsian hordes - closest of all. But not united. Three years of cutting each other. No pact. No raid. Not a single arrow our way. Not peace - slaughter. Internal. For now
He paused. Then lower:
- But from the Chernigov side - silence. One patrol - didn't return. Found a boot. No body. Just a trail - stretched. As if not walking - but carried. Or dragged. The trail - not on ground. In air. And didn't go back. Went in. Deeper
Pause. Not for thought. For aim.
- That's what frightens. When the steppe goes silent not from fear, but guilt - it's remembering how to ride. In one horde. One direction
He turned to Nikodim. Not with challenge. Expecting smoke.
- We know what's coming. You say "alliance." We ask: who stands when the first to arrive is not a messenger - but fire?
Leo Komnenos didn't smirk. Just exhaled. Like agreement - through a scar.
- You're right, voivode. When the steppe's quiet - it breathes deeper. And if the Kipchaks fight each other - that's not peace. That's warm-up
He bowed his head. Not a bow - a measure.
- That's why we're here. While the wind is rising. Not when it tears sails
Stanislav didn't rise. Didn't flinch. But his voice - like a palm pressed to chest.
- You say: Empire. Emperor. Alliance. But we don't see - who decides. Today - you. Tomorrow - you leave. Who remains? Who signs? Who confirms?
Nikodim didn't smirk. He knew the question. He'd heard it - in Bari, Trebizond, Dyrrachium.
- Signatures? Scrolls? Miroslav was there. Saw. I made my mark not in a hall - on a blade. Not before parchment - before a man who could kill me. Before the Patrikios. Before those who call the Imperial City not by name - but "home."
He didn't raise his voice. He added no threat. Just gave rhythm:
- I speak for the Empire. Not by name. By will. If you doubt - send a rider. But by the time he reaches the Imperial City and returns - we'll either be together, or dead
Alexander exhaled. Quietly. But shifted weight. He didn't raise his hand. He took the hall.
- Let the fleet stay on the Pontus. At the Dnieper's mouth. Between Chersonesus and Tmutarakan. Where the steppe reaches the sea. Where the last herd was seen last spring
He didn't ask. He issued.
- But on the decks - not a single advisor. We don't need teachers. We don't have servants. We have voivodes. Lebedinsky, Ignat, Stanislav. Haven't heard of them? Remember
Pause. Not like breath. Like stillness before a step.
- You bring weapons? We'll take them. But by our lists. Our blacksmith will take your sword. And say: this - is a blade. Or this - is a noose
He looked at Nikodim. Direct.
- And a garrison? There will be one. But not yours. Ours. If we speak of trust - we'll post our men at your depots. Watch. In case of... "temporary expansions."
Only then - he let silence settle. So all would see: this wasn't reply. It was meeting.
Nikodim leaned back for the first time. Not his spine - his shoulders. Like his breath had been knocked out. He didn't reply. He was processing the hit.
Leo Komnenos didn't lift his eyes right away.
As if afraid - the gaze already said too much.
He took his cup. Raised it. Didn't drink. Set it down. Looked not at the prince - at Nikodim.
- Then why? - soft. But heard. - If they face the horde alone, if the weapons - by their lists, and counsel - under their boot... then why are we here?
He turned. Not to the hall. To the window. To emptiness.
- We brought a fleet. But not as a gift - as an anchor. So they wouldn't drift. So they wouldn't get swept away. And they - cut the ropes
He faced Alexander.
- This isn't alliance. It's... a stress test. Without the right to pull back. That's not how you speak to those who may die for you
Pause. Long. No reproach. Just pain.
- And if you wish to fight alone - don't call the Empire. It can do many things. But not - stand with an outstretched hand
Pause. Hollow. As if all in the hall heard - where there were no words.
Alexander didn't interrupt. He waited.
Looked at Leo - not like an enemy, but a warrior who stood first. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He understood.
- Then not alliance, - he said at last. - Just - forward. Under ice. Together
He leaned over the map. Not like a field.
Like a place where someone's footprints hadn't yet been erased by wind.
- The Empire won't stand with a hand outstretched. Agreed. But Rus' won't bare its chest for a memory no one believes in
He raised his eyes. Direct. Not challenge. Condition.
- So if the fleet stays - let it be not a reminder. Let it be an anchor. Not for us - for yourselves. So when the wave hits, it doesn't sweep us all
Nikodim frowned slightly. Face - not restraint, memory. He knew what happens when there's no anchor. Eleven years ago.
- And advisors?.. - he exhaled, as if the words left his ribs. - Let there be one. Or two. Not for power. For sight. To see how we hold - not fall. So that when the assault comes, they'll know - where we stood
The prince didn't press. He held.
- We'll take the weapons. Shared depot. Shared watch. That's how you build not alliance. A frontier
Only then - he looked at Sophia.
Sophia didn't flinch. But her breath - broke.
As if the phrase didn't cut air - but skin at the collarbone.
She felt what it would be like - if they entered her not as an alliance, but as a wound.
- And let the Empire decide: does it send a bride. Or a messenger
Because if thunder strikes tomorrow - we won't be marrying the fleet. But blood.
Leo Komnenos didn't flinch. But his face - darkened. Not from anger. From understanding.
