Alexander lay with his eyes open.
Night still held the chambers. The light was gray and cold, pre-dawn, March.
The hearth had gone cold. The stone by the wall kept a trace of warmth, but the air in the room had already cooled it was felt at once.
The bed remained warm, while everything around it was slowly giving way to cold.
Shadows along the walls did not break apart. Light came in weak and indistinct, without color. Alexander lay without closing his eyes.
At last he breathed in deeper, rose onto an elbow, then sat up. Sleep would not return. The body was already gathered, already ready for the start of the day.
He did not know the time, but by the light beyond the windows it was clear it was still too early. Four, perhaps five in the morning - no more.
At such an hour people usually sleep. But if one listened, sleep proved deceptive. Beyond the walls and below, in the courtyard, life was already moving. Footsteps, voices, the creak of wood, the rare sound of metal. For this hour ordinary.
He inhaled again.
Cold air entered his chest and spread inside. Alexander lowered his legs, found his boots, stood.
Only then did he notice that the pain was almost gone. Yesterday he had risen with effort, every step answering in the thigh. Now only brief pricks, unpleasant but tolerable.
He tested it at once. Stretched, working shoulders, back, arms, then legs. Simple movements, unhurried. The exercise came easier than he expected.
The pain had not gone anywhere. It was still there, inside, but no longer bound movement. It had become background - like an old wound one remembers, but lives with.
That meant he could move on.
He pulled on his boots, tightened the belt, and took a few steps sharper than he should have. The thigh answered with sharp pain, locking him for a moment.
Alexander slowed at once. He went on carefully, and at that pace the pain was barely felt.
He went to the washing place.
The basin with yesterday's water stood on the table. The water had cooled; it was clean. Alexander scooped it with his palms and splashed his face. The cold struck at once - cheeks, temples, neck. Water ran down his wrists and dripped to the floor. Sleep fell away quickly.
He did not wipe himself.
He straightened and lifted his gaze.
Before the basin stood a bronze disk. Worn, dull, with dark spots. Not a mirror - a reflection. In the copper something blurred and broken stirred. Drops ran over brow, lashes, and each one fractured the image.
He froze.
For a moment nothing came together. Only shadows, movement, a чужая form that refused to settle into a face.
A drop fell from the tip of his nose into the basin.
The outline wavered.
He held his breath.
Another second and the water began to recede. Slowly. Not at once. Over skin, down the chin. The drops thinned. The face in the bronze assembled in jerks, resisting.
First the brow. Then the cheekbones. Then the eyes.
Alexander did not look away.
The face was younger than he expected, and harder than that of an ordinary twenty-year-old. Cheekbones stood out clearly not cut, but naturally sharp. Skin light, roughened by wind, not pale. Along the cheekbones traces of tan - not sun, but steppe, cold.
He leaned a little closer, checking whether it would vanish.
He passed a palm over his chin. The stubble was short, dense. Under the fingers - an unevenness. An old scar. His fingers went farther along the cheek. There the line was thinner, almost invisible. He found it at once. Not because he saw it. Because he knew.
The hair was dark, heavy, lying straight just below the ears. He cut it without invention, the way it was worn under a helmet. Not for appearance.
The eyes in the reflection seemed dark. The color was hard to make out through the bronze, but the gaze was direct, calm.
He turned his head a little too sharply.
The world spun for a moment. Not violently - briefly, like an inward shove. The body reacted before thought.
He caught the edge of the table with his hand. Fingers clenched hard. The basin shuddered. Water splashed over the rim onto the floor, onto his boots, onto him.
He froze.
Stood like that. Did not let go of the table. His breathing evened slowly.
The floor returned beneath his feet. Not as expected. He noted it and accepted it. Without irritation. His fingers did not unclench at once. Then he released the table. Movements grew more careful, with reserve.
He slowly passed a hand over shoulder and side, checking the body. The forearms were dry, strong. Not for show. The kind that carry long weapons and do not tire from the road.
He did not examine himself longer than needed.
Checked and enough.
