The council ended by noon.
But the hall - did not cool.
Not with silence - with pressure.
The voices had left. But the floor did not let go.
Like stone where blood had stood. Even if wiped away - the crack remained. Even if silent - it was not the hall that was silent, but the scar.
The princely boyars left in silence.
Not because there was nothing to say - because there was everything.
The words remained - not in the hall. In them.
Hilarion did not hurry.
Not from fatigue. From deafness.
He carried not a robe - a slab from the ashes. And each step under him trembled, as if the stone feared cracking again.
He did not bend. But walked - as if his gaze held a weight.
Not into the floor. Into what could not be washed away.
- Young. But not blind. Does not rush - walks. In his word - not light, but weight. He does not pray before action - he acts. What is frightening is not what he takes. What is frightening - is if he drops it, - he thought, fingering his ring.
He felt respect - and a stab of anxiety.
The Church did not lead - it walked alongside. And beside - means under the blow. The leader receives the spear in the back. But the one beside - shares it.
Next to him, a little apart, Dobrynya Ognyshchanin. Not a priest - a nail. But a nail that holds the frame.
He did not comment. He was already counting. Not people - supports. Who will stand. Who will hold. Who - will crack first.
He remembered how the creaks sounded in the walls. Not from thunder - from the fatigue of the structure.
- Iziaslav was word. Sviatoslav - exhale. And this one... - flashed through his mind. - Clay. Already set. If we do not touch - it will become a wall. If we shift - it will crumble. And we will bury it in silence. Without a cry. Because there will be no one left
He did not believe in strength. He believed in density. In what stands - because there is no one left to fall.
He did not follow. He tested.
If the prince holds - he will stand with him.
If not...
Dobrynya did not even speak it to himself.
Ignat walked more steadily, but his face was clenched, like a fist that has not struck - but remembers how it does.
- For now he holds. Voice - without screech. Means, he will go in the ranks. But I've seen such. They do not fall in battle - after. When left alone with silence, - he thought, bowing his head.
He did not argue to oppose. He argued - because he feared the prince would not endure.
And now - he feared that he would.
And everything would become real.
When the noise of the hall was left behind, his own words caught up with him - his, not others'.
- Weapons - to peasants? - he had asked then. Loudly. And received not a shout - a sentence.
- Then you, Ignat, will be the first to surrender your sword. Without them you are emptiness in armor. And Rus' - is not a field. Ash
He had stood. Had not flinched. Only asked:
- And if they forget us?
And heard:
- Then it is not you who fears them. They - have forgotten you
He had not shown that he remembered. But he remembered.
Had wanted to strike with a word.
Had come out - a boy with a stone against a statue.
Not a crack - a chime. And now it is in me. Not outside.
Ignat walked.
And no step was his anymore.
The word had cut deeper than a sword.
Stanislav, walking a little ahead, cast a short glance back. Did not stop. But understood everything. Saw the clenched jaw, the slightly slowed step. Did not interfere. Only noted:
- One entered the hall with weight. Left - lighter. But did not become empty. Which means - he will still be of use
Oleg walked alone, as always. No voices behind him, only a dry rustle - mental counting.
- A merchant does not clap. He counts. If there will be protection - there will be investment. If not - they will leave. Quietly. Without resentment. I don't need a singer-prince. I need a carrier-prince. To keep the flow moving. So it does not drown
And this prince... sounds solid. Clear.
Like a ship on a shoal: it stands - but does it stand firm?
He sets things like an adult. But he does not yet know how much wind it takes to snap the ropes.
He stands well - until the storm hits.
In his mind, Oleg was already trimming: where he could press, where he could add weight, and where to throw off cargo.
He was not for the prince. And not against.
He was for those who move, not those who sit on the shore.
But even a strong ship - can become a trap, if it suddenly sinks.
Beside him walked the Chief Treasurer Radomir. Silent. Not from pride. From the tired habit of not speaking until everything was weighed. He knew: thought costs more than words.
And now - thoughts weighed more than usual.
