Kyiv was drowning in the evening dusk.

  In Podil, among the narrow streets, stood an immobile mansion with bckened walls, as if hidden in anticipation of something sinister. The chipped shutters stared into emptiness, like eyes watching every step. Once a merchant's house, it now kept the secrets of its new masters, as though hiding them within its cracked walls.

  Within these walls, important deals had once been sealed, but now conspiracies intertwined. In a spacious hall, saturated with the scents of wax and herbal smoke, five Senior Boyars sat in the shadows, silently waiting for the conversation to begin, like hunters poised before a strike. The trembling torchlight flickered across the walls, casting shadows that resembled silent judges.

  The Senior Boyar Stanisv Mikhailovich was seated by a massive stove. His fingers zily tapped on the armrest, but his gaze wandered, as if tracking something invisible in the shadows on the walls. The anxiety from recent news nested in the corners of his eyes.

  Senior Boyar Mstisv Belsky stood motionless by the window, opening it just enough to feel the icy draft. The city breathed heavily and uneasily, as though sensing that its fate was being decided here, in this very house. He stood like a sentry on the border between two worlds - the silence of the hall and the restless darkness outside.

  Senior Boyar Svyatosv Polovetsky positioned himself by the table, leaning against its edge. His face remained still, but his gaze burned with an inner fire. He zily raised a cup of mead to his lips, as if it were part of a slow calcution.

  Senior Boyar Stanimir Luninetsky paced the hall. His boots struck the floor loudly and steadily, echoing like hammer blows. The rhythm of his steps was tense, as though marking the time left until inevitable events unfolded.

  Senior Boyar Ryurik Pechersky had taken a seat in the shadows, barely distinguishable against the backdrop of a massive chair. Propping his chin on his hand, he silently observed the others. His eyes, sharp and cold, registered every detail - a gesture, a gnce, an unguarded movement.

  The torchlight trembled on the columns like an invisible witness, afraid to reveal others' secrets. To each of them, the light seemed foreign: they preferred to remain in the semi-darkness, where decisions are made away from prying eyes. At night, they could allow themselves to be what they truly were - predators in the shadows of a great city.

  Silence pressed against the walls, as if it could be torn apart by any sound, but each boyar held his thoughts tightly within. Here, a mistake or a hasty word could be too costly.

  The political surface of Kievan Rus' deceptively appeared calm - beneath it lurked predators ready to tear apart the weakest. Behind the scenes, constant power games were underway. Formally, there was no unified "autonomist alliance" that the prince could easily identify and destroy.

  Each boyar striving for greater independence hid under the guise of other so-called "neutral" boyar unions, disguising their true intentions with demands for tax reform or the protection of local rights.

  The autonomists acted shrewdly. They maniputed the fears and ambitions of minor and mid-level boyars, skillfully sowing discord and making them fear centralization. These allies did not act in unison: each pursued their own interests and sought to strengthen their authority solely within their own domains, not to aid their neighbors. However, all of them undermined the unity of power through legal means - through councils, negotiations, and intrigues.

  Among such "neutral" alliances, the group of five Senior Boyars gathered in this hall represented one of the most influential factions, though they were weaker than others, such as the unions of Polotsk or Novgorod, as well as the neutral coalitions of Mirosv and Ignat.

  Each of those present held a vital role in their nds, reinforcing the position of the autonomists locally while simultaneously pying a complex game against centralized authority.

  Ryurik Pechersky represented the nds around the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra. His ties to the clergy bolstered the autonomists' influence in the heart of Kievan Rus'. He acted cautiously but ruthlessly, wielding religious and nd rights as both shield and sword for his ambitions.

  Stanisv Mikhailovich, an influential boyar of the western nds, was the face of dissatisfied ndowners in Volhynia, who saw him as a protector against excessive centralization. His influence extended not only into politics but also into local economic retions, where he skillfully restrained the pressure from princely tax collectors.

  Mstisv Belsky, a native of Galicia, was a link between the inner Rus' and the western merchant unions. His wealth and power were built on a network of trade connections controlling the exchange of goods with Hungarians and Poles. He maintained a fa?ade of neutrality but secretly directed the actions of major ndowners in the region.

  Stanimir Luninetsky represented the Turov-Pinsk nd, a strategic region in the southwest of Kievan Rus'. His opposition to the princely governor Gleb of Turov had made him a symbol of the struggle for local self-governance. Controlling key resources in the region, Stanimir maneuvered between various boyar alliances to retain control over his territory.

  Svyatosv Polovetsky, a diplomat and military leader of the Pereyasv nd, knew all the intricacies of border politics. His ties with nomadic tribes ensured control over the southern frontiers, while his negotiating skills allowed him to forge temporary alliances on favorable terms. Officially, he was listed as an ally of Supreme Voivode Ignat, but in reality, he sought greater autonomy.

  Silence froze in the hall like a deaf night awaiting the first treacherous whisper. Shadows trembled on the columns, like a warning of an impending storm. In the distant corner, the doors yielded to the draft, creaking softly and drawn-out, but not a single boyar was distracted from his thoughts, as if that sound was part of their grim reflections.

  Only Svyatosv quickly raised his gaze, as if expecting the worst, but immediately returned to his thoughts - their minds were now more dangerous than any open threat. They were waiting for the Grand Steward Oleg, who was supposed to bring news of the negotiations with the Byzantines. Time dragged painfully slow, as though frozen between the coils of smoke and glimmers of light.

