For over a month now, Miroslav Borichevsky, princely advisor to Prince Izyaslav, had been leading the Byzantine delegation toward Kyiv.
The journey, which had begun in Constantinople with negotiations on ecclesiastical concessions and trade guarantees, was a response to the first steps taken by the new prince of Kyiv.
Yaroslav had left Rus' strong. But he was gone - and now Byzantium wanted to see whether his sons could hold what he had built.
Three days before reaching Kyiv, a message arrived capable of collapsing not only authority, but the very idea of order.
A halt. A dusty border town. In the air - the scent of sweat, clay, hot wheels.
Miroslav, leaning over the map, sensed the unease before it had taken form. Felt it in his body - like a harbinger.
Then - a rider. Dust, the frantic breath of the horse, trembling hands. He jumped from the saddle, nearly fell, and immediately - to Miroslav, on his knees.
- What is it? - the voice of the senior boyar rang out sharply, like a blow on a shield.
The rider did not answer at once. Inhale. Exhale. Eyes - like an ice hole in spring water.
- The princes... nearly all... - he swallowed. - Only Alexander remains. In five days he will ascend the throne
A pause. Not silence - a break in rhythm.
The air froze. One of the squires dropped a jug. The clay clatter - like a shot.
No one moved.
Miroslav did not stir. Only his fingers clenched at the edges of the map - as if trying to hold not paper, but land.
- All? - he asked. Not a voice - a residue.
- Izyaslav... Vsevolod... - the rider did not name the others. - All
No prayers were heard - fear does not pray. It contracts in the chest, burns along the spine. Miroslav closed his eyes. Remained silent - so as not to break.
Senior Boyar Dobrynya of Pereyaslav, standing beside him, seemed to hear that silence. His hand rested on his sword, his gaze darted into the void where there were no answers.
- The fifth princeling, Alexander... - quietly. - He lives. But he... is not one who knows how to hold a throne
No one objected. Not even Miroslav. He was looking toward where, beyond the hills, it began.
The land of Kyiv. In his head - not thoughts, but blows. Alexander - young. A warrior, not a builder. Blood, not roots.
- He is on the throne, - Miroslav said at last, restrained. - Then we have no other. Either we raise Rus' - or it crumbles like dust
Dobrynya turned away. He knew Miroslav was right. But the Greeks... the Greeks were expecting order.
- They want to see strength, - he said. - And they will see an empty throne and blood
- They will see what we show them, - Miroslav answered sharply. - If we do not waver - neither will they
He spoke to Dobrynya - but the words fell further. To the side. Into the ears of those standing just off to the side, not interfering, but listening.
To the left, at the edge of the camp, the Byzantine delegation stood assembled.
Not merely a retinue - architecture. Symbols of Empire, standing in the shadow of roads.
The bronze shields of the Varangians gleamed in the dusty light, their helmets - like domes in the sunset. Behind them - Cappadocian scribes, officials in dark chitons, three priests, one of whom carried a reliquary wrapped in silver. At the wagons - eunuchs, squires, servants with silk tassels at their belts.
And all of it was silent.
In front - one rider. A black horse. Girths like venous cords - of velvet and steel.
The envoy.
Magister Nikodemos Doukas.
The chief representative of Byzantium. The shadow of Constantinople. The smile of Empire stretched over bone.
He did not speak. Did not move. But the air around him changed.
His face - motionless. His gaze - like a blade in wood. He was not listening. He was calculating - where the throne would crack first.
While Miroslav issued instructions, Nikodemos dismounted. Unhurriedly. Without gesture.
He stepped one pace away from the camp - and the world around him broke off. Bowed head. Not a prayer. Not a pause. Assembly.
Anna, daughter of Constantine IX, was not a wife. She was a seam. Vsevolod Yaroslavich - not a husband, but a fixture.
Their union - not a marriage, but a stretched cloth. Between Empire and Rus'.
Now - a rupture.
Alexander remained alone. A name without a retinue. A voice without a signature. Such men are easier to build upon. Easier to weave in.
Power - had not vanished. It trembled. And if it trembles - it yields. That means one can enter.
Empire does not need names. It needs form. And the form remained: throne, river, marriage - as framework.
Nikodemos saw this first.
And all day - remained silent.