In his mind the scales were already tipping. The Church - on one side. The boyars - on the other.
The prince was not above them - between.
Not a figure. Pressure.
If he shifts - a tilt. If he holds - perhaps the whole structure stands. But if not - not only the boyars will collapse.
- Half - already in the sack. The rest - like smoke. If it works out - we add. If it tears - we patch. I always first count what we will lose. And what remains - that will be the profit
He walked steadily. Without a slip.
But inside - the shift had already begun.
Not fear. Not doubt.
Simply, something had appeared on his scales that had not been there even under Yaroslav: the sense that the center of gravity was greater than the system itself.
At the corner he stopped. Did not weaken - understood.
Leant against the wall. Not because he could not bear it - because he realized that it was not he who held all this.
His fingers trembled, as if they held not a bridle - but heated metal.
The body remembered the weight. This prince - does not perform. He weighs.
- I thought I was ready, - he whispered. - But I am a spectator. And he - is the center
He straightened. Slowly.
Returned his fingers into his pocket. Clenched. As one holds a bridle when horses are pulling.
Then walked on. Unhurried. To the treasury. To himself.
Sat at the table.
The scrolls awaited. Smelling of dust and copper.
He opened one. Then another.
Tried to peer - not into the lines, into the essence.
But his eyes slid.
His hands moved. But not him. Only inertia.
He worked. Not to understand - to not fall apart.
And inside, that point remained.
One slip. One fracture in weight.
And at the chamber doors - another silence. Not from tension. From waiting.
Igor Rostislavich had not left.
He stayed.
As if someone had to say the last word. But did not.
He knew: Novgorod does not hear pleas. It hears strength. But sometimes - even in strength, there is emptiness.
Or... sometimes - strength echoes, without roots.
- He stood. Did not bow. Good, - he thought. - But I've seen such. They stand - until the wind changes
And if it changes?
...They call the storm
He turned. Not in anger. In expectation.
Now even the veche was waiting.
But so was he.
Not the prince's step. A moment.
When it would become clear: who is behind him.
Or - who is beside him.
And if no one is beside him?
He did not ask. And did not say.
He simply left.
Not into shadow.
Into role.
Alexander left the chamber not as a victor - but as one who had taken the weight upon himself.
Inside, voices still rang, disputes, echoes of decisions. He felt himself part of the structure. Not through words. Through responsibility.
At the exit, he was already awaited. Stanislav stood upright, surrounded by the gridni. Nearby - Mstislav and Mirnomir. Seeing the prince, both bowed silently.
Stanislav did not bow. He simply watched. Like one who had seen: the youth now carried not himself - but Rus'.
- The first battle in the hall is passed. Is there a taste left?
Alexander shook his head.
- Bitterness. Clay under the boots. But it is clear who moves forward, and who sinks
He gazed into the emptiness of the hall:
- Each lays down his word as if building a foundation. But no one asked what house we are raising
Emptiness hung. As if forgotten: walls - are not always protection.
Stanislav smiled faintly. Restrained, but with respect:
- In Rus', they do not lay for a temple. They lay in a slit. To shoot through. The first brick - is not a foundation. It's a sight. And you, prince, did not avert your eyes. I don't know what you stand in - faith or stubbornness. But you stand
Alexander looked at him without replying. Only nodded - as if accepting it not as praise, but as a weight that must now be carried further.
- I won't go to the library. And lunch can wait. I need to know: how much do we have left. Income. Expenses. What I can use, and what is still just an illusion
Stanislav nodded without hesitation:
- Right. That's what almost no one asks first. Allow me - I will lead you
- Lead, - Alexander said curtly.
They moved down the corridor. Steadily, as if across a narrow bridge: neither to the right, nor to the left.
- At the council, Miroslav was not present. Nor the head of intelligence. Nor... Lebedinsky. Why? - Alexander's voice was not reproachful - testing. He did not look at Stanislav, speaking forward, into the movement.
Stanislav slowed his step, as if the question weighed more than expected. Then aligned again.