  Stanisv Mikhailovich rubbed his temple - his thoughts, heavy and grim, seemed to be stuck in a mire. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse and harsh, as though breaking at the edge of words.

  - In two days, the coronation... Everything is happening too quickly. After that sughter, no one expected such a turn. We thought we would have at least a month for maneuvering, but the princely council is in a hurry. Apparently, they fear that we will make the first move

  He frowned, his fingers nervously sliding across the rough tabletop. Into the oppressive silence, Mstisv's short chuckle pierced like a crack across smooth ice.

  - Stanisv the Great knows how to py fast and hard. We underestimated him. First, the victory over the Pechenegs with Grand Prince Yarosv, now this princely alliance of boyars and the coronation. And the main thing - the people will believe it's all a coincidence, that the prince, with "divine grace," survived and retained power, - he smirked slightly. - They'll be satisfied with this tale

  Stanimir quietly snorted, as if signaling the conversation to end. His gaze, heavy and dark, locked onto Mstisv, as though seeing him as the source of all troubles.

  - Common folk love tales. But that's precisely what makes them dangerous for us. Now everyone will see him as "the boy saved by the gods." We won't have time for lengthy intrigues. We must act quickly

  - Correct. Therefore, we need to act subtly but decisively, - Svyatosv Polovetsky spoke softly from the shadows. - If they form an alliance with Byzantium, the prince's support from the clergy and the druzhina will strengthen. We will have to maneuver between these forces and search for weak points. I hope Oleg has not made any mistakes. If he fails, everything will become much more difficult

  Stanisv Mikhailovich frowned deeper.

  - Do you think we should start acting now? We don't even know what conditions the Byzantines will demand ter. Rushing now will py into the prince's hands. The negotiations might drag on, and if we hurry, we'll lose the chance to intervene

  Mstisv abruptly struck the armrest with his fist - the boom echoed off the walls and dissolved into silence. His voice cut through the hanging stillness like a bde:

  - No one is pnning to engage in open conflict. But if we stall, the prince will crush us, and our allies will scatter like rats from a sinking ship. The boyars in the west are already beginning to waver. They see that Alexander's power is consolidating through the support of the church and loyal boyars. If the coronation goes off without a hitch, we'll find ourselves one step behind

  Stanimir Luninetsky gave a restrained snort and, leaning forward, spoke with evident tension in his voice:

  - The wavering of the western boyars is the result of us losing control over internal politics. It's not just the prince strengthening his position - his governors are also acting decisively on the ground. For several weeks now, I have been negotiating with Gleb of Turov, trying to secure more advantages for us in the nds of Turov-Pinsk. But he holds firm, pys on his independence, and does not yield an inch. We no longer have time for mistakes

  Rurik Pechersky, thoughtfully stroking his beard, gnced at Stanimir before turning his attention to the others. The firelight drew deep wrinkles from the shadows on his face.

  - Do you think Oleg has already lost influence? Or is he simply acting too cautiously, trying to maintain neutrality? In the worst case, he could be pying both sides - the gap between his words and actions is too great

  Stanisv Mikhailovich, frowning, exhaled heavily:

  - He is still kept on the council only because he is considered moderate, a sort of bance between us and the prince's supporters. This advantage is temporary. If he returns today without concrete results, we will lose an important link. We won't have leverage over those who are currently wavering

  Mstisv frowned even more deeply, his massive frame tensing:

  - So what? Wait for him to fail while he bargains away the st scraps of our influence? That's unacceptable. If he shows weakness again, we'll have to take the initiative ourselves. It's time to act decisively and harshly

  From the shadows, Svyatosv Polovetsky's voice emerged. He seemed to materialize from the darkness, his eyes fshing in the firelight.

  - Removing him now is too risky. If we start splitting our ranks before the coronation, it will be a gift to Stanisv the Great. We must push Oleg toward decisive actions. If he fails, he will expose himself to everyone. Then the issue of his repcement will be easily resolved without internal discord

  Stanimir squinted thoughtfully and crossed his arms over his chest:

  - Fine, let's say so. But how much time do we have before the prince begins his offensive against the boyars? The coronation is just a step. What's next?

  Rurik nodded and replied calmly:

  - Tomorrow he will dispy his power in the Saint Sophia Cathedral. The Byzantine delegation will see the druzhina, the clergy's support, and stability. This will be his first move. If we don't act sooner, he will win their trust and strengthen his control over the boyars

  Mstisv exhaled sharply, clenching his fist:

  - We can use rumors. If the people find out that the prince has formed an alliance on Constantinople's terms, it will damage his authority. We need to stoke fears, as if decisions are no longer being made in Kyiv but in foreign halls

  Stanisv Mikhailovich ran his hand over his face and exhaled slowly:

  - Rumors are a double-edged bde. One wrong rumor, and we ourselves will end up in the noose we're trying to tighten around the prince's neck. People will quickly discern the truth

  Rurik agreed grimly:

  - True. That's why we need to act differently. Our weapon is the fear of the lesser boyars losing power. Let them tighten the noose on the prince's neck themselves by demanding guarantees of their rights

  Stanimir paused mid-step, peering into Rurik's face.

  - Are you sure that will be enough? Or will we once again undermine our position at the most crucial moment?

  Rurik nodded:

  - Yes. My people in Kyiv are already prepared. They know how to work with the boyars and their circles. You need to pressure your allies in the regions. Let them demand reduced tariffs and control. The key is to strike simultaneously from multiple sides

  A heavy silence fell over the hall. Everyone understood that the coming days would be decisive. As if by an invisible command, all eyes turned to the door - they were waiting for Oleg, upon whom much now depended.