At halts, when boyars whispered over maps and braziers, and servants argued over rumors, Nikodemos sat still.
Even those used to his restraint sensed: he had gone deeper than usual. Not into thought - into calculation.
Sophia rode not far behind. Watched him in secret. But asked nothing. She knew: if Uncle Nikodemos is silent - it means he is still counting.
The sky darkened, the camp faded. The crack of branches, sparse voices. Someone coughed - and instantly fell silent.
Nikodemos did not warm himself. He stared into the fire - not as warmth, but as possibility: could one mold borders from this flame.
He - was a magister. A representative of Empire, not its will.
But now - was not the time for declarations. Now - was the time for seams.
The old order had burned. And in its ash stood Sophia - blood of Lakapenos, mind of Constantinople, a pawn no one had yet placed. Yet.
Sophia - not his daughter. Not of the Doukai. Granddaughter of his friend, Magister Lakapenos. Sent to study. To observe.
But the seam between powers had torn. And she - was near. The right age. The right blood. Unpromised. Unbound.
He knew: he was making a step not outside a title - outside permission. Against procedure. Against the silent law.
Not against the Empire - against its order.
Without mandate. Without consultation. Without a parchment bearing anyone's signature but his own.
If it failed - Lakapenos would strike him out first. Not from memory - from trust.
The Emperor would forget. The friend would turn away. The Empire would act as if he had never existed.
He was not afraid. But he knew: fear walks behind. And if you look back - it will catch up.
If it succeeded - his name would be woven into history as the one who bound East and North. Without war. Without decree. With a single marriage.
Empire does not reward initiative.
But it remembers those who stitched what was torn - while others were still counting losses.
He had not asked permission. Not because he did not want to - because he would not have had time.
He was placing a stone into a cracked wall. Not as a builder. As one who knows:
if you don't place it now - tomorrow there will be nowhere left to place it.
If it worked - he would become the architect of a new era.
If it failed - the Empire would erase him as if he had never lived. Even he himself would one day believe that nothing had ever happened.
By dawn, he already knew what to do.
While the servants gathered the baggage and the scribes whispered near the wagons, he looked at Sophia. Nodded.
She approached. Without words. On her face - only fatigue and understanding: this was not just a conversation.
- Sophia, - he said quietly. - We need to talk
His voice was gentle. But in it, there was the weight under which things are broken and made to obey.
- Yes, uncle, - she bowed her head.
They stepped away from the camp. Dust. Dew. Air in which neither flies nor worries had yet awakened.
He stopped. Looked at her. As at a structural point.
Sophia was silent. Not from fear. From knowing that here - there was no family, no protection, no kinship.
Here - was Empire. And he spoke to her not as a niece, but as a figure that had landed on the right square.
- Everything has changed, - he said. - All the princes are dead. One remains. Alexander. Young. Strong. Unbound. That is danger. And that is opportunity
Sophia did not reply. She was not naïve. She knew all too well: when Nikodemos uses the word "opportunity" - he has already moved the piece on the board.
- Now you are no longer merely a representative of the court, - he went on. - You are a possible princess
The words fell like a slab. Not loud. But with a dull thud that trembles inside. She did not recoil. Did not gasp. Only clenched her fingers slightly tighter.
- I am to marry the prince? - she asked quietly. - Alexander?
- You are to show that alliance with you - is an anchor. And he will come to the right conclusion on his own
She exhaled. Slowly. Not from weakness - from restraint. Her whole body screamed. But her face - only paled slightly.
- I came to study. To understand how the world works. Not to become part of it like this
- The world doesn't ask, Sophia. It uses what is near. You are near. You have the right blood, name, age, upbringing. And you are in the right place - at the right time
He said it coldly. Like a command.
But inside he knew: if she failed - it would not be the alliance that collapsed.
It would be him. His name. His shadow. Everything that kept him in the game without screaming.
He could not allow himself fear. But it already stood beside him. Silent. Like retribution.
She lowered her eyes. In her chest - not fear, but a boulder. Like a stone that doesn't roll, but presses down with time.
- I don't know him. I don't understand him
- All the better. You won't have illusions
She was silent. Then - raised her gaze. Without defiance. But with a point.
- This isn't... this isn't really a choice, is it? It's just - where you're pushed
- You're clever, - curtly.