Only after stepping back, already straightening, did he notice out of the corner of his eye that two small sticks lay beside the basin.
He paused and looked at them more closely.
Pale, dry. One birch, the other juniper. He did not remember how he knew the difference. He simply knew it the way one knows the weight of a weapon in the hand.
He took the birch.
Turned it between his fingers, ran his thumb along the cut end. The wood was dry, yielding. Their purpose was clear at once. He bit the end and began to chew. The edge quickly split into fibers. He stopped when they softened.
He began to clean his teeth calmly, with short movements, moving row by row. Unhurried.
Finished, he scooped water with a ladle, rinsed his mouth, and spat into the empty basin below.
Then he parted his lips briefly, without effort. In the dull bronze the teeth were hard to see not white, not dark. Ordinary. Clean.
He ran his tongue over them - smooth.
Enough.
He turned away from the disk and stepped back from the table. He changed the wet clothes without haste, but quickly. His hands moved by habit; the order required little attention.
The scrolls and charters he no longer needed he gathered at once. Cleared the table of everything extra, pressed it to his chest, and went out. The gridni were just changing. Seeing the prince, they nodded and greeted him almost at the same time. Without fuss.
Alexander nodded in return and went first.
The gridni followed as they had yesterday, but closer than necessary - not intrusive, yet tighter. As they descended to the first floor of the terem, Mstislav turned at once toward the northern wing. He assumed they would go as before: gallery, passage, straight to the Holy Cathedral.
Alexander stopped him.
"Today we go through the street. I want to see what's happening outside."
Mstislav answered at once:
"As you wish, Prince."
There was surprise but only for a fraction of a moment. He and the others asked no questions. Mstislav merely glanced briefly at a younger gridnik and gave a sign. The man nodded and at once slipped away, unnoticed.
They turned toward the main exit.
Here the princely terem felt different. The space was wider, the ceilings higher, footsteps dulled by stone. Not a service route - a ceremonial one. Pages with errands moved along the sides, servants, people of the court. No one lingered, but no one rushed. They saw and gave way. Their eyes lowered not immediately, but with a slight delay.
Before the exit lay the vestibule - heavy, pass-through. Here the doors were never kept shut. They opened and closed constantly. A draft pulled cold through. Servants passed with bundles; some carried firewood, others candles. Boys flickered past quickly, almost running. No one stayed here longer than needed.
The closer they came to the exit, the tighter the ring around him grew.
New gridni appeared at his sides and behind. Alexander noticed it at once. They were led by the same younger gridnik who had left earlier. Their movements were coordinated, wordless. Danger could be near and so were they.
It did not trouble Alexander.
Not because he failed to understand. And not because he discounted the risk. Simply, there was no hesitation inside him. No challenge. No bravado. Only a firm sense of certainty.
He walked straight on.
The doors of the terem were opened in advance.
The leaves parted slowly, without a creak. Cold morning air rushed in at once, sharp as a blow.
Alexander stepped out onto the porch and stopped for a moment.
Before him lay the princely courtyard. Straight ahead - an open passage, packed hard, free of buildings. People moved along it, split to the sides, paused briefly, then went on.
To left and right stretched the court buildings: granary, storehouses, armory, chapel. A little aside - the houses of the senior druzhina and the house of the Ogniщanin. Everything stood apart, with space between, without crowding.
Farther on, by the gates themselves, were the stables and wagon sheds. There was more movement there.
The courtyard was enclosed. Along the perimeter ran a wooden palisade, lower than the city walls but dense, without gaps. One could enter only through the gates. All paths led to them and from them spread back out.
Alexander began to descend the steps.
One step. Another. The boards answered dully beneath his boots. When he stepped down into the yard and moved forward, conversation by the long building on the left quieted.
There stood the great gridnitsa - the hall of the princely druzhina. Here they ate, sat between outings, gathered for feasts and councils.
At the doors stood and sat warriors. Some held bowls, others mugs. They ate bread, cold meat, and kvass. Clearly taken from the night, so as not to wait. Alexander drew the conclusion almost automatically, as he was used to doing and at once let the thought go.
