The door slammed. The hut went dark.
Outside it was deepening toward night. The sun that had stabbed the eyes by day now slashed the roofs with red. The air was heavy. Damp pressed like wet cloth. It smelled of smoldering ash.
The porch creaked.
Stanislav was already waiting. He turned at once, as if he had been looking that way all along and simply hadn't moved.
- Prince. We missed the main meal… but I think we can fold the two together
The voice was quiet, but it carried not sound so much as decision. Alexander breathed out. The weariness stayed, but the body obeyed. He gave a short nod:
- Yes. I'm recovered enough. Let there be a meal
The voivode nodded, stepped first. Behind them came the grydni. Not as a shadow, but as a wall. Each step on the planks sounded in the dusk like a blow - the yard itself marked the prince's coming out.
At the steps, Mstislav, a druzhinnik, whispered to the otrok without raising his head:
– Run. Say: the prince to table
The boy shot off the porch and sprinted along the walk - across the yard to the cookhouse by the palisade. In a heartbeat the cookhouse woke: the oven droned; the cauldron swung on its chains. A spark tore free - whipped the dark. Someone cursed. Heat took the air.
Servants darted in the crush, coughing tangled with steam, the boards groaned under the buckets. Everything went every which way, yet in one rhythm: the prince is coming - so the table must breathe already.
Covered galleries ran from the cookhouse - that way the dishes would be carried without cooling. By the serving place the measures were set. The head cook slid one nearer the big ladle. The row shifted of itself: whoever comes first will hold.
Word reached Dobrynia the ognyshchanin. He hastily threw on a caftan: if the prince sat at table, he had to be there. Even if he had eaten earlier - he was bound to sit, for now it was not about food, but about being present at table.
Alexander meanwhile crossed the princely yard.
By day the walkways rang dry. Toward evening March drew in clouds: a fine rain loosened the yard, water ran over the planks, the wood spread, pulling along the seams.
By the treasury - mud. A boot stuck fast, cold splashed from under the sole.
Alexander trod evenly, as if not noticing, but each wet suck Stanislav met with a crease of the mouth. Under the ribs something flickered - brief, like iron teeth. The prince did not slow. Only the tongue pressed to the palate. The step did not change.
One of the grydni swore sharply: his leg was swallowed so deep he had to wrench it free.
Someone nearby chuckled softly behind a hand:
- Hold on, you won't drown - you'll give the prince your boots
- Aye, - another muttered, - for the prince they're knee-deep; for you they're to the throat
Laughter ran the line - and cut off when Stanislav moved a brow. Alexander did not turn, but his step sounded firmer.
At last - the walkway. A plank slid under a boot. Wet, heavy. The slabs led to the tower. Along the fence - a trench. The water was already taking the far edge.
Alexander went straight, not changing his pace. He did not turn, did not answer. A twenty-year-old prince, it would seem, ought to toss a word to the warband, to smile - but he went in silence. A weight came off him, as if he had already lived a long life and brought from it only one thing: the step must not falter.
Stanislav felt it with his skin. He saw beside him not a youth whom chance had handed power, but a man already formed, for whom silence served in place of speech. And that silence held the rank tighter than a shout.
The voivode drew breath, as if to speak, and set his jaw. Then he bent toward Mirnomir, walking at his side, and said shortly:
- Call the men. Let them be by the prince
The druzhinnik nodded and angled off - to the smithy, where the elder companions kept. He already knew whom to call.
Alexander caught the movement at the edge of his eye. He did not stop - only his gaze went ahead.
Otroks flickered before him. One dragged a skewed slab by a rope; by the steps a shovel shook in a hand - ashes were being poured thick. At the gate a grydin held a horse, and a shield-walkway slid under the hooves.
A sharp yelp - and the yard stumbled.
- Don't shove! - the younger shouldered the second.
The log slipped. Crack. Both - into the puddle. Mud arced. A splinter snapped. For a moment the order collapsed with them.
