The silence turned solid - like a step.
The scent of incense scorched the throat. The hall was damp and dim.
Nikodim leaned back. Slowly. Precisely. Like after a blow.
- So, he said softly - but the softness already carried a sentence
- With fleet, with trade, with trust and marriage - we have offered all we carry. Only one question remains: Prince, are you ready to open the second circle? To speak of treaty. And... union through marriage?
Alexander didn't answer at once. Didn't flinch.
- No - The word fell and cracked
The armrest groaned under his hand.
- Because one question remains. The real one
He turned his head. Not to Nikodim - to Agathios Scholastikos, synkellos to the Patriarch, member of the Patriarchal Synod.
- A spiritual one
The chain of the chandelier quivered. Quietly.
Metropolitan Illarion stayed seated, but inside - it was as if he raised a shield. His fingers trembled. Just barely.
Alexander spoke into the space where no one had spoken yet - but everyone was already listening.
- The Metropoly is not wine in a chalice. We honor tradition. But the choice of metropolitan is not a Byzantine mercy. It is our house
He knew: this had been said before.
His father - Yaroslav the Wise - had done the same.
Three years ago, he himself had placed Illarion - and Constantinople did not strike back. Only sent letters. Words - severe. Actions - hollow.
Then - no one dared to say 'schism.' They only weighed whether it was worth the argument.
Now - he knew more. In half a year, their Church would split down the spine.
Rome and Byzantium - each with its own God.
And here - Rus'. Not a guest. No longer a province.
He was not asking. He was setting the term.
- We do not dictate. We remind. Rus' has already walked this path. And the Empire did not come with a sword. Then - we placed Illarion. Today - we continue. You call it insolence. I call it familiarity
He turned toward Agathios:
- If the Empire wants alliance - it must hear that we no longer live by its decree
Lebedinsky whispered something to Ignat. Nikodim didn't twitch. Illarion didn't breathe in.
Agathios did not change his posture. But in his voice - the metal darkened.
- Illarion was placed - without blessing. We kept silence. Yes. But it was not the silence of assent - it was the silence of burden
- Then - the argument with Rome was ongoing. Then - the Empire held peace the way a dome holds a crack. You read it as concession. But it was a breath. Not a bow
He did not raise his head. But the shadow of his words stretched across the stone.
- Silence is not always agreement. Sometimes - it is delay. Sometimes - a hope that the younger will understand without a blow
- Then - you acted. Today - you demand. Tomorrow - you will deny. You no longer call blessing faith, but will
- And I call it rupture
His voice lowered. Not quieter - heavier.
- First time - you chose. The second - you will place without us. The third - you will say: 'and let the Creed be ours.'
- That is no longer a Church. That is a voice in the desert. A word - without tradition. A path - without wall. Faith - without flesh
The hall gave no answer. It froze.
As if the word desert had dropped - and dried the air.
No outcry. No sob. Just everything - slowed.
As if breathing itself had become sin.
Someone sighed - and feared being heard.
Alexander did not move. But the armrest beneath his fingers creaked - like a rite.
He could not speak. Because any word now - would sound like heresy or surrender.
Lebedinsky almost rose. Almost. But realized: no sword would lift what had been felled by incense.
The Byzantines stayed silent. Not from pride. From fear that now the dome itself would fall.
Not over the hall - over history.
At the wall - one sound: like a nail dropped.
And even that - rang like a curse.
Nikodim didn't breathe. But his finger struck the wood. Once.
Like a builder hearing a beam crack.
And then - Illarion stood.
Not a man.
A sign.
- You call this a rupture. I call it return. We do not reject the Patriarch. We remember that faith did not come to us by letter - but by blood
- The first priest in Rus' was not from Constantinople. He was a Slav who died for the cross without a title
- We keep not the form. We keep the fire. And if it no longer fits your censer - perhaps the censer has shrunk
He paused. Not to find words - but to let the silence be heard.
- Once we chose. Yes. Because we knew who would lead - and why
- The second - we will place. Because the road does not repeat. Else - it becomes a circle
- And the third... He looked to the icon - as if asking not for answer, but blessing
- If the third time we say: 'Let the Creed be ours' - it means your Creed became empty
He turned to the hall. Calm. Without pathos.