Silence.
- May I... may I ask something? - softly.
Nikodemos didn't answer. Only tilted his head.
- If... if I must be a part - she swallowed - I... don't want to just be near
Not in title. Not in dowry.
I don't...
I don't know how
But if it's only - listening... only listening - I won't be able to.
I need to...
I must... do something. Decide something. Or... I won't bear it
Nikodemos said nothing. For a long time.
- Space is not given, Sophia. It is taken. If you can - then it's yours
She didn't answer right away. Only stared past him - somewhere into the dust, the cold morning, the life that was still yesterday.
When she came to study, not to forge alliance. When she could observe, record, remember - not become a piece on the board to be moved when needed.
In her chest - not fear. Something slower. Harder.
As if she had been taken by the throat and placed in front of a mirror where what reflected back was not herself, but a future crown, a foreign tongue, a bed, a capital, power, and loneliness.
She remembered her mother saying: "The main thing - don't contradict. Accept - and live."
Back then - she accepted. But didn't live. Now - she would not accept. Now - she would play.
Not because she wanted to. Because otherwise - she would only live.
- Fine. If it's to be this way - I will decide where to stand
She nodded again. Her face calm.
But inside - there was no consent.
Only one thing:
if everything was already decided - at least the final step would be hers.
Her move. Her choice. Even if at the very end.
She stepped aside. Took from the saddlebag a ribbon - Byzantine, with silver thread. Braided her hair. Tightly. Without help.
For the first time - not as Sophia.
As a representative of the Empire.
If she was destined to become a link - she would be the one who holds the chain.
Nikodemos noticed. Not with his gaze - with the angle of his neck, a pause in breath.
He said nothing. But he already knew: she was now in the game. Not as a pawn. As an intelligent unit on the right square.
If Rome withdraws, if the steppe advances - Byzantium must lean at least on Kyiv. Preferably - not on treaty, but on bond.
Marriage - the fastest way to build longevity.
The words were over. Movement had begun.
Morning had already begun to tug at the shoulder. The road was waiting. And everything that had been internal - now had to become external.
As the Byzantine delegation approached the southern side of Kyiv, the road inclined.
Before them, beyond the outskirts, rose the most fortified part of the city - white-stone, broad, like a ring pressed to the earth. Above the ramparts - towers. In the heart of the wall - an arch. Double-doored, framed with carvings.
The Golden Gate of Kyiv.
Above them - the dome of the Church of the Annunciation, in the haze of morning sunlight, like the glow of expectation and examination.
Leo Komnenos, protospatharios, rode just ahead of the Varangians. His face weathered, as if carved from sea stone. Cloak - austere, dark, without ornament, but the medallion with the double-headed eagle on his chest required no interpretation.
This was a man who knew how sieges were led, and what it meant to hold a line under pressure. He was not observing - he was testing.
- Not Theodosian, - he said, narrowing his eyes. - But they hold. Perhaps longer
Dobrynya of Pereyaslav, riding beside him, cast a glance at the walls, then at Komnenos:
- Ours did not build for glory. Ours built so as not to fall
Komnenos nodded slightly, slowly, like one who accepts a challenge - and tallies it.
At the foot of the rampart stretched a market.
Fishmongers and honey-sellers, potters, old women with bundles of greens, children chasing hoops. But at the sight of helmets, foreign colors, signs of Byzantium - the chatter quieted. Someone removed a head covering. Someone crossed themselves. A dog howled - then fell silent.
The herald at the Golden Gate stepped forward:
- Delegation of the Emperor of the Romans! - he proclaimed.
The peal of bells moved through the air. Not as a greeting. More - as a sign: others have entered. They will judge.
- Look, the Greeks!
- What have they come with?
- Take note of the gifts! Think they brought them just like that? All calculated
The crowd began to stir. Whispers, elbows, glances. One boy, barefoot, with a dirty bandage on his forehead, slipped forward. Beneath the Varangians' feet - splinters, dust. He stopped, looked up - at the riders, the helmets, the silk.
And then - threw.
No more than a clump of clay. A lump of dirt. It flew in an arc - not to the face, but at the hooves.
It struck the ground in front of the horse. A piece bounced off, hit the eunuch's boot. He flinched. The Varangian - already gripped the hilt.