Two grydni stepped as one - shoulders closing the prince. Stanislav's hand was already lifting to the hilt - and let go at once: not battle, order. The voivode's glance slid over the log - and returned to the prince's pace.
Those a half-step behind turned to the scuffle. They saw the otroks, wet and flustered - and could not resist.
- Look there, future vityazi found! - one smirked.
- What vityazi, - the second answered, - marsh-lice!
Laughter ran the line, short, sharp - like a draft.
Alexander did stop, after all. The corners of his mouth twitched - and at once returned to stone. He turned away and went on. The voivode flicked a hand, and the laughter died. The rank closed again.
The key-keeper was already coming. He cleared his throat, recognized both, and a chuckle trembled in his voice.
- Up! Lay the footbridges, not somersaults! You're the warriors-to-be - and couldn't hold a log
His voice dropped half a tone, but a hand lay on the belt - order stood beside the smile.
- Ashes - by the threshold! Keep the prince's way clean!
The otroks sprang up. One seized the log again, another swept mud from the walkway with his palm. The rest hurried, trying not to bray aloud.
By the smithy a plank cracked - and at once a new one went down over it.
Stanislav stepped hard, the grydni aligned. Their tread behind him sounded dull, like armor after a barked command.
Water squelched, boards bowed, but the rank held. You could hear only the damp's breathing and iron at the stirrups.
Alexander went on. His step was duller than the planks. As if he were testing the yard - or the yard was testing him.
The steps answered back. Stanislav pushed the door - and the familiar air of the entry hit his face: oven heat, wet clothes, ash. All that a yard breathes after rain.
Along the walls cloaks hung, spears dried. The otroks, seeing the prince, pressed to the wall, lips tight - and only the smell of bread betrayed that they had been hurrying to the meal.
A corridor led into the depth. There brass jugs shone, chests stood, the floor was beaded with drops - a servant had just carried buckets through. A lamp chain rang; rings on a mail sleeve answered with a rustle.
Alexander stepped inside - and halted.
The refectory. Not the great hall: there are the feasts, the ring of cups, and guests. The refectory is the day-to-day dining hall by the tower: here - the common table of the court, order held not by shouting but by bread.
The hall ran wide. Benches along the walls, beams laced above. Cloths with birds hung in the corners; gold embroidery glimmered under the lamps. The floor creaked; it smelled of bread and smoke.
Two long tables for the warband stretched along the walls; at the far end stood the main one - the prince's. Alexander ran his palm along the edge of a side table - here the grydni would sit. Opposite - the second row. Between them waited the prince's table: long, under a linen cloth.
He took the high seat - at the head of the table where the prince sits: the wall at his back, the whole hall before him. Stanislav - to the right; a brief nod set him there. He left the bench to the left for the ognyshchanin - the place that awaited the master of the household.
The grydni entered with a muffled sound, not in a rank: one came straight, another cut an eye at the benches. A creak ran through the wood like a sigh. There were no name places, but they knew the measure: nearer the head sat the elders, lower down the juniors; by the doors the otroks with cups remained.
Two doorkeepers with spears stayed standing by the entry - on post; their relief would come later, and then they would eat. One young man erred and sat too high - the bench clicked. A senior grydin rapped his knuckles by the lad's hip: "Lower." He slid down, yielding the place to a veteran.
No one spoke aloud - only whispered: whose cup, where to set the dishes, who is absent. Somewhere a bench squeaked, someone coughed into a fist - and order closed again.
Alexander sat in silence. Thoughts marched in heavy order: treasury, warband, crafts, boyars. But in that order there was neither bustle nor daydream - only calculation.
Stanislav watched - not the hall, but the prince. He had been at his side since morning: from the morning council to this very meal. He had handed off the day's affairs to reliable men, and himself had decided to be here today - not as voivode, but as judge.
Silence held the hall tight, too even - and therefore brittle. One sound would be enough to make the string quiver.