  Stanisv Mikhailovich rose and quietly said:

  - We will wait for him. But remember: if anyone slips up prematurely, everything could fall apart

  Rurik slowly scanned the room with a heavy gaze filled with cold warning, as if cautioning that any careless word could turn into a blow.

  - We know the price of mistakes. This time, we will not lose

  The fire in the hearth flickered as if stirred by a sudden gust of wind, its reflections anxiously sliding across the walls. The silence in the hall stretched taut, like the moment before a colpse - the instant when the ground has not yet begun to tremble, but everyone senses the approaching disaster.

  Beyond the mansion’s walls, the night remained oblivious to the decisions being made around the boyars' massive table. Oleg walked through the nocturnal streets of Kyiv, where the city, like a living entity, lurked within its own shadows and whispers. The dark alleys reminded him of hidden dangers - narrow paths where a single step could be one's st. The passageways murmured in muffled echoes, as though warning of unseen watchers nearby.

  The night covered the streets with a dense veil. Here, in the realm of shadows, thieves and conspirators felt like masters. Behind thick doors, the houses breathed dully and anxiously - residents hid from what the darkness concealed.

  In a medieval city, night was always a time of dangers and intrigues. There was no lighting - only occasionally did dim candle or torchlight flicker from windows. The darkness became a shield for those who conducted their dirty affairs. No one could feel safe. Even noble townsfolk or merchants dared not venture out without armed guards.

  Night in Kyiv or Constantinople could swallow a person whole, like a bottomless abyss. People disappeared so often that it had become a routine part of life, especially when it came to outsiders.

  Oleg sensed the tension in the night-bound city. Silence enveloped the streets like an invisible hunter, hiding behind the rustling shadows. His companions tensed, listening for distant footsteps.

  Here, among the maze of crooked streets and alleys, a single mistake could cost a life. He was accompanied by two druzhinniks and two Varangians - silent, focused. Their gazes swept over the shadows of corners, catching the slightest movement. Leading them was Yaromir, a sturdy druzhinnik, whose eyes searched for threats with cold, professional confidence.

  The uneven cobblestones bore the traces of those who had vanished forever into the night's darkness. The Varangians followed behind, casting quick gnces at arches and corners - potential ambush spots. These men knew their craft: to guard and survive in pces where the w kept silent.

  Here, darkness and fear were allies. Around every corner, death could lurk, as though the night itself concealed its traps. Political cshes between factions - nobles, merchants, clerics - were frequent.

  Influential figures used the night for their affairs, while commoners hurried to lock themselves in their huts and homes. Even in small vilges, danger could come in the form of bandits or neighboring enemies. Kyiv, with its narrow streets, was full of those who followed only their own rules.

  Steps echoed faintly underfoot, as if the city itself sought to hide their presence, blending with the quiet, alien rustlings of the night. Yaromir abruptly halted and raised his hand. The silent gesture, filled with expectation, was reflected on the faces of the companions - here, any mistake could be fatal. The Varangians tensed, gripping their sword hilts tighter. Up ahead, a barely audible creak sounded, as though someone was already tracking them in the darkness.

  Somewhere ahead came the creaking of gates and the faint clink of chains. Oleg tensed, but Yaromir, having caught the sound first, slightly turned his head and said curtly:

  - The prince's druzhina patrol is checking the entrances in Podil

  Oleg listened. Now muted voices reached his ears - the patrolmen exchanged brief phrases, as if afraid to disturb the darkness around them. The voices were sharp and clipped, like commands:

  - All clear here. Moving on

  The prince's patrol moved in unison, like shadows among shadows, dissolving into the byrinth of night streets. Their footsteps echoed faintly in the silence, like whispers from another world.

  These men knew Kyiv's dark alleys and the rules that governed them after sunset. Yet even they dared not linger too long, preferring to leave these dangerous pces as soon as their checks were complete.

  Oleg gave a slight nod, but the tension within him remained. He knew that patrols in Podil didn't always show up. None of them wanted to risk their skins for the troubles of others. Sometimes, it was better to pretend you saw nothing - such was the unspoken wisdom of the guards. Here, in the narrow streets, the power of the w weakened, and the city became the domain of those who operated outside its boundaries.

  They turned a corner where the darkness seemed thicker. Footsteps echoed dully off the walls of the houses, as if the city watched them through invisible eyes. Suddenly, a figure in a cloak emerged from a nearby archway, the oiled edge of the garment catching a glint of light. One quick gnce - and the figure disappeared into the depths of the shadow, as though melting into the night.

  One of the Varangians tensed and instinctively reached for the handle of his axe, but Oleg stopped him with a calm voice:

  - Let them go. Everyone hides at this hour

  Oleg paused mid-sentence. From the darkness came a low, drawn-out growl - as if the night itself was warning unwelcome guests. From beneath a wooden arch slipped a dark figure - a lean dog, baring its teeth. The animal's eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

  A Varangian stepped forward, and the dog, as if frightened by some invisible force, snarled and vanished into the night mist, leaving behind a faint echo of fear.

  Oleg gnced around. The air felt thick, like in the depths of a forest - footsteps and rustling echoed off the walls but quickly faded in the narrow alleys. The next street was framed by dark rows of market stalls.

  The shop gates were locked with massive chains, and shutters were tightly sealed with iron strips, as if the city had deliberately cut itself off from light and life. Yaromir briefly noticed a carved cross on the corner of a house - a merchant's talisman seeking the church's protection. Only rare glimmers of mp fmes seeped through the shutters, more like a faint reflection of hope than true light.