But Nikodemos raised his hand. Not even with a gesture. Simply - raised it. And everything froze.
The clump of clay flattened in the dust. The boy was already gone - pulled back, vanished.
Silence rose onto tiptoe.
- Let this be a sign, - said Nikodemos. Quietly. Not looking at the crowd. - The land has reminded us that here - it sets the rules
And no one moved again.
Miroslav, riding nearby, leaned slightly forward. Not with a jerk - like a wall standing firmer.
- It won't happen again, - he said grimly. Not to the crowd - to the city.
In his eyes - not worry. Testing.
He looked at the Varangians, the eunuch, the line of faces along the road.
- The one who throws here - is not of Kyiv, - he added, and his voice was like a key: not a shout - a lock. - Our own do not greet this way. And for strangers - there will be no forgiveness
The crowd did not answer. But in the tense stillness - movement. The Golden Gate of Kyiv quivered.
From it, as if from within Kyiv itself, stepped forth the Supreme Voivode Ignat.
Behind him - druzhinniki in ceremonial mail, faces uncovered, helmets glinting with morning light. Behind - the banners of the princely court, and maidens with ritual towels. Everything as it should be, but without excess.
Ignat did not bow his head.
- Kyiv sees you, - he said. - This is not a temple, that we should bow. But not a field, that we should quarrel. Enter
He stepped aside. Silence - was permission.
Miroslav, without waiting for words, dismounted. Slowly, firmly. In full view of the crowd and the druzhina - he stepped from his horse to the ground, as one does not under authority, but bearing the weight of power.
He signaled to the maidens. They stepped forward. White towel, dark bread, glint of salt on the edge.
Miroslav turned to Nikodemos.
- Kyivan Rus' greets guests according to the honor of our ancestors, - he said. Clearly, not as a friend, but by rule. - Accept bread and salt
Nikodemos nodded. Without excess. Dismounted. Accepted - not food, a sign. And with that, the reception was complete.
Leo Komnenos, following behind him, did the same. His movements were precise, like on the field - even the bow resembled not a concession, but a calculated step in a diplomatic formation.
After that, no one remounted.
The delegation proceeded on foot. Not like those being led. Like those measuring the road by the weight of their steps.
- You think we came here to bow? - Leo said quietly to Miroslav, without looking.
- We accept not a bow, but a confirmation, - he replied. - Kyiv has no need of submission. But it does need clarity
- Clarity in walls?
- In the intent not to destroy
They walked on, not slowing. The silence between their words - like a gunshot without sound. Diplomacy at the edge of scrutiny.
Sophia rode nearby. Not at the center - part of the formation. Sat side-saddle, as taught.
Back straight, hands - like in a dance, not a single wasted movement. Her face under the veil - cold. Her gaze - like a stroke: from wall to tower, from tower to figures on the rampart.
Only in her fingers - a break. The ribbon slipped. She adjusted it. Almost immediately.
But not on the first try. The end - like a living thread - caught. Wouldn't obey.
For a moment it seemed - not she was the center of the procession, but that silk.
The breath - as if it slid past. Uneven. Almost imperceptible.
Her fingers trembled. Slightly. But memory - recorded it.
Not fear. Just a sign: the body still exists. And it remembers.
The horse beneath her - did not obey. Nor should it have.
The horse was led by one of the Varangians. On foot. Silent.
His hand - on the rein, hers - on the fabric of her dress. She did not control - she moved. And it was visible.
And she no longer looked at faces, but at the geometry of space. How the crowd parted. How they watched from the towers. Where in the city the meanings compressed.
The gate was already close. The towers grew. The people - retreated, but did not disappear. With their eyes they followed. With weight - they tested.
Her gaze rose above the arch. The dome. And the cross. And the bell that had not yet struck - but already rang in the air with expectation.
It was the first time she had seen a city like this. Not a capital - a compression. Not noise - tension. As if all of Kyiv had tightened into a knot, sharp as a question:
- Who are you? And why have you come?
It was not like Constantinople.
There - marble, rhythm, streaming light and song over stone. Here - wood, weight, heat that smelled of flesh. Here the streets did not lead - they pulled. And the gazes did not meet - they measured.
They came closer.