- We are not forging a new Church. We refuse to remain in the old - out of memory alone
Illarion bowed his head. Not in submission. As a final stroke.
- God is not on a chain. And faith - is not in elders. It is in the living
Silence. Almost complete. Like before an earthquake.
And then - a voice.
Not loud. Not firm.
But one that made everything else sound like rhetoric.
- My mother died in a church
Oleg Vyshgorodsky sat as before. Only his hand - rose, as if to shield the font.
- She was simple. Not learned. Not enlightened. But there - she believed. There - she wept. There - she died
He moved the inkwell. Pointlessly. But in the silence - like a blow.
- I speak in weights. In roads. In coin. But not in sanctity. Not in hers
Dry. As if the water had run out - and there was nothing left to speak with.
- You trade in icons. Images. But our faith - is a nail in pine. You can't pull it. A mother is not for sale
The silence thickened. No longer a pause. An excommunication.
Eustathios Kallistratos did not rise. But he lifted his hand from the parchment.
He said nothing. Simply - did not continue.
The Senior Scribe of the Empire no longer wrote.
And in the hall - no one reminded him.
Not one voice said: Write.
Because in those words - there was no assent.
And without assent - there is no Church. Only echo.
And without canon - no record. Only fear.
And in that same moment - the scrape of a quill.
Senior boyar Gavriil Zlatopistets did not raise his head. But signaled his assistants.
One wrote - in Slavonic. The other - in Greek.
A twin-letter. So it could be read here and there.
He did not ask if it was allowed.
He already knew - it was necessary.
The history that Constantinople had stepped away from - now belonged to Rus'.
At that moment, Nikodim finally spoke. Not with anger. Not with threat. Like one holding a beam when the arch has cracked:
- This is not a rupture. It is a new point of pressure. Rus is not withdrawing - she is bearing weight. Her own. And if the Church is one - it must know not only how to call, but how to listen
He didn't look at Illarion. Nor at Agafios.
He looked where the future was already being written.
- The canon is not a chain. It is a structure. When the form changes - we don't issue verdicts. We assess the arches. And if they hold - we inscribe them. Not for concession. For the living
He held the pause. Not for gravity. For footing:
- Rus is no guest in the Church. She is already inside. And if she wishes to raise her own sanctuary - we don't close the gate. But we watch the weight
Aleksandr didn't nod. Just one word:
- Specifically?
Nikodim didn't move. Only said:
- You name. We affirm. That is the balance. Without it - every bishop becomes a patriarch. And it's not the dogma that will fall - it's the walls
He tilted his head slightly. Like one who knows: what follows is not argument. What follows is reckoning.
- We don't interfere. As long as it stands
The hall didn't understand right away that he was finished.
He spoke as if testing the load-bearing frame. Not plans - the structure. The building still holds. But every syllable was a finger inside the crack.
Someone clenched their hands. Not in prayer - in fear.
Aleksandr looked into the void.
The word as long echoed longer than the entire monologue.
Somewhere in the back, a boot shifted. A soft scrape. Minor. But it made the whole room want to turn - to see who dared be flesh among dogma.
And then - Agafios stood. Not to argue. Not to defend.
He rose the way one rises for a funeral.
He didn't look at the prince. Nor at Nikodim.
He looked toward the place where they were writing. As if he knew - this text would outlive their voices.
His voice - like ash. Dry. Without threat. But it didn't scatter.
- We do not raise our hand. We do not cast judgment. But if the Church is one body - then whoever cuts out an organ must know: it no longer breathes the same blood
He turned to Aleksandr.
- You have not rejected the Patriarch. But you have left no room - not for his hand, not for his shadow. Which means - you have left him entirely
He paused. But he didn't let the room breathe.
- The Empire will not come with a sword. But neither will it come with oil. Which means - from this day forward, you are alone. In a temple with an empty altar
And then - softer. Not to the room. Into the air:
- In Moesia, they already say that Rus is now her own shepherd. In Sinai - they pray about the Eastern schism. And on Athos - they whisper whether to await a decree or a cross
He did not raise his voice.