Somewhere the oven clicked. The door creaked briefly - not from age, but from the resolve of a hand.
Radomir entered. He moved, as always, evenly and without superfluous motion - as if he did not walk, but took the place where he ought to be. Behind him came three scribes.
Kirill - straight as a line on a tablet: restrained, clear, gaze steady; not waiting for a sign - one who goes on his own. Beside him Mikula - the same step, but a shade slower, as if carrying a thought. His look was stubborn, heavier - not a question, a test.
The third was younger, slender, like a shadow. Alexander did not know him, but there was precision in his gait: diligence without book learning.
- Prince, - Radomir bowed shortly.
Alexander nodded. Radomir went round the bench and sat on the left - not at the very end, and not first: like one who holds order rather than demands it. With his sitting it was as if the treasury itself sat - and the hall changed.
The treasurer slid a glance at Stanislav across the table. He met it directly - without a shade. They held for a moment, then both looked away at once: a sign - it was settled.
Radomir did not ask who had called him to the hall: the grydni had come quietly, and he himself had just brought the scribes up from the chancery hut. The answer stood in the prince's look and the voivode's nod.
A bench by the wall creaked softly. The scribes sat each in his own way: Kirill - motionless; Mikula - tense; the younger - too straight. The grydni did not stare, but they grew still, straightening a little, as under an unseen sword.
Alexander leaned forward a little and spoke lower than usual:
- Radomir. If there are questions on the treasury book - or the boyars go crosswise - speak at once. We'll decide quickly
The old man held his gaze. In his eyes flickered the familiar weight of a man who had argued with boyars about measure and weight a hundred times.
- If I hear it - I'll say
He understood: the new order strikes not the lines of the book, but the "private purses." There would be resistance: first they would strike at the grivna - so the "accounting one" remained on paper, while in the volosts they reckoned as before; then they would drag the deadlines: the book would seem to live, while the prince went blind.
Radomir had seen such a quiet war more than once - and so long as it was to Rus' advantage, he would hold the prince's side. He had already drawn breath and stroked his beard - not a complaint, a move: to propose striking first.
And then the door swung heavy - the sound broke the thought. Dobrynia the ognyshchanin came in. He walked broader than the hall's silence allowed: there was the court's burden in his shoulders.
Beside him kept his son, Yaropolk - no longer a otrok. He wore a caftan with a baldric: not a child's dress, but the mark of service. He was already a junior tiun at court - key, register, seal.
- Prince, - Dobrynia bowed to Alexander. Then he dipped his head to the voivode and nodded to the treasurer. - Voivode. Treasurer
Yaropolk bowed after his father - short, assured. Sitting to the left, Dobrynia leaned toward the key-keeper - one word in a whisper; the man flicked his eyes along the serving place, and the measures were laid closer to the center.
Alexander marked the movement. Heads turned slightly. Now all knew: the service would go out from the prince.
Yaropolk lingered a moment behind his father and turned not toward the end of the prince's bench, but to the wall: the first place on the side bench, almost opposite the prince, almost behind Dobrynia's shoulder.
He hid a leather bag under the bench, set a wax tablet on his knee; he sat straight, by the book, ready to rise at the first sign. Out of the corner of his eye one of the senior grydni glanced - and smirked: "too dutiful."
The sealer and the key-keeper moved to the middle of the side bench. The grydni sat there; they sat down before the otroks, closer to the business and not the edge.
They did not stand - this was a meal, not a feast: sitting was permitted, yet both kept their bags on their knees, the sealer and cord at hand, so that at a sign they could rise, come, seal, and go back.
Alexander watched. For a moment he thought Yaropolk would dare to sit at the edge of the prince's table. But the youth chose the side bench. The prince gave the faintest nod: he knew the measure - the table grants rank, not blood.
Then the doors opened for the servants: they came in a bunch, bearing dishes on long trays.