The Golden Gate no longer stood - it loomed. Stone - directly above the brow. The arch - like a predator's tooth. A narrow maw.
- Halt! - barked a voice. Sharp. Like a blow to the chest.
Beside the arch - a druzhinnik. Stubble. A scar. Eyes like those of a dog that remembers the lash. In his hand - a spear, not for battle. For reminder.
He leveled it - not at the Byzantines. To the side. In the face of a local.
- Who called? Who gave leave?
The air jerked. As if the city blinked - and would not blink again.
On a side cart - a merchant. Fat. Cloak askew, one hand gripping the reins as if in excuse.
- I came to trade... oil... was told...
He didn't finish. His horse jolted from the spear. The cart tilted. One of the skins of oil slipped, struck, burst. It spilled. Over the stone. Over feet.
Silence - as if a shadow from the heavens had descended.
No one moved. The Varangian at the side - did not even turn his head. He merely leaned forward slightly, like a wall - if the wind had blown harder.
The merchant jumped down, began gathering - with his hands, with his clothes, silently. The smell was sharp. Resin and confusion.
Sophia didn't look away. And didn't know why.
No blood. No scream. But the air had shifted. As if the city had taken a breath - and had not exhaled.
She said nothing. But understood: here, mistakes are not corrected. Here, they are simply not forgiven.
The city did not receive. It selected.
Who doesn't belong - leaves. Or is lost.
The Golden Gate of Kyiv did not call. It decided.
A point. Nothing more. Not even thought - a residue.
Sophia turned her head slightly. Not toward the crowd. Inward. So as not to see.
Kyiv began beyond the gate. The real one. Not towers. Not walls. A city one does not enter - one is allowed into. Or not.
As if they had passed somewhere, from which there is no turning back.
The streets - narrow. The houses - not beautiful. Not like in Constantinople. There - columns. Here - as if everything had been crammed together, just enough to hold.
The smells cut. Flour. Smoke. Grass, slightly rotten. Sweat. Even leather. All of it - foreign. All of it - strong.
People walked by. Some with bundles, some with brooms, some with straps. No one looked straight on. Only sideways. Quickly. As if checking.
Sophia suddenly understood: they were different. Some from the north. Some from the field. Some - as if from far away. You could see it in the eyes. In the hands. In the step. But all - here. All watching.
And none smiled.
In Constantinople, they looked at her because they knew who she was. Here - because they didn't. And didn't believe.
As if waiting for her to say something. Or make a mistake. Or break.
She tried not to breathe through her mouth - not to show. But the smoke stung her eyes. And her chest grew heavy. As if the heart wanted to hide. Or flee.
An old man crossed himself - at her. Simply. Without malice. As at an icon. Or a black bird.
A woman nearby whispered:
- The princess?
As if not to her. As if into emptiness.
And then - a voice. Whispering. Prickling:
- Greeks again. Look how they're dressed up
Sophia heard it. Every word. As if someone had thrown a handful of dirt at her.
She didn't cry. Didn't look away. Simply straightened.
Mother would have said: don't answer. Just be silent.
But mother - was there. And here - no one would say how.
- I'm alone here. Completely alone. And they see it
She straightened again. A bit more.
Not for them. So as not to waver herself.
The ribbon at her wrist - Byzantine, with silver thread - suddenly caught.
A trifle. But it pulled tight like a string - and tore the skin.
A small flare. A cut - thin as a needle. The drop - rose at once.
Sophia didn't cry out. Just looked down.
The blood - like a mark.
No one saw.
But she - did.
She clenched her fingers. Slowly. To conceal it.
And not for the pain.
To remind herself:
this is not a veil. This is skin. This is me. Alive.
And if I crack - it will show.
She didn't know what would come next.
But she knew - stopping wasn't an option.
The procession continued.
They moved like will. Ahead - Nikodemos with Miroslav and Ignat. Beside - Eustathios Kallistratos, silent, with papyri. Slightly behind - Leo Komnenos, like a rock, behind him - the Varangians.
To the left - Agaphius Scholastikos, unhurried, as if walking not upon earth, but across a Psalm. Closer to the rear - Sebastianos Phokas, eyes on the stalls, step on the dealings.
Behind Sophia rode her cousin Clio Lakapene. Usually talkative, with a soft smile. Today - frighteningly quiet. Even the horse moved without sound, as if echoing her tone.
