The princely court was not noisy. It had gone still. Too much silence - like before the ice cracks somewhere.
To the left - the Byzantines. Faces without folds. Movements smooth. Their silence - trained.
To the right - the men of Chernigov. Standing as if carved from old trunks. Each held inside the memory of a wound. Not one had been forgotten.
Sofia sat on her horse closer to the center. She did not intervene. But she saw - who breathed deeper, who hid their gaze, who clenched fingers on fabric. She caught not words - tension. A whisper that had not been spoken. In her world, that was a weapon.
Before the situation grew even more strained, the doors of the terem opened.
Out came a sturdy man and a woman, behind them - the princely druzhina.
The man did not enter. He returned. Like a shadow that knows where it stood. The weight was in the step, in the shoulders, in the very air thickening around him.
The woman walked behind him. Straight. But the fingers of her left hand clutched the edge of her sleeve. Once. Twice. Then - stopped. Too noticeable.
The man looked at Yaroslav. As one looks at a hill - the one where something is buried. Their gazes met. No greeting. No guilt. Simply: yes, you are still here.
Yaroslav did not move. His face - like ash on clay. Dry. Grey. But enough warmth - and it would ignite again.
Sofia waited for him to speak. The man inhaled - and nothing. Only a step. Colder than a word.
The Byzantine coughed. Too sharply.
Stepped forward. As if to speak. And at once - stumbled.
Not badly. But enough: the boot struck the stone with a dull thud.
Everyone froze.
Only for a moment.
Only the air shifted.
But it was enough for the Man who had emerged to turn. Not to him. Through him.
Like wind - through a crack in the wall.
- He won't speak, - someone from the Chernigov side muttered.
And at once - another, hoarse, older:
- He already did. With his boot. On the stone
- Let him learn to walk first, then climb into speech
A pause hung. Even the servants did not stir.
No one helped the Byzantine. Not with a glance, not with a word.
He tried to compose himself.
But at that moment the Woman beside the man tilted her head slightly.
Not mockery. A statement.
- Kiev hears, - she said quietly. - But it does not answer to just anyone
The man stepped forward and everything fell silent.
- Stanislav the Great... - someone from the Chernigov side murmured. Quietly. As one marks: alive. Standing.
In Rus', "great" was said of princes. He - was not a prince. But decisions were made beside him. He did not command.
He simply entered - and the dispute ended.
Not for power - for having refused it. For what he could have taken - and did not.
- He's still alive... - someone whispered.
- And yet he stands, - another replied. Not admiration. Weight.
Stanislav stopped. Looked at the Byzantines, at the men of Chernigov, at the whole court. And everything became quieter.
- Welcome to Kiev, - he said. Low. Unadorned. Like one sets a signature. - The chambers are ready. Today - rest. In the evening - business. The prince awaits
This was not hospitality. It was order. Measured, like a step. The tone - not cold. Firm. Stone, upon which one builds.
Nikodim stepped forward. Smoothly. Without sharpness. Like a man used to hearing strength - and speaking with it.
He inclined his head. His voice - soft, but beneath the smoothness - steel.
- We are grateful for the reception. Kiev impresses - not with splendor, but with weight. I hope the conversation will bring benefit to both sides
He did not specify the name. It already resounded in every glance around.
A pause. Light. But tangible.
- And accept our condolences. Such losses are not healed by words. They resound - even beyond borders
Stanislav did not thank him. Did not smile. Only nodded.
But Nikodim knew - he had expected something else. The pause lasted a moment longer than measure allowed between equals. He understood: he had lost by a millimeter.
Komnenos did not nod. Did not even look. But Sofia sensed - he was not weighing people. Knots. And as if one had not aligned.
Yaroslav Lebedinsky did not say a word. But he looked at Stanislav as if beneath his skin - the same years.
Where the voice held snow. Where the banner was wet with blood. Where the cry called not forward - but back.
The principalities were different. The root - one.
And that was the answer.
Miroslav, standing slightly aside, stepped forward. Unhurried. Precise. So as not to shift the weight, but to remind - he was still part of the knot.
But even his step was - not a step. An apology.
- Forgive me, - he said. Too gently. Like a man tired of gentleness. - Mikhail of Sofia awaits. We will meet - at the reception
He nodded to Stanislav - a touch lower than protocol demanded. Not submission. Respect, which no longer bore flavor.
Sofia caught haste in his voice. But now heard something else - surfeit. As if, after Byzantine halls, he longed not for an audience, but for silence. Or battle.
Dobrynya of Pereyaslav stepped forward. Not interrupting - continuing. His voice came steadily:
- The head of the druzhina, Stanislav, and his companions will see to...
And at that moment he realized: he sounded foreign. Not a lie. But not himself. He spoke like a novice repeating a lesson.