- Miroslav is returning from Constantinople. He must be here by your coronation. As for intelligence - its head... is not an ordinary man. Only your father knew him. His real name - no one. Not even me
Alexander nodded, but his eyes narrowed.
- A ghost?
- Not exactly. But if he is alive - he will find you himself. When he deems it necessary
- Find... when I am worthy? - the prince smiled. Briefly. Without joy.
- He does not seek worthiness
- Then what?
- He simply appears. Or not
Stanislav did not smile. But there was something that trembled in his gaze - as if he knew more than he could say.
- Sometimes - too late
Alexander was silent. He did not believe in fairy tales. But he knew: one who can vanish, knows how to wait.
- And Lebedinsky? - he asked.
Stanislav inclined his head slightly:
- Yaroslav Lebedinsky... was the right hand of Sviatoslav. One of the strongest warlords of Chernigov. He does not wait for invitations. As soon as the council was formed - he left. Without waiting for you to recover. Left not out of offense - to Chernigov. There - is his foundation
He paused. Not from hesitation - so as not to smooth it over.
- I think after the news about you, he is already gathering for the journey. Not out of loyalty. Out of interest. He does not like empty gatherings - but knows how to arrive when the house is already standing
Alexander gazed down the passage ahead - like into a mirror.
- Let him come, if he decided. But I will not summon. I need not those who wait until others raise it
He spoke not loudly. But each word - was a cut.
- I am not gathering forces. I am building. And those who are late to the beginning - shall not demand a place at the center
For a moment - a hollow in the chest. Not fear. Emptiness in the linkage, like a cracked link in a mechanism. As if he had stepped forward - but the ground beneath the step was not yet created. Only resolved.
Pain flared briefly. Somewhere inside, where it was still healing.
Alexander slowed slightly - and immediately took the step back into a steady rhythm. Not aloud. Within.
Stanislav noticed. But said nothing. Only slightly straightened his shoulders more beside him.
The prince was walking - thus everything held.
They exited the Princely Tower, crossed the courtyard.
Underfoot - dampness. Moss clung, like memory. The stone smelled of rot. As if Rus' itself exhaled after a heavy day.
The gridni straightened their shoulders at their approach.
The prince walked - and the air around thickened. Everything that had been argument in the morning now folded into a road.
Before them rose the wooden walls of the treasury. Low, heavy. Clad with a stone plinth, like a chest in battle mail.
The carving was not for beauty. For weight. For the earth.
Here was stored not gold. The weight of the future.
And losing it would be heavier than losing a battle.
The warriors straightened. As if by signal.
- We greet you, prince! Head Stanislav! - Voices - even, like lines in a scroll. Without pomp. Without faltering.
Alexander slowed his step slightly. Not from pride - to let the place respond.
Stanislav also paused for a moment. Not checking the line - feeling how the wall becomes a wall not by stone, but by people.
From around the corner came the shout of a boy - ringing, like a strike on a copper basin. Somewhere coins clattered - a short tally of the morning's trade.
The city lived.
Breathed.
And knew - power walks.
Alexander stepped forward.
Something underfoot - crunched.
Not a sound - a memory. Not stone - a trace.
Someone before him had tried to carry the weight. Had not reached.
Now - he.
He did not slow.
But the heel - remembered.
They entered.
It smelled of parchment, resin, and hot metal.
As if the strikes on the ingots had not yet cooled in the air.
As if the money had only just broken free from the fire.
In the center of the hall, behind a heavy table, sat Radomir the Silver.
He had already managed to return after the council - thought the day was done. When the door opened and the prince entered, he raised his gaze - and for the first time in a long time, he was surprised.
But he did not show it.
He rose. Not out of respect. Like a chess player before the board: not figures - moves.
- Prince. Stanislav, - the voice was hollow but precise. - I did not expect a visit so soon
- I do not wait for the treasury to speak by itself, - said Alexander, stepping closer. - I need to see everything: how much remains, where it is hidden, what has been gathered, what has been spent
Radomir nodded. Once - as if pressing a scale. He was not surprised by the question. Only that it came immediately.