But it became clear: this was not a debate.
It was a glacier. And the first crack - was already underfoot.
He said nothing more.
Because he knew: everything else was no longer speech.
It was trace - carved into stone.
No one stood. No one sat. No one even breathed loudly.
As if everyone understood: one step - could give the crack.
The hall was no longer a hall. It became a stone void.
Where every word - was a hammer blow.
And so - no one spoke.
Even the candle seemed to know: sound now - was a sentence.
And only then - Illarion rose.
Not as a metropolitan. As one who hears a bell that no longer rings.
He didn't look at the hall. He looked - toward the icon.
But he didn't pray. He listened.
Wanted to hear - is there another word?
There was only silence.
Which meant - he would have to speak.
He exhaled. As if not giving a speech - but giving up his lungs.
- I was a boy. When they baptized the river - I didn't know the words. But my grandmother - prayed. Cried. Not because she understood. But because she felt: something had ended. And something had begun
He glanced toward Agafios. Not like at an enemy. Like at a bridge - that no longer exists.
- Back then we didn't know the canons. But we knew the light - was closer than the decree. I didn't ask for a title. I just stepped in. Where it was empty
- I'm not against the Patriarch. But I am against my people reaching God - through a translator
He didn't search for words. He waited - would the hall withstand what came next?
- You fear a rupture. I fear a burial
Today - we accept the hand
Tomorrow - we'll forget how the voice sounded
And then...
They will call us - and we won't answer
No longer us. Already - a mirror
He swayed. Not theatrically. The body simply said: enough.
- I won't live to see the schism. But I want to die - not as a Byzantine. As a Christian. Not Roman. Not Imperial. Not of Kiev. But as one who still hears - when all fall silent
Illarion did not sit.
He remained standing.
Because he knew: this was no longer a hall. This - was a trial. Of an age.
Silence.
Not like quiet.
Like angels had gone mute beneath the dome.
Agafios didn't answer. Didn't raise a brow. Only the color drained from his lips.
He didn't argue. He understood: the empire remained - without an altar.
Stanislav didn't move. But his hand - left the hilt. Not as a gesture of peace. As if the sword - was no longer needed.
Scribe Simeon bowed. Not to write. To avoid meeting a gaze.
The Byzantines - not hostile. But already foreign. Between them and the hall - not a flag. A river.
And no one dared to cross it.
Only one - Gavriil Zlatopistets - did not raise his head.
But his hand - he raised.
Slowly. Like a banner that could still be dropped. But he - didn't drop it.
The quill - touched the page.
Not as a record. As witness.
He wasn't afraid.
He understood: the line would live longer than anyone in that hall.
He was not writing for the prince. Not for the Empire.
He was writing - for those who would come, when all else had fallen.
And so - he did not hesitate.
He didn't turn the page.
He set it into the chronicle.
Because he knew: this moment - did not belong to the world of churches.
This moment - belonged to the world of judgment.
And then Nikodim spoke. Quieter than usual. Steadier. As if through ash, not through voice:
- Either we preserve Rus. Or we lose ourselves. Canon - is not stronger than faith. And faith - is not stronger than the one who speaks it first. Today - is choice. Tomorrow - is chronicle
Aleksandr did not rise. But his words - landed like a seal in stone:
- The Church - is ours. The faith - shared. But the path - ours
Until now, Rus - was part of the choir.
Now - her own voice.
Either it will sound.
Or it will become silence that no one ever out-sings.
Silence didn't leave - it changed.
There had been waiting. Now - there was conclusion.
The air didn't ring. It listened. The hall - not walls, but hearing.
No one spoke. But all had heard already: it was done.
Some lowered their eyes. Some - their shoulders. Some looked to the floor, as if searching for a way out.
Gavriil Zlatopistets trembled. Not the quill - the shoulder.
Before - it was ink. Now - stone.
He wiped his forehead. On his hand - dust. Like fallen ruins.
Nikodim raised his eyes. Not praying - counting.
- The faith has been spoken. The power - made clear. Now we need a platform. To walk. To stand. So those who follow - don't fall through
The soul is held by prayer. A country - by a roof. A stone. A hand that mends the gutter.