As the prince approached, talk by the gridnitsa faltered. One man set his bowl aside, another rose. Someone turned his head, someone straightened. Those who sat no longer sprawled, but neither did they hurry to stand.
The noise did not vanish, but it dropped lower. Expectation appeared within it.
The prince and his escort passed on.
The sudden quiet outside was noticed inside. More warriors stepped out of the gridnitsa - first one, then another. One called softly to his fellows, another bent and asked something in a low voice. The answers were brief, whispered. Someone waved a hand, as if explaining on the move.
They watched the prince cross the courtyard under the guard of the senior gridni, and each watched in his own way some longer, some in passing, some already turning away.
Farther along stood the court storeroom. A low building, wide doors, firewood piled by the wall, sacks and bundles beside it. Servants worked at the entrance. One hauled out a bundle, another caught a sack, a third set a bucket down to shift his grip. They dispersed at once in different directions - toward the wall, toward the stables, toward the outbuildings.
By their routes it was clear how the courtyard was waking. Firewood went to the hearths, water there as well. Damp smoke was already in the air - fires were just being lit.
Ahead, by the gates, stretched the stables. Several horses stood in the stalls; the rest had been led out. Harness hung on the walls, hay lay under the sheds. It smelled of horses, leather, and dung.
A groom fussing with a strap stopped, wiped his hand on the hem of his cloak, and looked briefly. A horse shifted its weight. Iron rang.
Closer to the walls stood the houses of the princely druzhina. The door of one opened and closed at once. From another a man stepped out, took a step, and stopped as if deciding to look first before going on.
The farther they went, the more often heads turned. Someone lingered by a door, someone stepped under a shed and did not hurry to leave. People gathered not together, but singly, each from his own place - yet their gazes converged on one point.
The gridni walked beside Alexander in a tight group. There were more than eight of them - such an escort was not given lightly. With such a guard walked either a prince or a voivode. But a voivode would be recognized at once, and before them walked a young man who ten days earlier had been seen unconscious, brought into the city as dead.
Now he walked on his own. His step was even, shoulders set. No caution. No haste. He did not seek eyes, and he did not turn his away. That was noticed.
At the gates the gridni straightened in advance. One stepped aside, opening the way. Another set a hand on the gate leaf, holding it.
Behind them whispers rose. Brief, under breath. A name. Then again. Someone said, "himself," and fell silent at once. Someone crossed himself while walking. Someone simply stopped, making no show of watching.
Alexander went on without slowing. Behind him the courtyard was left behind.
Beyond the gates the space opened wide at once.
The pressure of walls fell away. The step grew freer, the sound duller. The air changed - less smoke, more of the damp of morning earth. Here movement no longer converged to a single point; it spread.
Before him lay the detinets - the city's central fortified core, where authority and protection met.
Some walked quickly, on business, not looking to the sides. By granaries and storehouses they stopped briefly, waited for a shutter to open, a sack to be carried out, a bundle handed over. Under one awning two men spoke in half-voices as they walked, without lingering.
No one hurried. No one fussed. This was not a place for trade or celebration. Everyone stood in his place and did his work.
Above it all, close, almost overhanging, rose Saint Sophia Cathedral, built by his father, Prince Yaroslav. It did not press down and did not set itself apart - it simply stood. Stone people were used to. Stone they came to. A place where what had been decided became order.
Before the cathedral stretched the square.
Packed earth, in places laid with stone. Prints of feet, wheels, yesterday's damp had not yet dried. Along the sides, closer to the walls, ran the church buildings: storehouses, cells, service huts. People were already moving there.
One man opened shutters and, holding them with a hand, scanned the square. Another carried a bundle from under an awning, passed it on, wiped his palms on his shirt, and went back inside at once. Two stood by a door: one leaned a shoulder to the jamb, the other looked toward the cathedral, squinting. They exchanged a few words and fell silent.
Alexander walked without quickening his pace. The gridni spread into a semicircle - not tight, but enough to keep distance.