He knew: in that moment, the prince wasn't asking - he was cutting. Not asking for alliance - asking the price.
And now the price wasn't gold. They'd be marrying - in blood.
He didn't respond. He didn't dare. Because he knew - Nikodim would say it clearer.
Nikodim paused. Then spoke. Softly. But each word - a test for depth:
- Strong words, prince. But an alliance isn't a wedding. It's not blessed - it's endured. In blood - too. We will hear you. And you will hear us. In battle or in counsel - we'll see who is an ally, and who - just a guest at the table
He smiled faintly. Carefully. As if standing on frozen glass.
Yaroslav Lebedinsky stood. Slowly. Not as protest - as judgment. His voice didn't rise. But pressed - like a vault over a weak pillar.
- In forty-three, our fleet sailed. Not for trade. Not for crowns. For right
He spoke - to the hall and to the map. Not with voice - with bitterness.
- Then Vladimir - son of the Grand Prince. Vladislav - my brother. One carried the princely banner. The other - the fleet. Five hundred longships. Not legend. Rowed
He paused. Without losing pace. Just - to let the silence know what was coming.
- Your Basil Feodorokan didn't greet them with alliance. Greek fire. Slavery. Burnt faces. Those who surfaced - didn't survive. Those who survived - didn't forgive
He turned - to Nikodim. To Leo. Not with reproach. With aim.
- And you came not after. Not then. When we buried our brothers - you were gone. When Prince Vladimir returned with Voivode Tvorimirovich and the survivors - you were silent. When Vladislav - my brother - surfaced, alive but scorched - we looked south. And the south - stayed quiet
He exhaled sharply:
- But now - the prince is young. Rus' at a turning point. And you come with fleets. With counsel. With blessings
He didn't sit. He stood. But his voice - a stone that had lain under water for eleven years.
- I wasn't there then. I held Chernigov - while the south burned. But Vladislav was. Returned. Not with victory - with a shadow. Since then - I knew how Greek fire smelled, without being near it
He turned to Nikodim. Not with blame. With battle.
- The Grand Prince made peace afterward. A marriage. Peace. But that didn't erase - only covered. We don't seek vengeance. But we - haven't forgotten
Someone quietly shifted the inkwell. Leaned in, as if to straighten a parchment's edge. Not from need. From the fact that the hall had grown tight - even thoughts began to breathe sideways.
Yaroslav held the pause. Not for effect. For weight.
- You call this rapprochement. We - call it observation
Leo didn't smile. Didn't move his cup. Didn't lower his gaze.
He looked at Lebedinsky - as one looks not at a fighter, but at time.
At a storm that passed - but didn't leave.
- If your Grand Prince Yaroslav hadn't sent a fleet to our Holy City - there'd have been no fire in return. If you had come with a message - not with steel, no one would have drowned at the Bosphorus
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't defend. Just placed dots on the map.
- Basil Feodorokan didn't burn Rus'. He burned the answer. And if you remember brothers in the water - remember those who didn't flinch when the flames hit shore
He paused. Not to soften - to etch it in.
- We didn't stay silent. We - fought. And if someone survived then - honor. But if we're not here for alliance - but for the ghosts of the fallen, then don't call this a council. Call it a wake
Somewhere, a drop of wax fell. Just one. But enough. Every head shifted slightly - as if remembering where they were. And who was still alive.
Nikodim didn't sigh. But his fingers gripped the table's edge.
As if if he didn't speak now - everything would go to the bone.
And so - he. No gesture. Just voice. Sharp. Like a book snapping shut.
- Enough
One word - like a cutoff.
He looked not at Leo. Not at Yaroslav. At the shadow between them.
- This isn't a funeral pyre. It's a table. This is where we decide who lives
He leaned forward slightly. Without pressing - but as if the air grew heavy.
- Eleven years ago - we held remains. Today - we hold decision. Who stands beside. Who - across
He stopped.
The pause hung. Not as silence. As a lump in the throat no one dared swallow.
Even their breathing changed - as if afraid to hear what had gone unsaid.
And then suddenly - a voice. Not that one. From the side. Not commanding. Hoarse.
Eustathius. No one asked the senior scribe. He didn't lift his head - but he spoke.
- I saw the sea. Then. After
All turned. He looked at the table. Not at the map. At the lamp's shadow.
- There were bones. In the hair. In the nets. In the eyes of fish. We caught herring - and beneath it, a face. Without a name
He didn't rise. But seemed to sink. Not into the chair - into guilt.
He spoke softly. Like those who no longer justify - just stare into ash.
- I prayed back then. Not for the Empire. For no one to remember who we were
Pause - not silence. Ash. As if a shadow passed over bones, not floor.
Someone reached for a pitcher. The water didn't pour. Just sound - as if the hall itself took a sip.
Yaroslav already drew breath - but Nikodim cut him off.
- We'll discuss military. In detail. By lines, by towns. In the next round
He turned to the prince. His voice - not honey. But not coal either. Just calculation.
- For the living to live - the dead must stay where they were laid
Alexander didn't nod. Didn't thank. Just answered.
- Rus' will accept. All that's needed. But under its own name. Under its own sky. Whoever brings another - leaves without a boat