First - bread: fresh, with cracks in the crust. After it - stew: the kettles steamed, the steam lay low, weaving into the lamp smoke; ladles went even - edge to edge.
A otrok, hurrying, scraped a ladle along a platter - the splashes fell on the linen. The grydin beside him swore under his breath and had already thrown a shoulder, but his neighbor touched his elbow and nodded at the prince. The grydin held himself in, wiped it with his sleeve, and slid the bowl along. the otrok went pale, the ladle trembled in his hands, but he clenched it as if afraid to spill again.
Then they brought bowls of millet porridge, thick, dark with honey. After them, on wide boards, they carried in fish smoked over oak shavings, and laid it where Dobrynia nodded - toward the center, closer to the prince's place.
Last came jugs of kvass and water. Wood and clay answered with short knocks under the beams.
No one touched a thing - the hall was waiting for the prince.
Alexander let his gaze pass along the prince's table. The places of the boyars, the elders with ranks and the veterans lay empty - black like knocked-out teeth. His own backbone had fallen in an ambush; others had remained in Volhynia.
In Kiev - strangers' shoulders and cautious faces. They were beside him not because they were true, but because one table remained. Today they listened - tomorrow they would reach for their own.
He understood: there were no "his own" around him. Neither the voivode, nor the treasurer, nor the grydni had yet sworn with their hearts - they only served the order. Loyalty is not taken by word. It is taken by measure: by table, by deed, by a just apportionment. Five days to the investiture - little time, but enough to tie knots and not sell himself short.
The prince's gaze lingered on the three props - war, treasury, household - and in his mind he set the trial: a test by table, a test by silver, a test by deed. And behind their backs - the grydni, the warband, the whole court. They too would have to be tested: not by laughter and oath, but by who would stand beside him when it smelled of blood.
Something clicked in the oven - the hall as if reminded him of time. His eyes had rested too long on the empty places at the table. Stanislav noticed, read the pause - and leaned forward.
- Prince. The table is ready. But the elder men are on their way - it is worth waiting
Alexander came out of his thoughts and looked at the voivode. His gaze sharpened for a heartbeat.
- Good
He nodded and set his palm on the table. His fingers tapped the edge briefly and evenly - like on a tally board. The wood answered dully, and in that rhythm there was more power than in words.
Eyes drew to him of themselves. The young swallowed - the prince's peers, yet beside him their age bared weakness: they had felt such pressure neither from veterans nor from boyars. As if before them sat a cliff - the Unshaken. The elders were harder in their silence, yet they too were held by that measured tapping.
A log cracked dryly in the firebox, a spark darted up the flue. A lamp trembled - and stilled.
Radomir stroked his beard. The strain did not touch him - it had become familiar back under Yaroslav. His glance slid to Stanislav - and he too sat calmly.
Dobrynia looked otherwise: he did not try to hide the testing look. He wanted to know what stood behind that weight. And the longer he peered, the more clearly he saw: from the youth there came a strength he had not felt even under Yaroslav's elder son, Prince Iziaslav. Stanislav caught his intent gaze and frowned a little - Dobrynia reluctantly looked away.
The otroks behind the benches exchanged glances, but did not dare whisper; their Adam's apples worked as if bread had stuck in the throat. The grydni sat straight, yet some had fingers pressed into their knees, as if gripping unseen weapons.
Even the companions, used to the hum of the meal, sat with deadened backs - where words and laughter had rung before, now silence held all tighter than bread.
Seconds stretched, and the hall seemed to thicken. With each pause the air grew heavier - breathing grew harder. No one moved: it seemed that if one stirred, the fragile silence would burst like taut drumskin.
The door was yanked back sharper than usual. A draft rushed in first - together with the sound of steps. The tension broke at once, as if the hall drew a common breath.
The senior companions came in. They had not been called at once: one had been at the smithy, another in the grydnitsa. But at the voivode's word they came together - like a heavy rank, as if formed for a march.