- Please, - he pointed to the massive table, strewn with scrolls.
The scribes froze. Like roots in the earth before a storm.
The quills trembled, as if reaching toward the sky.
The scrolls lay open.
The day was finished.
But the quill demanded a new word.
- The treasury - one hundred twenty-five thousand grivnas. But at hand - only forty. The rest - in goods: grain in pits, furs in storehouses, metal in forges, wagons en route, weapons in warehouses
He spoke not like a servant - but like one who had tested all chests and granaries himself.
- Fifty thousand - in kind. Thirty-five - in military reserves. Clean money - exactly forty. No delays. No embellishments
Alexander listened. Without words.
His eyes caught the numbers - like the click of a lock.
He stood.
Weariness did not seep - it compressed under the skin.
Stanislav, standing nearby, rasped out:
- Of those forty - how much has already been spent?
Radomir silently shifted one scroll aside, spread another:
- The druzhina - two thousand two hundred ninety-one
- Diplomacy - six hundred twenty-five
- Roads - one thousand forty-two
- Reserve - four hundred seventeen
- Clergy - four hundred twenty
- Coronation - one thousand
He ran his finger along the edge:
- Remaining - a little over thirty-three thousand
Alexander stepped back slightly, leaning on the table. He felt the cold. And in that cold - a short, sharp blow.
- Annual income?
Radomir opened a third scroll:
- Last year - from thirty-five to forty thousand
- This year - weaker. Expecting thirty
- Taxes will bring fifteen to twenty
- Duties - ten to fifteen
- Tribute - five, seven and a half
He spoke without embellishments. Like wind rustling through empty sacks.
- And expenses?
Radomir opened another scroll. Unhurriedly. But without delay - like an executioner checking the blade.
- Annual:
Druzhina - eleven thousand.
Diplomacy - three.
Roads - five.
Reserve - two.
Church - two.
Coronation - one.
He raised his gaze:
- Plus new expenses.
Schools - up to three hundred to launch.
Maintenance - sixty a year.
Fortifications - four thousand one hundred twenty-five.
Your share - half.
Alexander stood. The creaking was not in his ears - in his neck.
Thoughts did not flow. They snapped, like arrows against a shield.
Numbers struck - did not align. They drove in.
- Net outcome?
Radomir briefly:
- Net profit - from four to nine thousand. If the wind is favorable. If it does not break
Alexander ran his hand over the scroll. Not doubting. Resolute. As if checking - would the number rub off under his fingers.
He had seen confidence crumble. Like with Yaroslav.
Then they thought: it would suffice.
It sufficed - for funerals.
- It's enough to start. But not enough to survive failure
Radomir nodded. Without approval. Without anxiety. Simply - like a counter who knows how to await failure.
- Then, prince, you will have not to ask for more - but squeeze better
Alexander stood. And saw: before him - not a treasury, but the bones of the past.
Mistakes - not from weakness, from weariness.
Holes - not from stupidity, from time.
Even the great father could not plug them all.
He did not condemn. He was reading.
Not ruling - catching up.
In his chest - a hollow. Like a crack beneath the snow, still hidden, but already heard in the bones.
He wanted to respond with a word of confidence. Another came out:
- The mistake was already made. I will not allow a second
He raised his gaze. Heavy. Like a blow to a frozen vault.
- We do not ask. We squeeze
Not from lines.
From blood.
And the tally will not be in ink - in the living.
Radomir did not answer immediately.
His face did not flinch. Only in his fingers - as if an unseen thread slipped.
He had served Yaroslav for twenty years. Had seen princes who smashed tables, beat geese, tore decrees at feasts.
But when a man speaks like this - without rage, but with a grave in his voice - then even those who lie with numbers fall silent.
The quill slipped.
Glided across the table.
Frozen at the very edge.
The second scribe instinctively adjusted the belt at his waist, as if preparing for battle.