Eustathios sat nearby. Back bent, eyes - on the quill.
He wasn't writing. Choosing what not to write. His fingers trembled. Fear - came before the words.
The hall didn't echo - it pressed. The quill shook, spilled. He wiped. Again. Tore out the page. Not a mistake - fear.
Nikodim felt it: the moment. While the word is warm - place the arch. Not in the temple. In speech.
He looked at Aleksandr. As if checking the masonry, he spoke.
- Prince, - his voice like a step across ice. - Everything that holds the alliance - is open. What else?
He didn't push. He placed support beams.
Aleksandr was silent. Fingers gripped the armrest. His gaze - a seal.
- There is more. A state doesn't rest on alliance. It rests - on what holds it. Stone. Light. Hands. Not as gift - as bearing
He didn't wait. He placed the next - like a stone.
- I don't need petitioners. I need builders. Smiths. Masons. And others. Those who don't ask questions - when holding the load-bearing wall
In his voice - no command. No request. Responsibility.
Nikodim tensed. Lips tightened. Not in anger - in weight.
- Craftsmen - are the backbone of our cities. Masons, glassmakers, smiths. Will they raise the towers? But who will be the first to lock the doors inside?
He wasn't threatening. He was testing. Like an engineer: will it hold under strike?
Leo Komnenos raised his gaze. Silent. And when he spoke - it was like pulling words from ash.
- Or towers. And inside the towers - not your guards. You call the craftsmen. But you build - a fortress where we are strangers
He didn't look at Aleksandr - he looked past him. As if searching the ashes for what hadn't come back.
- We've already given knowledge. To the Armenians. And then - we burned their cities. The teachers survived. The ones who believed the tower was a shield, not a target - died
He inhaled. Slowly. Only then - continued.
- At Ani, we came too late. The towers still stood. And below - the guard. Mine. In the mud
Stanislav lifted his gaze. Silent. As if something shifted inside - not speech, but bone.
- But we are not late. We are on time
He spoke evenly. But the words - left marks in stone.
- I saw how they built the Cathedral of St. Sophia in Kiev. The stone - ours. The mortar - yours. The dome - we raised it together
He paused. His look - not bitter. Remembering.
- One of ours - a carpenter - fell from the beams. Right beneath the altar. His name was Radoslav. I didn't know him. But I held his hands afterward. They smelled of lime and sweat. Not of death. Of labor
- And then I heard: two of ours were replaced by Byzantines. Faster, more precise, canon-aligned, they said. And we - we buried. Then served. With the same hands
He turned to Leo.
- You fear being betrayed for knowledge
He almost whispered.
- We fear that knowledge - is what will bury us
Leo frowned. Fingers clenched on the armrest. But he didn't rise.
Miroslav didn't stand. Didn't interject. He stepped - into the shift. Not a wound. A gap between voices.
- I didn't build. I came when all was finished. The choir. The gold. The frescoes. The light. As if God Himself had descended for the service
He went quiet. And the air wouldn't let it go. It pressed down.
- But I didn't look at the dome. I looked at faces. Those who stood outside. Who built - but didn't enter. Who mixed the lime - but stayed in the dust
He looked at Leo. Not as at a Byzantine. As at someone who once didn't notice.
- They didn't complain. They just watched as the service went on inside. And knew - it wasn't for them
Pause. And within it - not reproach. Understanding.
- You fear that the church won't follow your canon? I fear that it will. And we'll once again be outside
He spoke calmly. But in his voice - trembled something deep.
- An alliance - is not you're invited. It is - we stood beside you. Not thank you, now go. But - let's pray together
He didn't look up. Only down.
- And if one day the church speaks in our voice - will you bless it? Or say it's not a church?
Leo didn't look at Miroslav immediately.
In his eyes - no rage. Understanding. Late. But exact.
He lowered his head slightly - not as submission, but as one who sees the point of no return.
He drew a breath. But didn't speak.
He understood: if he says even one word - Byzantium won't lose the argument. It will lose its face.
He looked at Nikodim. And passed it on silently.
The front - now yours.
Nikodim didn't move. Only fingers - into fabric. Not clenched. Fixed. As if signing his name - on himself.