As they moved on, people to the sides began to shift. Someone stepped back a pace without turning. Someone paused to let them pass. Conversations broke off mid-word and did not resume. Several glances slid over the gridni and at once found him.
By one of the yards of the senior boyars stood people. There were boyars among them. The senior boyar turned his head first. The others followed his gaze. Boyar Lyutomir, with his tiun and two more, separated and at once moved toward the prince.
They moved toward the cathedral. Their motion cut against the general flow. No one else around walked so directly and toward the prince.
Alexander saw it. Mstislav and the gridni saw it too.
But the boyar did not reach him.
Someone called out behind him. Quietly, insistently. Lyutomir stopped and turned. Alexander could not hear the words too far but he saw Lyutomir shift his gaze aside, toward the man standing at the head of the boyars.
Tall, broad-shouldered, in dark clothing without excess. He did not move. He simply stood and looked. Lyutomir paused a moment. Then took a step back. Then another. His men dispersed, each returning to his place.
The movement collapsed at once. Without laughter. Without words. As if it had never been.
The senior gridnik Mirnomir stepped closer and said quietly, barely turning his head:
"That is Senior Boyar Oleg of Vyshgorod, Prince. And the others are with him."
Alexander nodded. He noted that no one argued. No one looked back. Even those who stood closer looked not at Lyutomir, but toward where Vyshgorodsky stood.
Oleg broke his gaze from his own men and looked directly at the prince. Calmly. In that look there was neither greeting nor threat - only the certainty that a conversation would take place. But not now.
Alexander accepted the look just as evenly. Did not turn away. Did not hold it. For a moment the corner of Oleg's mouth twitched - almost imperceptibly. Then he turned aside, said something to his people, and the group moved toward the exit of the detinets.
As Alexander went on, he followed them with his eyes until the figures dissolved into the movement of people.
On the third step his foot found a shallow rut. The sole set down harder than needed. The body answered at once, briefly. Balance had to be recovered within the same motion, without pause.
The senior gridnik Mirnomir shifted half a step closer.
Alexander straightened, as if nothing had happened.
By then there was no doubt who was walking.
So the rumors were true. The prince had risen.
Two messengers standing at the edge of the square vanished almost at once. Dissolved into the passages between buildings. The word was already gone.
From a cornice a sparrow burst upward. One. Abruptly. Without a cry. Simply breaking free.
Alexander climbed the steps and entered the cathedral.
From the narthex he stepped at once into a tall, open volume. Before him lay the central nave - wide, without partitions. The pillars stood far apart, and between them ran a straight passage inward, toward the altar. Light fell from above, from high windows, not from the sides.
The stone beneath his feet was cold. The sound of his steps went forward and returned as a weak response.
People moved between the pillars: shifting candles, carrying books, speaking in half-voices. First they noticed the guards. Then him. Some bowed at once. Some after a step. Some moved aside without lifting their eyes.
No greetings. No ceremony.
By one of the pillars, closer to a side aisle, stood Deacon Lazar. He did not come forward. He waited until the prince approached on his own. Then he bowed deeply, evenly, without haste.
"Prince," he said quietly. "His Eminence Illarion would wish to speak with you. Before the service begins. If it is possible."
The prince stopped.
Lazar straightened. He stood upright. Held his gaze calmly, neither lowering it nor raising it beyond measure. He did not hurry. Did not add words. He had spoken and now waited.
Alexander had not expected this.
He had come to the cathedral expecting the first conversation to be with the boyars. He had seen them leave. Seen the movement collapse. Seen how Oleg of Vyshgorod had postponed the talk. Cleanly. Publicly. So that it would be seen.
And now the Church. The Metropolitan.
Not later. Not through messengers. Now.
Oleg's look rose in his memory - that same calm look, held for a beat. There it had meant: not now. This was different. Too timely to be chance.
A game? Or an order that had simply begun to form?
Alexander did not linger on it. He would learn soon enough. He nodded.
"Lead."
Lazar turned at once. Without looking back. Knowing the prince would follow.