Even the parchments on the table seemed to recoil - pressed together, like frightened pack horses.
Not from fear.
From understanding:
if this prince fails - they will not bury him.
But he still takes it.
Radomir nodded.
His palm slid off the scroll.
As if he wanted to close his eyes.
But he merely ran his finger - and left it open.
Understood: now it is no longer service. Now - it is an oath.
Alexander did not look at them.
He knew: silence - is also an answer.
He lowered his gaze onto the scrolls.
Not for counting.
To avoid looking inside himself.
Because inside - it was already humming.
Not pain. Not panic.
The hum of steel, when squeezed harder than it is used to.
Numbers do not warn.
They judge.
The first mistake had been made.
The trial had begun.
The sentence - ahead.
Alexander stood in thought, his gaze fixed on the scroll.
Net profit - four and a half thousand. Maybe - nine.
For them - just numbers.
For him - almost three million.
Too little to turn a river.
Enough not to drown.
But not enough to lead.
His gaze slid over the parchment, then rose to Radomir. He stood at the table, straight, as he would have stood before Alexander's father.
Without flattery. Without fear. Simply - as a man accustomed to holding both the number and the prince at once.
- This money, prince, - he spoke first, - lies not under hand, but under oath. Whoever wishes to take more - must first bend the council. The treasury - is not a purse, but a foundation
Alexander nodded slightly. Not in agreement - in agreement that from now on everything would be different.
He stepped closer, laid his palms on the table piled with scrolls, as if he wished to hold the treasury itself together, so it would not crumble between his fingers.
- Radomir. I want to see the account every month. Not a summary. A living one. Where everything: who gave, who took, who is hidden. Without embellishments
- It will be, - the treasurer replied briefly. Did not argue - already weighing how to build anew.
Alexander unrolled scroll after scroll. The parchment cracked like frozen bark. The numbers blurred, but his eye caught the main thing - voids. Repeats. Mold on paper.
- Is there a unified list? One. Not scattered. Where it is written: duties, tribute, collections, debts?
Radomir frowned. Not out of argument - out of sorrow.
- There is none now. The volosts send each in their own way. Some on birchbark, some on scraps. Some will mark with a date, some - with a prayer
He drew a breath, heavy, like after a long road.
- I tried to gather it - but it's not cloth. It's rags. One wrote out of boredom. Another - out of fear
Alexander nodded. He already knew. He was asking - not for the answer.
- Then it will be. Assign the best. Let them start writing anew. Duties. Taxes. Cities. Everything
One of the scribes - gray-haired, with a face cracked like old birchbark - flinched. The quill slipped from his fingers. Softly.
- Forgive me, prince...
His voice - cut like a tendon by a knife.
- I... kept the scrolls of Chernigov for twenty years. In the old form. By honor. By the decree of your father. There was order...
He faltered.
Alexander watched. Without pressing - simply stood. Like a stone one stumbles upon.
- If we rewrite... - the scribe whispered barely audibly. - Then all that we preserved...
He did not finish.
- ...as if it never was, - the prince said quietly.
- As if we never were, - the scribe breathed.
He stood. Like a charred beam.
Radomir approached. Laid his hand on his shoulder.
- Go
The scribe went. Heavily. Like a landslide leaving when the sound is gone.
And in the hall - something cracked. Not a quill. Not a scroll.
Something deeper.
Radomir fell silent. Counting - not numbers, steps. Then he said:
- It will take much time. And guards will be needed. Breaking is easier than preserving
- Stanislav, - Alexander turned, - assign druzhina men to guard the scribes. So that no one interferes or sets fires. Everything will bear the princely seal
- Already thinking who to appoint, - Stanislav nodded.
Radomir exhaled quietly. Not from weariness - from transition. He understood: the prince had come not for inspection. He had come to change the order.