  - How much farther? - one of the druzhinniks asked quietly.

  Yaromir silently motioned forward. They soon approached the massive gates of an old merchant's mansion.

  On the side of the column, ancient carved patterns darkened - symbols of the house's old alliance with princely power, a silent reminder of long-forgotten agreements. Above the arch, the carved sign of Perun, the protector and patron of the house, was hidden. The etched symbols, like the scars of time, spoke of days when fateful treaties were forged behind these walls.

  Two torches flickered weakly at the entrance, casting shimmering reflections on the walls. Shadows trembled like living beings, as if observing every step of the outsiders. Yaromir gestured with his hand, inviting Oleg to follow him. The stone sbs at the base of the porch gleamed damply, exuding the smell of moisture and soot.

  - Here, - Yaromir said curtly, scanning the nearby corners.

  Oleg paused before the massive gates, inhaling the dense, damp air of the night-bound city. His thoughts drifted to those currently behind the walls of the mansion. They were powerful, cunning, and ready to tear apart anyone who showed weakness.

  These were people who pyed a game where allies easily turned into enemies - if you dared to stumble. People who did not tolerate weakness and were always waiting for their interlocutor to make a mistake. He had to demonstrate that he was still in control of the situation.

  Yaromir ascended the steps and signaled to a Varangian. The man knocked on the door three times - loud and measured. Moments stretched endlessly. At st, the door creaked open, and a tall man with a short beard appeared on the threshold. His piercing eyes bore into Oleg, as if trying to read his thoughts.

  - Alone, - the man said tersely, paying no attention to the guards.

  - Let my people inside to warm themselves. They are not needed in the hall, but it's not fitting for them to wait outside, - Oleg said evenly, narrowing his eyes slightly.

  The man nodded silently and gestured to his subordinates. Two guards escorted the druzhinniks and Varangians into a side room. Oleg turned to Yaromir.

  - Stay here. Keep a low profile

  - Understood, - Yaromir replied briefly and disappeared behind the door with the others.

  Oleg walked down the corridor and halted before a massive door leading to the hall. Behind him, the dull footsteps of guards returning to their posts echoed. The silence in the corridor grew increasingly oppressive. The guard at the door fixed his gaze on Oleg, as if weighing him on the scales of some internal criteria. In that look was both a challenge and a test.

  - They are waiting, - the guard said with a subtle, almost mocking tone. A brief, cold smile touched his lips.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, the guard pulled open the massive door. The creak of the hinges cut through the silence like a warning. Light from the hall burst into the corridor, illuminating Oleg's figure in the shadows.

  He exhaled slowly and stepped forward without sparing the guard a word or a gnce. Beyond that door, five men awaited him, each already mentally casting him as either a victim or a pyer. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the space seemed to close around him, heavy with the tension of the boyars' scrutinizing gazes.

  Their eyes glinted in the torchlight, sharp and appraising, like bdes waiting for the right moment to strike. Here, there were no accidents - every gesture and movement could be a signal.

  He felt the weight of their stares penetrating deeper than he would have liked. Oleg walked slowly, controlling each movement. The torchlight danced on the walls and columns, turning the shadows into chess pieces.

  The massive oak table at the center of the hall resembled an altar of power and intrigue. Five senior boyars sat, while some stood motionless nearby, like predators watching their prey. The fire flickered in the hearth, distorting the shadows on the walls and filling the air with a silence as taut as a drawn string. The light pyed in the eyes of those gathered, illuminating not their faces but the thoughts hidden behind masks of calm.

  The silence became almost unbearable. Tension hung in the air like a storm about to break. Svyatosv Polovetsky was the first to disrupt it, nodding toward Oleg:

  - Sit down, Oleg. We've been waiting for you

  Oleg gave a slight bow and took the seat offered to him, opposite Stanisv Mikhailovich. The chair creaked under him, as if protesting the weight of the conversation to come. Moments ter, the silence once again enveloped the hall.

  Mstisv Belsky folded his hands on the table and, without breaking his heavy gaze on Oleg, spoke:

  - You're te, Oleg. We're waiting for an expnation. What about the negotiations? What news do you bring us? - His voice was sharp and coldly demanding, as though he already knew the answer and merely wanted to hear Oleg's excuses.

  Oleg slowly surveyed those gathered before speaking in a steady but firm voice:

  - The negotiations concluded faster than I expected. Alexander accepted Byzantium's terms almost immediately. Nikodim proposed a marriage to the grand master's granddaughter, Sophia Lakapina, along with several concessions - recognition of his title, security of trade routes, military support, and even partial spiritual autonomy. I had expected the prince to stall, to begin discussions and give us time to intervene… but he didn't wait. He seized the initiative and accepted their offer outright

  Tense silence filled the room. Stanisv Mikhailovich, who had remained silent until now, suddenly leaned forward and struck the table with his fist:

  - Are you telling me he simply agreed? He didn't even give us a chance to prepare? - His voice trembled with barely contained anger. - This was your task, Oleg! You were supposed to control the situation!