He looked not at them. But at the stone floor. As if he saw a map.
- You speak true, - quietly. - And it hurts
His voice - had no fatigue. No armor.
Like one who knows: the argument is already lost. But the structure must be kept.
- Still. We do not ask for forgetting. We ask for clarity. One who learns - is not a prisoner. And one who watches - is not an executioner. This is not fear. It is framework. Five years. Under observation. Violation - revocation
He didn't speak protocol. He spoke like one who still holds - only if it's sound.
- We don't close the gate. We reinforce the arch - until it's clear whose bell will ring
He turned to Aleksandr. Slowly. No request. No barb.
Like one who holds - and only asks: don't break it.
Stanislav gave a grim nod. His fingers returned to the hilt. Now - not as threat. As oath.
- The walls will stand. But who decides where to build them?
Nikodim - evenly. No mask. No veil. Only clay and blade:
- You do. But we want to see - how you build them. Not for us. For yourselves
Aleksandr didn't move. Fingers - on the armrest. As if reading a pattern.
- Terms - we will review. But we set the lines. The walls - are yours. But without us, they stand - on sand
Aleksandr said nothing. He stared into emptiness - as if measuring: will it hold?
- One more thing
His voice - steady. Like someone who knows where to place the weight.
- We don't need warriors. Not Greeks in armor. We need those who know walls - not just from the outside. Who held the fortress when beneath it - not dust, but ash
He didn't raise his voice. But the hall tensed - not from force. From precision.
- Not commanders. Teachers. To teach how not to fall - when collapse has already begun. And how not to forget - if you stood through it
Nikodim straightened. A pull in his shoulder - as if realizing: he'd been holding the wrong thing.
A breath. Shallow. As though he remembered: surviving doesn't mean alive.
- Teaching is not a one-way path. We're no forge for foreign blades. We teach - those who will stand beside us. Not behind. With
- And if the step divides... we won't be the ones who lead into ruin
Stanislav rose. As to a fire - not to a quarrel.
- But if you've stepped forward - and we haven't? Whose student walks into flame? Whose stays behind?
He looked not at him - through him. As at a crack you can't cover - only walk around for now.
- Then the student didn't fail. Then we didn't teach
Stanislav clenched his fingers. There was no anger in them. Only - testing.
- And what if it wasn't a mistake... just haste?
Aleksandr - short. Precise.
- If he wasn't ready - then you let him go too early. And if you let him go - then he was ready. And if he wasn't ready - it's betrayal. Not a mistake
Nikodim listened. Didn't argue. Inside - he weighed it.
- We don't give weapons to hesitant hands. But if you say - we take away the stones - then we are not allies. We are wardens
He didn't look like a scholar. He looked like a healer who knows: if you don't cut - it will rot.
Aleksandr spoke softly. But his voice held - like a hand under a cracking wall.
- We're not asking permission. We take those who know how to pass down without losing. And we build a school. Not a fortress. And whoever enters - must remember: his knowledge is not his. It is for service
The pause didn't settle - when Eustathius raised his eyes. His face - not pale. Dried out. Not by time. By memory.
He didn't rise. But his voice - cracked.
- Teacher...
A whisper - as if afraid of the answer.
- And what if the text... starts to speak?
He clenched his fist. Didn't finish the thought - didn't know how.
He swallowed. Not from fear. As if his tongue had dried. But he went on. Not as accusation. As confession:
- I once read a page. No signature. No name. Just one scroll. Twenty years ago. No dogma. No heresy. But the word... was alive
- As if someone hadn't copied the Gospel - but lived it. And stayed
He looked down. Not like a penitent. Like a survivor.
- Because I knew: if meaning came alive - then someone died. And it wasn't me
Silence - like a drop on red-hot iron.
Someone flinched. Then froze - as if another sound would ignite the room.
Eustathius wasn't speaking - he was surrendering something secret.
Not aloud. Straight through.
And the hall - did not condemn. The hall recoiled.
Aleksandr didn't turn right away. And when he did - it wasn't a prince.
It was a judge.
- Then we didn't build walls. We built a cage
Stanislav didn't let it collapse.