At the front came three whose names the whole court knew: Yaromir, broad-shouldered, with scars on his cheek; behind him - Ratibor with the heavy hand; beside him Nikita the Fox with a cutting gaze. They were known - and feared no less than the axe itself.
Behind them moved five more - elders marked by many campaigns. Their faces were less known, but the respect was no less. One walked silent, and in that silence there was more threat than in a shout. Another smiled with the corner of his mouth - a smile like a blade along the skin. A third held himself even, restrained, but his gait was heavy, like autumn in the back. The other two stepped simply and straight: not for a name - for service.
They were closed by three centurions. No loud words, but each kept the step clean: this was not a "mass," but the bone of the array, holding the hundreds as surely as the elders held the ranks.
They halted and bowed their heads to the prince.
- Prince. Voivode, - said Yaromir, bowing lower than the rest. He held his gaze on the prince a fraction longer than courtesy; the silence tightened slightly.
Alexander met that gaze - and gave the faintest nod. He saw: these men's coming was no accident, but the voivode's hand. But if they had sat at the table - then they were his men now.
Stanislav cut a glance and nodded shortly: sit closer.
At his sign Yaromir, Ratibor, and the Fox moved to the right row. Immediately behind the voivode, yet "a step lower," they settled on the bench: visible to the prince directly, audible without a shout, but their place marked the difference. Behind them sat the five elder companions - men seasoned by campaigns.
The three centurions hesitated at the head of the side row. Senior grydni were already seated there - they had taken places earlier while the veterans were absent. Stanislav gave the slightest flick of his fingers. The grydni exchanged looks and grudgingly shifted lower along the bench, freeing the head. The centurions sat down solidly, as if holding formation even at table.
Alexander watched. He saw: the right row is honor. The "step lower" decides all. The veterans of the warband are at the prince's table, yet not equal to the "upper bench." A centurion is the bone of a hundred, yet not equal to the props. Nearness to the prince's table gave them voice and weight, but also a boundary they could not cross.
The hall grew fuller. Beside the prince - three props: the voivode, the treasury, the household. Heavy beside them sank the veterans. Their presence required no words: it was a strength the voivode himself had brought to the table.
Alexander swept his gaze over the hall. Order had assembled: war, treasury, household, veterans, grydni, otroks. Only the boyars' row lay empty. Today there was no one to sit - but he knew: when the pact of fealty was signed, the upper bench would fill.
He broke the bread and touched it to his lips. A crumb fell on the linen like a dot at the start of a line.
Alexander crossed himself briefly and lifted his gaze. A rustle of expectation ran along the benches. He did not speak loudly - he only threw it short:
- At this table - we are our own. We hold it together
The hall seemed to breathe out. The young let their shoulders down; the veterans sat straighter; the table's props - the voivode, the treasury, the household - accepted the word in silence. The pressure did not leave, but it became common, not alien.
Alexander dipped the first spoon of stew. Swallowed it. Only then did the rest reach for their bowls.
The grydni ate quickly, slurped loudly - as on campaign. The centurions kept a stricter rhythm: ladle, spoon, a glance at their neighbors - as if in rank. The veterans took slowly, with the habit of men who know the price of food. The scribes chewed the quietest of all, trying not to slurp and not to drop their bread.
The kettles were common. Each dipped a ladle, poured into clay bowls. It smelled of stew and damp boots. That heaviness gave the sense of home.
The noise swelled: the creak of benches, the ring of ladles, a cough into a fist, short tosses - "pass it," "hold it closer," "don't spill." It was not conversation, but the refectory's breathing.
Alexander ate slowly. Not for satiety - for the act. Bread went down hard; the kvass was not taste, but a swallow for the road.
In the corner someone bumped a ladle with an elbow - a dull clang cut the evenness. At the edge of the table a spoon slipped and fell to the floor. No one picked it up: a neighbor nudged a bowl closer, and the motion did not break.