  Oleg paused for a moment, then continued calmly:

  - He didn't agree in the way you think. He forced Byzantium to make concessions. Nikodim didn't expect Alexander to start dictating his own terms. He demanded equal rights for our merchants and access to Greek military knowledge. The Byzantines gave in to avoid losing the marriage alliance

  Mstisv's frown deepened as he crossed his arms:

  - Clever move… But now that's a problem for us. If he strengthens his power through this alliance and marriage, it will be much harder to undermine his authority

  Rurik slowly set his goblet down on the table, a poisonous smile curving his lips:

  - I don't see how that justifies your inaction. The negotiations with Byzantium are only the tip of the iceberg. What about the treasury reform? The new schools and orphanages under the monasteries? Or do you consider those unimportant?

  - Exactly, - Mstisv interjected sharply. - If the prince continues at this pace, the next step will be tightening control over our nds. The merchants fear new taxes, inspections, and trade restrictions. You couldn't even stop the first initiatives. How can we trust you to handle it when he moves on to tariffs and levies?

  Oleg sighed wearily and looked Mstisv directly in the eye:

  - If it were possible, I would have done it. But Stanisv the Great has complete control over access to Alexander. I can't influence decisions when even the servants aren't allowed into his private chambers without permission. The princely tower and Detinets are under constant surveilnce by his men

  Stanimir Luninetsky leaned back in his chair, quietly drumming his fingers on the armrest:

  - So what can you do, Oleg? Since the prince's reign began, you haven't advanced any of our interests. Everyone around him is allied with Stanisv. And we're supposed to believe you still have leverage?

  Rurik chuckled coldly and added:

  - Or did you never have a pn?

  - Do you think it's easy to operate in an environment where every move is monitored? - Oleg retorted sharply. - You demand the impossible. If I had access to the prince, the situation would have changed long ago

  Svyatosv Polovetsky turned slowly from the window and fixed his gaze on Oleg. His voice was calm but carried a veiled threat:

  - Limitations? Difficulties? You're making excuses too easily. You knew you would be our representative on the council. You knew you would face obstacles. If you can't work under these conditions, why do we need you?

  Oleg remained silent as the tension in the room thickened. Mstisv was simmering with anger:

  - If this man can't even block the simplest initiatives, how will we retain our influence in the future? Tomorrow, he'll fail to handle the taxes. The Galician nds are losing ground with every one of his failures

  Rurik, meanwhile, assessed the situation with a more calcuted approach:

  - The more Oleg fails, the easier it will be for me to push forward my candidate from the church circles. Let them stall - his mistakes will corner him on their own

  Sensing the rising tension, Stanimir intervened with cold determination:

  - Enough. We can't afford internal strife right now. If we start fighting over the position of representative, Alexander will exploit it. We need to find a way to support Oleg and regain our influence

  Mstisv snorted, unable to hold back:

  - Support him? And how will that help us? He's already missed too much. While we sit here discussing his support, Alexander is probably already selecting a new governor for the Galician nds. And it will be one of Stanisv the Great's men - of that, we can be certain. Once he takes control, our merchants will be under his heel

  Svyatosv Polovetsky, standing by the window, did not turn but responded to Mstisv's words:

  - You think a repcement will solve the problem? All we'll do is weaken our position. If we repce our representative now, a new power struggle will begin, and Alexander will take advantage of it. This will give him another excuse to consolidate his influence

  Rurik disagreed:

  - And what? We'll just keep tolerating it? Oleg has already proven his inability to act. He's the weak link

  - No, Rurik. You want to see him as weak, - Stanimir replied quietly but firmly, leaning toward the table. - You're pying your own games. You expect that repcing Oleg will give you the opportunity to push forward your own candidate

  Rurik chuckled coldly:

  - And you're defending him not because you believe in his success. You're just afraid of losing your influence. Everyone around this table has their own interests, so don't pretend we're here for a common cause

  The tension in the hall thickened. Mstisv, not waiting for the argument to continue, smmed his fist on the armrest:

  - Enough! Let's be direct. Who here supports repcing Oleg? Or are we going to keep wasting time?

  Rurik folded his hands and gave Stanimir a piercing stare:

  - Agreed. Difficult doesn't mean impossible. We don't need excuses - we need results. If Oleg can't deliver, he should be repced

  Mstisv's head jerked up, his eyes burning with impatience. He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the table:

  - I support it. We need a new man. Time is short, and actions are even fewer

  All eyes turned to Svyatosv Polovetsky, who had remained silent in the shadows. Slowly, he lifted a cup to his lips, took a deliberate sip, and finally spoke:

  - Repce Oleg? - His tone was calm but carried a hint of sarcasm. - Sure, someone can be repced. But in that case, I want to know who. Will the new representative serve the interests of your nds or mine? If I see that this change leads to chaos and losses in the south, it won't benefit me. Do we agree on that?

  Svyatosv paused, then lifted his gaze to Rurik:

  - I vote against repcing him. Oleg stays

  Rurik scowled but remained silent. All eyes then shifted to Stanimir Luninetsky.

  - I'm against it too, - Stanimir said with icy calm. - Svyatosv is right. Repcing Oleg now will weaken our position and undermine our allies' trust

  Rurik and Mstisv tensed, realizing the situation was slipping from their control. The final word now rested with Stanisv Mikhailovich. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the armrest, his gaze cold and focused.

  - I'll abstain, - he finally said in an even tone. - It doesn't matter to me right now. Decide among yourselves

  Mstisv exhaled in frustration and leaned forward, spping his hand ft on the table:

  - Two votes for repcement, two against. Oleg stays. But this is your st chance. If there are no results next time, I don't think anyone will defend you again

  The tension in the room thickened like fog before a storm. The senior boyars watched Oleg in silence, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness.