- You fear a word that might come alive? Then don't write. Better to be silent - than to later say you didn't know what you were writing
Eustathius didn't fall. Didn't run. Didn't object.
He lowered his gaze. And vanished. Not in body - in presence.
Like a page left unturned.
The silence didn't settle. It stuck.
And then Nikodim exhaled. Not from weariness. From a weight that could no longer stay held - and was sinking.
He didn't flinch. But his shoulders - shifted just slightly.
Aleksandr did not rise. But his voice - like a first step into the void.
- Beyond craftsmen and teachers. We need books. Monks. Translators. Those who will bring not dogmas - but words. So our people can understand not just the sword - but the quill. Not mysteries - meaning. Their own. To the bone
- To write - is not to copy. To translate - is not to repeat. He who carries meaning - carries power. And if the word is not ours - then the thought won't be ours either
Nikodim didn't answer right away. His back tensed.
He didn't flinch. But inside - a click.
He was calculating the structure. Saw: if he doesn't give - it will collapse from above.
Not Rus' will fall. The arch - Byzantine. The one held by late agreement.
He knew: concession is not weakness. It's a seam. The kind that holds when no wall can be raised.
He looked at Aleksandr. And for the first time - not as an opponent.
But as someone who isn't asking - but choosing who to stand with when everything splits at the seam.
He understood: if the prince asks for knowledge - then he's ready to become part. Not tribute. A system.
And Nikodim bowed his head. Not like a vassal.
Like a strategist with one tower left. And he gives it - not weakly, but precisely.
Silence. Not as pause - as recognition.
But someone couldn't hold.
Agafios Scholastikos stood up. Not by protocol. Suddenly. Like a stone that slipped loose.
- First the craftsmen. Then the scribes. Now - the word. You give away everything. What remains?
He didn't shout. But in his voice - a century cracked.
- We give them language. They'll build a temple with it - and call it theirs. A word is like a path. The one who gives it - points the way. And the one who holds it - draws the borders
Illarion stood slowly. But spoke like an oak: not fast - not to be moved.
- Whoever fears that knowledge might become foreign - already sees himself as dead
He wasn't addressing. He was striking.
- If the light we carry fears the road - then it is no longer light. It is ash
Aleksandr didn't rise. But replied - as if holding the very shift he had started.
- We don't take ideas. We take the word. To give birth to our own. Not yours. Not your imprint. Ours - from within
He didn't raise his voice. But in the hall - the ceiling dropped.
- He who carries meaning - carries power. And we did not come to ask. We came to take what is already ours. Not as mercy. As maturity
The silence held - like glass under pressure. The question was - when would it crack.
The junior scribe sneezed. Quietly. But the sound rang out like a shot. He paled. And in that moment he understood: this was not just protocol. It was confession. On behalf of others.
Agafios moved. Sharply. He wanted to rise. To strike back - with words, with fear, with what was left of order. But Nikodim - was faster. Not with voice. With timing.
He simply began - and Agafios could no longer rise.
- We are not without measure
He wasn't justifying. He was measuring.
- First - the books. Then - glosses. Under supervision only. Lists compiled by us. Term - three years. Access - restricted. Every word - signed
He spoke like a man weighing poison - not to kill, but to keep it from spilling.
- And if in three years there are no distortions - we open more. Not a temple. A class. Not dogmas - outlines
He looked straight at Aleksandr.
- Not because we're afraid. But because we are giving - forever. And he who gives - must know in whose hands
A pause. Brief. Like a doorway.
And through it - the prince's voice stepped in.
Aleksandr did not give thanks. And did not confirm. He simply stepped further. As if the signature - was in him, not in words.
- Then - the last thing
- Roads. Paths. Not as gifts. As lines. We take not only knowledge - but the route
Toward Nikodim - not as a challenge. As a fact.
- We don't need caravans. We need architects of power. Let them show: how a bridge holds when an army walks over it. How the earth - does not sink under the wheel, but holds formation. So that Rus' does not drown in mud - when it has already moved
Pause. No longer between words. Before the first strike.
Some held their breath. Some forgot. Lev - remembered. He stepped into the silence - where usually they strike. Not to strike. To remind - that it already hurt.