They turned into a side aisle, moving away from the cathedral's main space. It was quieter here. The light weaker. The stone underfoot smooth, worn. Along the way they passed priests and monks: some carrying scrolls, some whispering, some stopping and pressing to the wall to let the prince and the guard pass.
The gridni kept slightly behind. Not tight. Exactly enough not to disturb the order of the church and yet remain in place.
Lazar led the prince to a stair.
The steps went upward along the wall, narrow, stone. The second level of Saint Sophia was not for service and not for crowds. Here were the quarters of the clergy, the store rooms, the working chambers. One came up rarely. On business.
Above, the air was drier. Light entered through narrow windows, falling in bands across the stone. There was less movement here, more silence.
The metropolitan's chambers lay deeper in. The door was plain, without carving, but heavy. A servant stood by the wall. Seeing Lazar, he stepped aside, opened the leaf, and left at once without waiting.
Lazar stopped at the threshold.
"His Eminence is waiting," he said, and bowed his head.
Alexander stepped inside.
The chambers were larger than he had expected. The space was long, with a high vault. Along one wall stood a broad table crowded with scrolls, wax tablets, and laid-out charters. Some were rolled and bound, some lay open with strips of leather marking places.
By the table stood a heavy bench with armrests. Not ceremonial, but suited for long work. Shelves of books took nearly an entire wall. The books stood tightly packed, without order for the eye but with order for the hand: some with notes, others with markers, others with worn spines.
Against the far wall stood a chest with a bound lid. Beside it a large icon in a dark setting - without adornment, yet noticed at once. Light from a narrow window fell slantwise, not reaching the table. By the lamp the wick still smoldered; it was clear it had not been extinguished since night.
The room smelled of wax, parchment, and cold stone.
One did not pray alone here. Here one read, decided, judged, and waited.
The Metropolitan stood by the window, looking out over Kyiv. Not at the cathedral, not at the detinets - farther, to where the city began and spread over the hills.
The door closed. He turned.
Alexander looked straight ahead. Did not glance around. Did not seek a place. He simply stood and waited.
The Metropolitan was short and spare. Narrow shoulders, an elongated face, sharp folds at the mouth. His beard was gray, trimmed evenly, without ornament. His eyes were dark, attentive - a gaze without softness, assessing.
Alexander knew Illarion. He had seen him with his father, beside his elder brothers, at services, at councils, in those rare days when the Church and the princely house drew close. Then they did not speak to him. Then he stood aside, among voivodes and the druzhina, and that suited everyone.
Illarion had looked past him then. Not because he failed to notice him, but because there had been nothing to say.
Now they stood here alone.
Illarion stepped away from the window and took a few steps. Not toward him. To the side, toward the table. He stopped, leaving space between them.
"Be well, Prince," he said calmly.
The Metropolitan set a hand on the back of the chair opposite, inviting him.
"Please. Sit."
Alexander answered with a slight nod and sat. Calmly. Without haste. He did not speak and did not ask questions. He simply settled and looked at Illarion, waiting. The Metropolitan took the seat opposite. For a time he too was silent, as if giving the prince the chance to begin.
Alexander remained silent and seemed in no hurry to start.
Illarion ran his fingers through his beard, holding them a moment at the chin. His gaze slipped aside briefly, then returned to the prince. That was unexpected.
At their first meeting it had been different. Then, on the day of appointment, the elder sons of the Grand Prince had lingered, spoken the proper words, shown respect. Alexander had given a brief bow and left with the voivodes, to the druzhina. Loud, sharp, confident - a brash, warlike boy.
Now another man sat before him.
He held himself evenly. His gaze did not dart or cling. His hands rested calmly. In the silence there was neither challenge nor awkwardness - only waiting.
Illarion understood that the conversation he had planned would not work in this form. He held his breath for a moment and rearranged his opening words before speaking. He leaned forward slightly, clasped his fingers, resting his hands on the edge of the table.
"I called you because for ten days the city lived without a voice. Decisions were postponed. Not because they could not be made, but because people were waiting to learn to whom they belonged."