  Oleg drew a deep breath, as if pulling a cold mantle of calm over himself to contain the storm within. Even his fingers, gripping the armrest, remained motionless. He leaned back slightly and inclined his head, projecting an air of composure, though inside he was seething.

  - Rurik and Mstisv want to see me fall... but it's too soon for them to celebrate

  Oleg's voice was steady but carried a faint undertone of defiance:

  - Very well. I accept your decision. I will take it into account and draw conclusions. But let me remind you - we still have common goals: the preservation of our nds and the interests of the boyar css. I will continue to work for the common good, as before

  Mstisv smirked, tilting his head, and slowly drawled:

  - The common good? Or your own position? We've all seen your 'results.' If you let things slip again, you'd be better off stepping aside for someone who can handle it

  Oleg held his gaze without flinching. A dangerous spark fshed in his eyes, but he maintained his composure. Sensing the escating tension, Stanimir intervened:

  - That's enough, Mstisv. The decision has been made. Oleg stays, but he does need to take more initiative. Time is on the prince's side - he won't wait for us to deliberate. If we're divided, Stanisv the Great will crush us

  Rurik, fingers intertwined on the table, gave Oleg a sharp, calcuting stare - cold and precise, like a scalpel's edge:

  - Remember this, Oleg. Mistakes here come at a high price. One misstep is enough to push you out of this game. That's not a warning. It's a fact

  Oleg met the gaze calmly and nodded, his voice firm:

  - I understand. But I trust you understand as well: success depends not only on me. If Stanisv the Great senses our divisions, that's where he'll strike. We'll need to act together

  His words were deliberately diplomatic, yet the underlying firmness made the boyars pause in thought.

  Svyatosv Polovetsky, still standing by the window, finally spoke:

  - You're right. But don't py games - neither with the prince nor with us. Too many factions are watching every move we make. Mistakes will not be forgiven

  The hall fell into tense silence once more. Mstisv, frowning, tapped nervously on the armrest. Stanimir squinted, as though trying to decipher Oleg's hidden intentions. Their stares bore down on him like cold steel.

  Oleg rose and slowly scanned the room. His face remained impassive, but his voice carried a subtle edge:

  - Thank you for your trust and your patience. We all understand the cost of mistakes. Now, it's my task to prove that I still hold this position for a reason

  With these words, he gave a slight nod - a gesture of respect, but not submission. It was a move that allowed each boyar to see him as both a diplomat and a pyer who had not lost his dignity.

  Oleg held his gaze on each of them for a few moments longer, as if testing their resolve through their eyes. Only then did he smoothly turn and stride confidently toward the exit. The guard by the door stepped aside without a word, his brow furrowing slightly as he swung the heavy door open. The corridor greeted Oleg with a chill and the soft glow of oil mps.

  The moment the massive door closed behind him, the guard at the mansion's entrance gave a short signal to his men. Quiet footsteps echoed as Yaromir, another druzhinnik, and two Varangians emerged from the side room where they had been waiting. They approached Oleg silently, their faces calm but alert.

  - Is everything in order, my lord? - Yaromir asked quietly, his eyes scanning Oleg's face, pausing on the tense line of his lips.

  Oleg gave a brief nod:

  - Everything is as it should be. We're leaving

  The guard at the entrance slowly pulled open the outer doors, his cold gaze sweeping over the departing group, a silent farewell question lingering in his eyes - one no one intended to answer.

  A sudden rush of night air surged into the corridor, biting at their faces like icy needles. Yaromir shifted his shoulders slightly, shaking off the chill, while the Varangians exchanged a gnce without a word, prepared for the road ahead. Oleg was the first to step outside, followed closely by the others.

  The doors groaned shut behind them, the heavy echo rolling down the empty alleyway like a final warning from the night.

  Oleg paused at the top of the steps, the cold air wrapping around his face like an icy glove, sharpening his thoughts. His hands gripped the railings tightly, releasing the st remnants of tension. Rurik's words no longer haunted him - they faded like whispers on the wind, giving way to unyielding determination.

  - They think they've won... Well then, let them become prisoners of their own illusion. I'll simply push them toward the abyss they've dug themselves. The real game begins when the enemy feels safe

  He exhaled slowly, releasing an invisible spring of tension through clenched teeth. Let them believe he's cornered - fear of an illusion of power is always stronger than the fear of truly losing it. Their struggle for control would become their own noose, and he would only have to nudge Alexander when the time was right.

  - Alexander will become a mirror of their fears. Let them see in him the threat they forged with their own intrigues and greed

  For a moment, Oleg stood still, gazing down the winding alley. Darkness concealed the network of his future moves. The night would be his ally - its silence made it easier to weave the patterns of fate. The frost chilled his lungs, clearing a path for his thoughts. Now all that remained was to wait and observe their every step.

  - Forward, - he said softly to Yaromir.

  Yaromir nodded without a question.

  The footsteps of Oleg and his men faded into the night. Silence wrapped around the streets like a dense fog, concealing those who had begun their dangerous game in the shadows of the great city. The night, like a silent guardian, stretched across all of Kyiv, embracing both its majestic cathedrals and quiet sanctuaries.

  In one such pce - the cell of Metropolitan Ilrion - a faint mplight flickered. The dim glow danced across the stone walls, as if a shadow from the past had come to life, watching his every move.

  Hirion knelt before an icon, his fingers tracing the cold frame, as if hoping to find answers to his troubling thoughts within its intricate patterns. The rustling pages of scripture whispered under his hand, but the words seemed to drown in the fog of his reflections on the recent negotiations.