He didn't rise. But he turned. Slowly. Not to the prince. To the Younger Lebedinsky. The one whose elder brother walked across the water then.
- One time... - he didn't raise his voice. But the hall - lowered their heads.
- One time, you already came at us. Across water. Eleven years ago. Now - you want to come by land
He wasn't accusing. He was recalling. They came. And burned.
- We will build the road. And you - will decide where it leads. That's what frightens us
He fell silent. And the hall heard more than if he had continued.
His gaze - at Nikodim.
- A bridge is not just stone. It's an invitation. And if tomorrow it's not supply carts but banners crossing it...
He didn't finish. He clenched his fist. Not from anger. From memory.
- Who... Who will be the first to say: That was a miscalculation?
He didn't say where they reached back then.
But in the hall - it grew cold. As if all remembered.
Ignat didn't rise. But his words - like a step across ice, with water below.
- We say: road. You hear: assault. The word hasn't even settled - and you're already waiting for a blade
Pause. Like a wound - it scarred. But still hurts.
- In the forty-third we came across water. And we made it. Badly. Bitterly. But we did. And now - we build. Ourselves. And you look on... as if tomorrow we'll come again. Only this time - by land
He wasn't accusing. He was tired.
- That's not how an alliance works. That's how fear works
The pause didn't stop. It spread. Like the trace of fire.
By the wall - boards creaked. Somewhere - fabric rustled.
But no one rose. Someone leaned forward. Someone - pushed aside the ink.
On the table - not a map. An echo of what was already burned.
Lev leaned down. Not to the hall - to the past.
- You say: road. But we - haven't forgotten where the last one led. Across the strait. Into fire. Into screams
- Fear... is not logic. It walks first. Like the shadow of a banner
He looked at Ignat. Without enmity. But in that gaze - everything lived through.
- We don't expect a blade. We just know...
He broke off. Let the hall finish it.
Only whispered:
- ...how it rings
No one said no. Because they heard. Even those who hadn't been born then.
Nikodim exhaled. He didn't surrender - he claimed a point.
- A road - is not a gift. It's an entry. Whoever builds it - invites
He wasn't negotiating. He was drawing lines.
- Eleven years ago - you came over waves. Today - over land. The difference - isn't the route. It's who holds the shores
He paused. So it wouldn't be an argument. But a count.
- We divide by the Dniester. The right side - yours. To the slope. The left - ours. From the track to the foothills. Bridges - shared. Responsibility - equal
He wasn't justifying. He was hammering in a nail.
- We don't build the road for you. We build it with you. So that every step and every load - we carry together. And if an army walks that path - you'll see it first. Because you'll be standing on it
Aleksandr nodded. Sharply. Like a signature.
- We build. But we set the bounds. If the road is shared - then power is not a mercy. Then we are not guests. Then we are force. And if it collapses - it's not by guilt. It's by direction
Nikodim did not answer with words. His gaze - brief. Understood.
Eustathios stirred. Not abruptly. As if wanting to say something. Or - rise. But his fingers stayed on the parchment.
He wasn't afraid. He stopped.
Because he knew: if he rose - he'd leave.
The speech. The hall. The century.
The silence didn't end. It crouched low.
As if the air itself waited - whose would be the last word.
And then Aleksandr rose. Not for triumph. For weight. To stand - like a full-height signature.
- The first seal - is on the word. The second - on stone. The third - on the road. This is no longer a draft. This - is a blueprint
He didn't look at Nikodim. He looked at the hall.
- This is no longer conversation. This - is the first stone
We are already in the foundation. Even if we change our minds - we can't pull it out. Not without a crack.
Aleksandr stood. The shadow from his figure fell across the throne and the closest boyars. He didn't speak. He watched. Long. And in that silence - the decision was already made.
He knew: he would be the one to lay something foreign into the foundation.
But roads are not built from doubt. Only from step.
His knuckles turned white - gripping the edge of the throne, as if that alone was keeping him inside. He straightened. And said:
- Then it's settled. The alliance with Byzantium and my marriage to Sophia will strengthen Rus'. I accept. To the end
The phrase didn't ring. It descended. Like a command.
The silence absorbed it. Like wax - a seal.