Dobrynia drew in his stew with a loud breath, thumped his bowl, then drank kvass - as if testing whether the rank would hold. The hum did not break: the row of spoons went at the same tempo, even and heavy, like the warband's breathing.
The refectory hum thickened: the whisper of spoons, the creak of wood, the short voices - all sounded in one rhythm. Those who sat closer ate with more assurance; those farther down waited, catching the elders' eyes.
Dobrynia wiped his beard. Crumbs stayed in his palm - he didn't shake them off.
Ladles still chimed here and there. Someone chewed at the far edge. The ognyshchanin coughed - and half the heads lifted. A lamp trembled - and stilled.
- Prince. A sword holds in war. The treasury - holds in peace
The word cut the air - the hum settled. A ladle rang - and fell silent.
- And the warband?
No one answered. In the corner someone drew breath - louder than a word.
- Bread holds longer. The cup - firmer than an oath. Under the grand prince Yaroslav - after battle, a feast. After victory - a gift. Not for satiety - for binding
He set his palm on the table; the wood answered dully.
- And now? Or will they truly… be sated with a word?
The hall went still. Dobrynia let his gaze pass along the rows - from the old to the young.
They were waiting not for words. For measure.
Each of them knew the price: generosity and a predictable ration, the split of booty, pay and feedings, justice without favorites. A stingy prince - a sign to leave. A generous and steady one - a sign to hold.
Alexander lifted his eyes. His face stayed calm. He looked at all, held the look - and turned it to Radomir.
The treasurer did not stir - only slid a glance to the scribes. Kirill had already twitched, almost stood. But Mikula - as if he had been waiting for this alone - rose first, drew a wax tablet and stylus from his bag. He sat firmer than before and raised his eyes: ready to write.
Kirill froze, but his eyes flashed: he understood - this was a challenge.
Alexander nodded and spoke:
- Now - a sign. On the day of my accession - the heavy gift. So my father held. So do I
He swept the hall with his eyes. The eyes held to him, waiting for more - and he did not delay:
- Elder men - now a belt, a pelt, a silver token - a grivna. On the day of investiture - a horse with harness and silver by rank. Companions - now a boot and a belt, and a kuna each. On the day of investiture - an addition per service-roll and a horse for merit. Grydni - caftans and knives; tomorrow - kunas and the best belt. Otroks - bread and fish now; a place among the grydni later - by wrestling and marches, by merit
Mikula was already writing. The stylus went dry, even; the lines lay without a pause. All saw: the prince did not leave only a word that could be forgotten. The order entered the book at once. The word became measure, fixed before all.
Alexander raised his hand and closed his fingers:
- All by rank. All by the day. Stanislav, name four - for service
The veterans jerked their heads up. The grydni tensed, as if testing - who would be named next. The otroks stared wide: for them it was not about names, but about the ladder one might climb.
Stanislav gave a short nod:
- Yaromir - for holding the crossing under a downpour: he brought the train and the horses over, and was the last to step off the bridge. Ratibor - for a night sortie at the ford: he took the watch, seized a tongue, cleared the approach
Both rose at once. The bench yielded with a spring. Yaromir looked straight ahead; Ratibor at the prince, holding the look for a heartbeat. Stanislav answered them with a brief nod - and turned his gaze to the side tables by the walls, making it plain: next it was not only the elders' turn.
- Miron - for holding the regiment's banner under fire, gathering the flank and not letting the array fall apart. Levko - for carrying a centurion out of the melee and, under arrows, leading two more wounded out
The companion Miron rose unhurriedly, like under a banner in the line; his neighbors on the bench slid aside a little, freeing him room to bow. The grydin Levko sprang up too sharply, brushed his knee on the table's edge, checked the movement and straightened; his face flushed, but he did not lower his gaze.
Alexander nodded almost imperceptibly to each and turned his head to Radomir.