  Gradually, a deep sense of peace enveloped him, like the long-awaited dawn after an endless night. He could not recall the st time his heart had beat so calmly.

  Alexander, the new young prince, had dispyed a maturity and foresight that surprised the Metropolitan. The issue of the church's autonomy, which Hirion had previously raised during the council, had not escaped the prince's attention.

  During negotiations with Byzantium, Alexander not only secured concessions but also strengthened the position of Kyivan Rus', transforming spiritual principles into a weapon of political strategy. Hirion saw that the words spoken in council had manifested in the prince's actions.

  The Metropolitan softly whispered a prayer of gratitude:

  - Lord, You have granted us a ruler who can understand and uphold the faith. May his power be strengthened by Your grace and the righteousness of his deeds

  He exhaled deeply and rose to his feet. Only recently, his heart had been gripped by doubts.

  - Will the young prince withstand not only the cunning intrigues of Constantinople but also the pressure from his own boyars, for whom faith is nothing more than a tool of power?

  But now Hirion saw that Alexander had not only held his ground but had compelled the Byzantines to dance to his tune. The external church's influence was no longer a threat. God had shown the path, and the prince had stepped onto it with confidence.

  - I do not have long left in this world, - Hirion thought, gazing into the mp's fme. - But I am at peace. My work will not perish. Alexander will lead Kyivan Rus' forward, a worthy heir to the true faith

  The silence of the cell was broken by the muffled sound of footsteps. Hirion slowly turned to see Luka of Chernihiv standing in the doorway, as if he had just emerged from the depths of eternity. Tall, with sharp features and a penetrating gaze, he stood motionless, like a sentinel guarding the border of an invisible world.

  His modest but well-crafted cassock reflected faintly in the dim light. Luka was more than just a bishop - he was a guardian of faith along the eastern frontiers. Chernihiv, a crucial city constantly threatened by raids and dangers, had long been under his stewardship. His calm demeanor and skill at mediating disputes with the boyars had earned him respect not only among the clergy but also among the common people.

  Hirion studied him closely, recognizing in him a man upon whom he could rely in the future.

  - Luka, - the Metropolitan began quietly, each word imbued with a sense of blessing, - you have long overseen the church's affairs in nds where faith is tested daily. Where every new day may bring fresh threats, you have preserved order and steadfastness of spirit. I have often reflected on who should succeed me. And now I believe the Lord has already made that choice

  Luka inclined his head slightly. His voice, calm yet firm, echoed in the stillness:

  - Chernihiv stands on the border between peace and war. Every week, raiders from the east test our strength. If that strength falters even for a moment, chaos will engulf us. There, on the frontier, sword and prayer are one and the same. My task is simple: to hold that nd as firmly as one grips a sword

  Hirion smiled faintly, though a reflection of resolute light shone in his eyes, like a distant, unchanging beacon.

  - That is why I see you as my successor. You understand that faith is not only about prayer but also about the art of governance. You have maintained peace where each day could bring new danger. Over the years, you have strengthened ties with the boyars and established effective administration and tax collection. If the church is to endure in these challenging times, it needs leaders like you

  Luka's gaze remained fixed on the Metropolitan's face, filled with both respect and a silent question - was he ready to accept the burden being offered? After a few moments, he quietly spoke:

  - If this is your choice, my lord, I am prepared to take on this responsibility. But we both know that this path will not be easy. Prince Alexander will face many trials, as will we alongside him. He will be tested not only by external enemies but also by internal struggles within Kyivan Rus'

  Hirion nodded, his expression becoming pensive.

  - You are right. These are turbulent times. But that is precisely why I believe Alexander can endure the journey ahead. He has already proven he is not afraid to make decisions. He has given us a chance for spiritual freedom. We must respond not just with words of support but with actions - through our prayers, our nds, and our readiness to fight

  They stood in silence as the mplight trembled, and shadows, like harbingers of change, spread across the stone walls like threads of an unresolved fate. Ilrion's gaze lingered on the fme for a moment, as if trying to peer into the future. History was preparing to make its move – and their wisdom would determine whether it would be written in golden or bloody letters.

  That same night, in the cell of the Saint Irene Monastery, Senior Monk Boris leaned over a massive oak table. The light of an oil mp quietly flickered on the yellowed parchments, as if lost among the hardened drops of wax. In the adjoining rooms, orphaned children slept peacefully. The entire monastery was steeped in tranquility, but Boris's mind was a storm of anxious thoughts.

  The monastery had finally become a true home for the orphans, and for the first time in a long while, Boris felt a sense of relief. The pn to build shelters had received the prince's support and was on the verge of becoming reality - transforming from mere words into stone and wood. Many difficulties y ahead, but now the path to realization was open.

  The chief treasurer, Radomir Serebryany, a pragmatic and steadfast man, had endorsed the initiative, and the young prince confirmed its funding. Yet Boris knew that stability was a fleeting thing.

  Power in Kyivan Rus' was like an unsecured bridge hanging over a raging river - one wrong move could plunge it into a chasm of conflict. The strong foundations id by Yarosv the Wise remained intact, but cracks of intrigue and rivalry were beginning to show.

  A single misstep could ignite a long period of strife and fragmentation, as powerful regions and ambitious boyars vied for influence, slowly undermining the unity of the state.

  On the table y a letter - a report from Danilo Pechersky, one of the few scribes Boris trusted in these uncertain times. Danilo had been present among the attendants at the hall where negotiations between the Byzantine delegation and Prince Alexander had taken pce. Boris carefully read each line, knowing the importance of every word.