Illarion lifted his gaze directly to Alexander.
"Now you are here. Tell me - what, in your view, has returned?"
Alexander did not answer at once. Illarion's words sounded unfamiliar. Voice. Returned. For a moment he considered what exactly the old man was asking.
At once the charters he had read the night before rose in his memory. Similar words. Similar phrasing. The same way of speaking not about a man, but about the right to speak - about who owns the word and who can return it.
He lowered his eyes briefly, aligning words and logic, then raised his head.
"What has changed," he said, "is that there is no longer anyone to wait for."
He paused and added more quietly:
"While I was gone, everyone grew used to not deciding. Now they will all be testing whether I will."
Illarion listened without interruption. When Alexander finished, the Metropolitan remained silent. That answer was enough for him to understand that before him stood not a warrior or a voivode, but a prince. Not hot, not blind, not empty.
Illarion slowly unclasped his fingers, set a palm on the table, and only then lifted his gaze.
"Then you understand," he said softly, "that the first word sets the measure for all that follow."
He paused briefly, letting the words settle.
"There will be those in the city who are dissatisfied. Those who will not agree. Who will refuse to carry out orders. Who will try to test the boundary. Tell me, Prince - what will you do with those who decide that the boundary is not a limit, but an invitation? Cut them down?"
Alexander listened without changing his expression.
"No," he said calmly. "Not at first. I will give them the chance to fit in. To understand the rules. To accept obligations. To work. I need people. All of them. Even the dissatisfied. Even the doubtful."
He fell silent, glanced aside for a moment as if checking the thought, then looked back at Illarion - directly.
"But if someone decides the boundary can be tested further," he inclined his head slightly, "then I will remove not the man, but the very possibility of resistance."
The prince did not avert his gaze.
"I do not need blood. I need a land that works. Whoever prevents the land from working does not remain here."
When Alexander finished, Illarion held his gaze. He saw no hesitation. No attempt to persuade. This was neither a promise nor a warning. It was a decision that already existed and would be carried out.
Illarion's fingers on the table tightened more than he had expected. He was no longer looking at Alexander as a youth, nor as a prince who would still be guided. He saw a man who intended to rule not over people, but over the order itself.
For a time he was silent. Then he spoke differently without softness, but without pressure.
"You will have strength," Illarion said calmly. "I heard that even before the words."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Tell me something else. Where will you begin, so that the land beneath you does not shift in the first days?"
Alexander nodded and thought longer than necessary. He was not delaying on purpose he was simply silent. Illarion did not look away, though his fingers on the table shifted almost imperceptibly, as if he were about to speak and changed his mind.
"I will not pretend that I know everything here," Alexander said at last, calmly. "No one taught me that. But I know where power begins. Not with deeds, but with recognition."
He lifted his gaze, then briefly glanced upward and ran a hand along his chin, over the still uneven beard, as if gathering the thought.
"In the first month I will secure what already exists. I will accept the loyalty of the Kyiv boyars. I will confirm the old governors and make them confirm themselves. I must see who is with me and who is merely waiting."
He spoke without haste.
"The druzhina must know whom it stands behind. The city and the people must understand that decisions are being made again. The rest I will assemble step by step. I am not in a hurry to break things. I am in a hurry not to lose them."
Illarion listened and nodded at once - briefly, without reflection. That was enough to grasp the order in which the prince intended to act. His gaze became stricter, more focused.
"I have heard you, Prince," he said calmly. "In such matters haste is the first enemy. The Church will not shield you from consequences. And it will not push you forward. Let each step stand on its own before men and before God."
He lifted his gaze.
"We will see what of this becomes Rus'."
Alexander nodded in reply.
"Thank you for the conversation," he said calmly. "It has clarified much."
He allowed himself a brief smile - without warmth, without aggression. Illarion caught it and answered with the same nod, not changing his expression.
"Go with what you have taken upon yourself."
Alexander rose and left.
Illarion remained standing by the table. He did not return to the window.