Sophia was at the center. Like the keystone in an arch. Not what holds - but if it falls, everything cracks.
This was not a procession. This was an assertion: the Empire is here. Not with eyes. With weight.
But the weight - not in gold. In earth. In how it shifts beneath those who walk.
The closer to the Detinets - the quieter the city became. Less color, fewer sounds. Stone muffled. Houses compressed. The air - not hot, but dense.
Beneath the walls, there was no grass. Only dust, indentations, blackened traces. As if everyone who entered here lost something.
Ignat walked ahead. Did not look back. Did not call - simply walked. Precisely. Like one who does not seek the road, but walks it for the fifth year in a row.
Leo Komnenos looked at the walls as if at a ship's hull.
- Thick, - he said. - Not Byzantine stone. But they hold
Ignat turned his head, barely slowing his pace.
- Ours build not for beauty. For what endures
- And memory? - Komnenos clarified.
- Only if it remains when all have left
The Detinets was already close. Not towers - teeth. Not gates - a knot.
The center of Kyiv did not greet - it stood watch.
At the approach - shields like walls. Not displayed. Grown in. Warriors - without slogans.
They simply stood. But stood in such a way that it became clear: one more step without a name - and you are no more.
One passage - narrow. On the right - stone. On the left - eyes. Silent. Counting.
Here they did not seek signs. Here they sought discrepancies. An extra spur. A foreign scent. Anything that was not supposed to pass.
The gates - deaf. No gold, no fabric. Only the prince's symbol - a trident, crudely carved, but unmistakable.
The air - as if it held its breath.
And then - footsteps. Not loud, but precise. Like an echo from within the wall.
To Ignat approached one of the boyars. Sharp, as if a break in rhythm. As though fate had caught him, not the other way around.
- They've arrived, - he exhaled, holding back a tremor.
- Who?
- The Lebedyns. With the senior Chernihiv nobles
- Who's meeting them?
- Dobrynya Vsevolodovich. Already inside
Ignat frowned. Not deeply. But his face turned to stone. A nod - short. Not agreement. A seal.
Miroslav did not stop. Only cast over his shoulder:
- From here, it's no longer mine. This is princely ground. Now - it's you
Nikodemos did not reply. His gaze was on the wall - not like a builder's, but like one who looks for a weak point. Logs. Fastenings. Angle. Load.
This wall still held. But it breathed. It could be bent.
He looked at Sophia.
Her back - a blade. Shoulders did not tremble. But her fingers - white. As though in them was everything one does not show. She held on. No longer to the fabric. To remaining herself.
- We're ready, - Nikodemos said. First to himself. Then slightly louder, so that it rang:
- And as for him - we shall see
Ignat, hearing this, twisted his lips slightly. Not a smirk - he knew the taste of words.
Miroslav didn't notice. Nikodemos - even less.
They did not yet know that the prince - not by age, not by chronicles - but by reaction -
would enter differently than expected.
Miroslav nodded.
- He's young, - he said. - But stubborn. And the stubborn - crack slower. The obedient collapse first
Nikodemos said nothing. Only his gaze - forward. Where the knot began.
Ahead - the gate.
Too narrow to pass by. Too important to pass through easily.
They did not enter. They were drawn in.
The Detinets did not open wide. It pulled inward. Like a furnace that takes in air, but does not share it. This was not an entrance. It was the point at which you no longer leave as the one who came.
First - the noise. But not market noise. Complex. Layered.
The clash of swords in training, the commands of decatarchs, the shout of a guard, the ring of metal at the forge. The air - heavy: coal, manure, boiled resin, sweat, tanned leather.
The eyes could not keep up with the space. Everything was at once.
Stone buildings along the main line. Towers. Stables. Armories. Terems - not one, not two. Like the floors of power.
The Princely Terem - deep within, on a rise, as if looking down. Pilgrims at the church. Crosses. Brotherhood feast by the walls.
The Detinets did not show itself - it lived. And everything that sounded around was not noise. It was breath.
Sophia heard it. Not on purpose - it simply was heard.
Whispers. Footsteps. The creak of leather. Even, it seemed, another's breathing.
- Who is that?
- Look, with the veil.