- Radomir. You will issue the rewards by birch-bark tags, by numbers, under seal. This is above the measure due by rank. For service - an addition
The treasurer dipped his head, his fingers touched his beard. The prince was already looking to Mikula:
- Write. Yaromir - one hundred forty-seventh. Ratibor - one hundred forty-eighth. On the day of investiture an addition - a horse and harness. Tomorrow - issue by tag, under seal
- Miron - one hundred forty-ninth. Levko - one hundred fiftieth. Now - a ration increase and the best belt; on the day of investiture - an addition and a horse for service
Mikula drew from his bag a bundle of thin birch-bark tags, strung on a cord. He untied them and set them on his knee. The stylus rasped: name, number, mark. He passed the tag to Radomir.
The treasurer took it, set a lead seal on the cord and pressed the sealer - there was a dry click - and nodded. The seal with his mark lay on the cord.
All saw: the prince's word at once entered the book and the tag. Not a promise - a procedure.
Radomir laid the finished tags on the table's edge. Alexander took them and stood.
Usually the tokens went through the voivode's or the treasury's hand - so it had been under his father and all princes before him. But now Alexander rose himself - and by that alone changed the measure.
- Yaromir. Ratibor. Miron. Levko. To me
Benches creaked. The companions stood - not at once, as if checking they had not misheard. Yaromir stepped first, broad-shouldered, scarred on the cheek. A man past thirty stared straight, with testing: before him stood a twenty-year-old prince. And yet not through a middleman, but the prince himself extended the token.
Alexander held his gaze calmly. He set the tag on the open palm, caught the wrist briefly - warrior to warrior.
- My thanks for your service. Keep close and further. Tomorrow - issue at the treasury. For the horses - at the key-keeper's and the senior companion's
Yaromir nodded and went back.
So came Ratibor, then Miron and Levko. Each received not merely a thin sliver of bark - he received the word and the measure, joined in the prince's hand. Mikula quietly repeated the numbers - "one hundred forty-seventh… one hundred fiftieth" - and set a note: "tag delivered."
Silence held the hall. The rest watched - and understood: now the measure was borne not by a middleman, but by the prince. The tag was not only the treasury's - it lay from his hand.
Dobrynia watched not Mikula and not Radomir - but the prince. He saw: the word entered the book, at once became a tag, a seal - and the prince's hand.
This had not been done before: under Yaroslav the token more often went through him, the ognyshchanin, through the voivode or the treasury, through the boyars' bench. And here - straight, in the open, before all. His beard trembled. Dobrynia nodded to himself: the prince had answered his challenge directly. Not with a word - with measure.
Radomir and Stanislav traded a short glance - without a smile. They understood better than the rest: the prince had just torn from the boyars their quiet power - the delay of the word. Now it was impossible: the word went straight into the book, turned into a tag, a seal - and lay in the rewarded man's hand.
Everyone saw and heard. No backroom "we'll agree later." No delay, no haggle. There is measure and term.
Dobrynia, Radomir, and Stanislav - being boyars as well - did not lose by this - on the contrary, their power toughened with the prince's. But the rest of the boyars' bench still lay empty. When it filled, the elders would quickly grasp: the new order went past their hands. What once fed them "from the word" now went straight to the warband.
Alexander spoke briefly. He bound the companions, the grydni, and the otroks not through the boyars - but through himself. Somewhere a belt-plate chimed softly - and the hall understood it as clearly as the line on the tablet.
***
Thank you to everyone who reads.
I continue editing the chapters - slowly, but with full attention. I try to address not only the obvious flaws, but also the hidden imbalances - in tone, rhythm, or overload. I know perfection is unreachable, but I aim for a style where density doesn't suffocate, but holds; where form highlights meaning, not fights it.
If you have feedback - speak up. Especially if it concerns the reading experience: rhythm, clarity, overload, or pacing. But if it's a matter of personal taste - better to let it go. Style should live, not bend to everyone.