Miroslav shifted slightly, pressed his lips together, clenched his fingers:
- We've heard much, prince. Nikodim places accents masterfully. The union will strengthen Rus'. But who will strengthen us?
Stanislav didn't change posture - only gripped the sword's hilt tighter:
- Beautiful words don't guarantee anything. One needs to see all the cards before signing
Aleksandr looked at them - not as advisors. As those already behind him.
- No. Time punishes the hesitant. We've taken what we need. Forward
Just a motion - downward. Like a lock clicking.
- After the coronation we'll ratify the treaty
In that moment - the density of the hall changed. The boyars said nothing. There were reactions: a nod, a pause, a measured look. But doubts - were no longer questioned. They were feared.
Nikodim, hiding tension under a mask of courtesy, gave a bow:
- A wise step, Prince Aleksandr. After the coronation we'll begin clarifications
Aleksandr didn't respond immediately. He looked not at the envoy - at Sophia.
Not with acceptance. With calculation. Sophia didn't flinch. She didn't shift a shoulder.
Not even a flicker in the eye. But inside - the wound poured in. Not for the prince. For herself.
Not a crown - a seal. The crown - for Rus'.
She didn't look like a princess. She looked like a knot. One everyone pulls - but no one unties.
And in that moment, for the first time, she thought:
- If everyone expects me to bind - then I can also break.
- Good night, all, - said Aleksandr. - I'll stay. I still need to think it through again
Nikodim bowed. Everything was proper. Everything - by the book.
But in his pupil - something flashed: something had been miscalculated.
He stepped back slowly - and once, on a step, he stumbled.
Not tripped - stumbled on a thought.
As if he realized: this hall - isn't a negotiation room. It's a cage, and he wasn't the one who walked out of it.
The door closed behind them. Without a creak. But the air grew mute - like a dome with the dome removed.
The prince's boyars lingered a while. Watching.
Oleg - already counting gains. Tariffs. Warehouses.
Ignat - imagining fortresses. Stockpiles. Routes.
Illarion - felt the door to autocephaly had cracked open.
Miroslav and Stanislav - remained stern. In their gaze: not support. Assessment.
Yaroslav Lebedinsky said not a word. Just looked at Aleksandr. Long.
Aleksandr ran his finger along the armrest. In his eyes - no fire. Fatigue. Like a stonemason who knows: the cathedral will rise. But not by his hands.
And then, without pressure, not from the heart - but from steel, he said:
- Rus' won't stand beneath a banner. Rus' will become the axis. Let those crack - who tried to bend us
Someone lowered their eyes. Someone - their shoulders. One guardsman crossed himself. Not from reverence. From fear.
The prince waited for no reply. He simply moved to the window. And in the hall - no more words. Only weight.
Gavriil Zlatopistets wrote something down. Slowly.
Then tore the page.
And burned it.
Ignat watched the flame. Not blinking. Not crossing himself. Just - staring.
As if trying to read through the fire what would never be again.
And when all was ash, he said:
- They spoke of faith. But we've already buried our own
No one replied.
Because the phrase - needed no answer.
It simply remained.
This isn't a chronicle. It's molten lead. While it's still hot.
When the door shut behind the boyars, Aleksandr remained standing alone.
He didn't smile. He didn't wait. He laid.
- They lead? Let them. I'm already drawing
Outside - night. Inside - a blueprint.
His fingers - ink-stained. Under his nails - soot from candle wax. He wasn't writing. He was correcting.
- They say: groom. But I already say: masons
Pause. Like a stone in mortar.
In the corridor - footsteps.
Nikodim slowed and approached Sophia. He didn't ask - he tested:
- Do you remember who you are?
Shadows danced on the walls, but she stood in the light.
She gave no reply. Just looked forward.
He didn't wait. He answered for her:
- The Emperor awaits a shadow on the map. Not a choice
Sophia inclined her head. Submission - flawless.
As if the Empire itself were looking at its own reflection.
- The Empire can count on me, - she said.
And walked. Not away from him - away from the question.
He followed. He was already following - her.
She walked, unhurried.
Who places the crown - places the road.
Let them think the crown is an oath.
I know - it's a bridle.