- A Greek woman?
- Again from the East. Brought in. Why?
She did not turn.
The voices were not hostile - but not friendly either. Not questions - assessments.
The warriors stood at every boundary, not in a line - in intent.
This was no display. It was a structure. Compressed, strung tight like a bow before release.
Pages darted about not chaotically - like blood in veins: every dash - to the right point. Women did not shout. They only looked. Elders - were silent, like icons.
Sophia froze. Not from fear - from scale.
The princely terem, toward which the path led, was wooden, yes. But it was not weak. It stood as proof: Rus' is not a court. Rus' is a decision.
When the delegation passed the wooden buildings and emerged into an open space, a square unfolded before them.
The center of the Detinets.
To the east - a silhouette familiar to all Byzantines.
The Cathedral of Saint Sophia of Kyiv.
Not like in Constantinople - but recognizable. The domes - lower. The proportions - stricter. But in the stone rang the same: "here is a cathedral."
Sophia Lakapene paused. Almost a full step. She knew: this was not merely a building. It was a gesture. A signal. A response to a Byzantine challenge.
From behind Nikodemos came a voice:
- Sophia, - said Agaphius Scholastikos in Greek. His voice - high, barely vibrating, like the ring of a small bell. - They gave it the same name. Not by chance
He was not speaking about her - but about the cathedral. Yet the words were addressed to her.
- Byzantium is the mother. But mothers have daughters who grow apart. Even when they pray in the same name
Dobrynya of Pereyaslav, walking alongside, smirked. Thinly. Like a knife on a strap.
- And still the cross is one, - he replied in Slavonic. - But beneath it - different hands
Agaphius did not respond. He likely did not understand Dobrynya's words - but caught the tone. Like wind - not language, but direction. His gaze lingered on the cathedral. Longer than politeness allowed. As if examining not a temple - but a position.
They passed state buildings. Cold. A granary with wide-open doors. A chapel grown into a tree. Everything - not for beauty. For function.
Then - a gate.
Not a city gate. An inner one. Guarded. Entry - by name only. Miroslav named them. Ignat nodded.
They passed through.
And were no longer simply walking a street. They had entered the princely court.
The space - dense. Along the perimeter - walls. Along the edges - boyars.
Not greeting. Present.
The shape of power that arrived before words.
Around - not a wall. A ring. The druzhina. From Chernihiv. From the South. Order - not by title, by proximity.
Each one did not move - but was ready.
Not from fear. From habit.
They did not ask. They stood. As a fortress enters a city - to be noticed.
Leo Komnenos slowed his pace.
At the entrance to the terem - three men. Not a crowd. Not an honor guard. A form. A transfer of weight.
The first - in front. Broad. He did not stand with his body - he stood with weight. His gaze - like an anchor, never hauled back. He stood as though the ground beneath him could not be moved, only walked around.
Leo recognized him. Immediately. Without doubt.
- Vladislav of Lebedyn, - he exhaled. Not loudly. Like pain that returns - not with a scream, but with depth.
He did not look at the other two. They were there. But all the space - was around the one.
In 1043, Rus' marched on Constantinople.
Leo - on the wall. Vladislav - in a longboat.
They said the fleet reached the Bosphorus. No further.
Hundreds burned that day.
The sea did not remember. They did.
Now both - on land.
Leo did not move. Only his hand drew slightly closer to his belt. Not toward the sword - toward memory.
Vladislav noticed as well, and did not avert his gaze.
- So you came, then, - he said. Hoarse. Without threat. Like a question already answered. - Not by water. Through the gates
He stepped forward.
One step.
Not to strike - to mark: I am here.
The air shifted.
Nikodemos inclined his head slightly. Did not intervene.
But beside him - a hand.
Ivan Kornilovich. Senior. Not loud. Simply there.
He placed his hand on Vladislav's shoulder. Without force. Like a brace.
- Later, Vlad, - he said.
Vlad exhaled. Did not leave. Simply remained.
Komnenos watched. Deeper. Further.
- They said he drowned, - softly. - But he surfaced
Vlad heard. Said nothing. But his gaze lingered. Like a bookmark in an old reckoning.
Silence settled between them. Not threat. Memory.
No one moved.
And that was enough.
Beyond this - was Kyiv.
But only after them.