  - Negotiations concluded swiftly. The prince dispyed decisiveness and firmness, - Danilo had written. - The Byzantines, represented by the envoy Nikodim, agreed to several concessions, including partial spiritual independence for Rus'. However, the prince also quickly accepted an alliance and marriage with Princess Sophia, giving no time for further preparation

  Boris slowly set the letter down, gazing thoughtfully toward the window. Questions crowded his mind:

  - What y behind the prince's swift decision? Was it youthful impulsiveness or a calcuted move?

  He knew that in Kyiv, rumors spread faster than the spring floods, surging through homes and streets with an unstoppable whisper. Csping his hands on his chest, Boris leaned back in his chair and murmured softly, as though testing his thoughts aloud.

  - Too fast… Does he understand the game he's begun? Or has he already calcuted every step?

  He recalled Alexander's expression during their st meeting. The prince was young, but in his eyes gleamed a predator's caution - the look of someone who trusted no one.

  Perhaps this was not mere impulse, but a premeditated strategy. Or... perhaps the prince was being influenced by those who held him under their control. Boris's gaze sharpened as he returned to the letter.

  The speed of the marriage arrangement gave Alexander's enemies a potent weapon for intrigue. Boris could already see how the boyars who opposed central authority would exploit this. First would come the rumors - that the prince was now under Constantinople's sway, a puppet whose critical decisions were made across the sea. Those whispers could spread throughout Kyivan Rus', eroding trust.

  - Rumors, - the word echoed in his thoughts. - You can't catch them by the tail. They scatter like rats through alleyways, and everyone believes their own version of the whisper

  He stood abruptly, breaking the chain of heavy reflections, and strode to the window, letting the cold night air fill his lungs. Boris gazed at the dark outlines of the cathedral's domes. By tomorrow - or perhaps during the coronation - the struggle for influence would begin.

  The autonomy-minded boyars would stir fears of centralization, whispering that the prince had betrayed their interests for an alliance with Byzantium. The people would murmur that Alexander had sold out his power for a foreign marriage.

  Boris exhaled heavily, sensing the approach of the inevitable. He could see the future as though reflected in dark waters: intrigues, revolts, war. A year or two of scheming would lead regions to assert their autonomy. Then would come the struggle for control over territories, and finally, a full-blown civil war. Boris had witnessed this pattern in other principalities before. He understood that once the sword triumphed over reason, all resources would be consumed by conflict. In such a situation, no one would care for orphans or monasteries.

  His fingers gripped the window frame as though trying to keep the encroaching darkness outside the cell. Boris could not allow this to happen. His network - subtle and unseen - was always ready. The few people he trusted knew their roles and awaited his signal. They could intercept rumors, gather intelligence, and prevent plots. But now, they needed clear orders.

  Stopping before the icon in the corner, Boris fixed his gaze on the saint's face, as if seeking answers in its silent presence. The mp's light flickered on the image of Saint Irene, making the frozen features seem almost alive. The monk bowed his head in prayer:

  - Grant me wisdom and strength to protect them, Lord. You know - it is not for me

  Slowly, he straightened and turned back to the letter.

  - Too much is at stake. I will not allow what we've started to be destroyed

  Boris dipped his quill into the inkwell and hesitated for a moment. His hand hovered over the parchment, as though weighing each future word. His mind was already arranging moves like pieces on a chessboard, where every step could lead to a fatal outcome.

  - We can't let the enemy make the first move... - the thought fshed in his mind. The quill glided smoothly across the paper, leaving confident bck lines.

  Rumors were like molten iron - dangerous to handle. One careless act could leave a sting scar. A single mistake, and their own web of intrigue could turn into a trap snapping around their necks.

  It was time to act with precision and without dey. Boris bore a dual responsibility - protecting the orphans and monasteries from looming danger while also maintaining the prince's grip on power as enemies lurked in the shadows, ready to strike.

  His hand wrote steadily, but his thoughts raced feverishly.

  - What if this is a trap? - the question surged. Perhaps Alexander had sealed the agreement so swiftly to provoke his enemies into rash action. Or... had he himself fallen into a trap set by the Byzantines?

  - A trap or youthful zeal, - Boris murmured, thoughtfully stroking his beard. - Perhaps both

  The letter was finished. Boris folded it and left a discreet mark in the corner - a sign known only to his trusted agents. By tomorrow, the letter would reach the right hands, and its origin would remain a secret. Tonight, however, he would pray and strategize, anticipating every possible move his adversaries might make.

  He knew he would have to act swiftly and decisively, as he had in those turbulent times when he served Yarosv the Wise, helping the great prince maintain unity across Rus'. Back then, his choices determined the outcomes of secret negotiations, thwarted conspiracies, and strengthened authority during an era when each day brought new threats.

  Now, once again, he was stepping into the game where every move could lead to ruin and every stake was a fight for survival and power.

  ***

  Thank you to everyone who's reading my story!

  I hope you found it interesting to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of those times and feel just how dangerous it was to go outside at night. In a world of intrigue and conspiracies, a single careless word could cost you your life. The struggle for power took pce not only on battlefields but also in the shadows of paces and fortresses.

  I also want to crify that the storyline involving the death of Metropolitan Irion is based on historical facts. It is known that he lived until 1054 or 1055. Since the events in my book take pce at the beginning of 1054, I believe this aligns with historical reality. However, his death in the story is still ahead, so you don't need to worry - he will continue to py a role in the upcoming events.