- Then we begin today, - he said. - I will select senior scribes, those taught precision under your father. And will gather the list of collectors from all the lands
- Exactly. I want a personal audience. Let them come. With their scrolls. With their words. And with their deeds. We shall see who holds the task, and who clings to the seat
- That is reasonable, - Radomir acknowledged. - These people, for the most part, are reliable. But a check will do no harm
- Loyalty is not in words. It is in the account, - Alexander threw. - If they are honest - they will remain. If not - they will leave. Quickly
Stanislav grunted. Roughly. Like stone against stone:
- The prince needs not a treasury. He needs the account - like steel. Without crookedness. Without rot
Alexander did not answer at once. Only turned to Radomir, his eyes - like blades on a bare throat:
- When it is gathered - you will bring it yourself. No messengers. No substitutions. You will check it with your own eyes
He stood - firmly, like a nail in an arch.
- I do not ask. I myself set the measure. And I shall demand myself
Radomir bowed. Briefly. Without malice and without servility.
And his gaze was no longer that of a servant.
It was the gaze of one who understood:
before him - was not a prince of the account.
Before him - was a prince of judgment.
Alexander paused for a moment. The rustle of scrolls under his fingers sounded as a reminder: order is not lines, it is actions.
He did not check - he scanned. His eye caught the structure. Or the lack of it.
Under his father Yaroslav, the treasury allowed no mistakes. There they did not write twice.
There they crossed out - and were removed. Radomir had served then - and had passed through the filter of time.
He lifted his head.
- Radomir. Duties. The full account - for two months. Who paid, how much, where. Merchants, caravans - everything. Not for show - for sorting
The treasurer nodded shortly, the quill already sliding over a tablet.
Alexander turned to Stanislav:
- Roads. Check them. With your own eyes. Not with a sword - with sight. Where they take beyond measure - I must know
Who takes - will answer. Quickly. Painfully
Stanislav smirked. Bitterly:
- We will do it. A few lice to be split open - the rest will remember: the law is not on parchment. It is in blood
Alexander stared ahead, as if into stone:
- Order is not in lines. Order is in not taking beyond. And not twisting in silence
Alexander unrolled a scroll.
Blank. Only the seal and a place for judgment.
The quill lay into his hand.
He wrote:
"Register. Princely. Trade Duties. Responsibility - Radomir."
A signature. Firm, like a blow.
He lifted his gaze. In it - not a command. In it - a verdict.
- From this day - if a scribe bends the truth - his punishment. If a collector conceals - his judgment
And if you err - it falls upon me.
But you will err - only once.
The silence thickened.
Everyone understood: this sheet - was not parchment.
It was - a shroud for those who falter.
Alexander looked at Radomir. Steadily.
- You served my father. You serve me. I do not seek loyalty - I see it. I do not abandon my own. But I do not cover either. He who holds - goes further
Radomir inclined his head slightly. Not formally. With an inner decision. He understood: this prince would be different. And in his own way - righteous.
Stanislav moved to the exit first. Alexander lingered slightly, glanced once more at the table, at the papers, at the future system.
- Begin today, - he threw, already with his back. - I do not wait - I verify
Radomir silently nodded.
Inside rose a feeling that comes rarely - when you see: a structure long strewn is gathering again into a body. He had not thought the young prince could raise the standing of the realm. But now - he saw.
Radomir remained silent. And stood longer than necessary.
As if weighing something. Or had already decided.
Beyond the door - footsteps. Then emptiness. Not silence - a hushed countdown. The first blow. The first payment.
He remained. Because he knew: to hold - or to break.
The scribe, the one who had dropped the quill, had been with him since youth. Had seen walls fall, had written taxes on gold when there was no ink.
He knew: that one would not return.
He knew: the prince was right.
And because of that the bitterness became heavier.
He sat. Not in a place - on the edge of the table.
His shoulders sagged. The old time lay down, like wet felt.
His hand reached for the scroll. That very one.
To touch. Not to open.
His fingers passed over the cracked seal.
The scroll crunched under the skin - softly.
He froze.
And only after - put it away. Slowly. Not on a shelf - into dust.
And nothing more.