Inside - everything clenched. As if someone had replaced his shield.
And then - the gaze of the woman behind Stanislav.
Sharp. Grasping.
Dobrynya met it - not immediately. And not fully.
He nodded. But not in agreement.
Because he did not want to break the order in front of the Byzantines.
It was too late to correct. But he remembered. Not the scene. In himself.
Miroslav and Dobrynya departed. Not to the side - inward.
There, where decisions are made before words.
Sofia caught the gaze of a Chernigov man. The face - empty. The eyes - searching.
She looked away first. Cast it off.
Stanislav and the others followed their departure for another second. More precisely - their dissolving. Without looking back. As leave those who have done their part - and now allow others to do theirs.
Stanislav turned. Not sharply. Like a wall in which a new door had opened.
To the woman standing slightly behind. Her posture - as if carved. Not for ornament. For bearing.
- Olga, please. See to their accommodations. You and Branimir will escort the guests. If anything is needed - let them tell you. You - are the hands of Kiev
He did not elaborate. Those nearby knew: this was not a request. A passing of weight.
Olga stepped forward. As if already set to go. As it should be.
But stopped. And stood.
Not as a servant. As one who does not consider a command final until she has weighed it herself. Nikodim noticed. And understood: this was not over.
Stanislav nodded to the delegation. His gaze - to Nikodim. Then - to Komnenos. He knew who bore the weight.
And then - to the men of Chernigov. Directly. Without pause.
- The prince awaits
The pause did not break. It lingered. Like air before rain.
The men of Chernigov did not move. No one.
Stanislav did not repeat. Only looked.
Yaroslav knew: it was for him. Only him.
But he did not go at once.
He turned. Slowly. As if waiting for someone to say: "go." No one did.
He stepped closer to Boyarin Dmitry of Volhynia. Leaned in. Whispered. Too quietly - but plainly.
The other nodded. Sharply. As if to say: "I know."
Yaroslav lingered another moment. Not from stubbornness. From measure. He gauged. And only then - stepped.
No nod. No words. Simply - walked.
But all saw: he could have chosen not to. And then everything would have unraveled.
Sofia watched Yaroslav Lebedinsky. Only him.
The others from Chernigov did not move - did not await an invitation. One had been called. The rest - held the perimeter. But did not leave it.
The edge of the scene remained in place. And so did the tension.
And at that moment, she caught the gaze of Vladislav Lebedinsky. He stood slightly to the side, in shadow. And looked at the Byzantines - not as guests.
As targets. Deeply, almost without expression. But with that coldness that does not shout - acts.
She did not flinch - but noted it. Inside. This was the man from whom everything would begin, if it cracked.
And then someone from the Chernigov side, lips pressed, nodded upward. Almost imperceptibly. Another - pointed a finger.
Sofia raised her eyes.
A raven.
It flew - and landed. Low. On a nail in the wall. Crooked. Without a painting. Like a shadow that had not found where to lie.
Someone nearby whispered:
- A bad sign
Quietly. Almost ritually.
Sofia waited for it to caw. But no. It only froze. Like a sign no one had summoned.
The silence had not changed. But now - it was different. Not about people.
The raven did not caw. But something remained in the air. As if someone had seen everything - and had not left.
Behind, by a pillar, a young druzhina stood with a spear. His fingers had gone pale - gripping the shaft too tightly. Sofia noticed. A small tremor. A small man.
And then she suddenly understood: everything spoken here would one day repeat. But elsewhere. With other people. And it would be too late.
She watched them go - those who passed inside, beyond the walls. Where now lay the weight. Where now lay the power.
And here - she remained. And the one who did not move.
Olga Strumenskaya.
She had not stepped out - she remained, as a support remains after an earthquake. Not from stubbornness. From necessity.
Her name was not spoken in chronicles - but her steps altered routes.
The senior boyarynya, regent of the land of Vladimir-Volynsky. A woman who had kept the boyar wolves under control.
Her sharp gaze - not an inspection, a dissection. On Nikodim - a moment longer. On Sofia - a moment more. There - movement. There - threat.
But in the next second, as Sofia was already turning her eyes away, she noticed: Olga's gaze shifted again. Not like that of a mistress. Like that of a warrior, seeking: where is it fragile. Where will it give.
Olga did not adjust her gesture. Did not retreat a step. The line of her shoulders - even, like a freshly drawn furrow in a morning field. No adornments. Only pure, unbending clarity.
- Please, - she said. Not offered. Indicated the way.
Komnenos shifted his foot. Not a step - an adjustment.
The protospatharios does not interpret gestures. He calculates: the phrase - where to? the movement - toward whom?
He did not listen. He measured.
Here, power does not shout - it walks ahead.
Which means, a strike is possible.
Sofia let her gaze glide across Nikodim's face. In her eyes - a question without words.
He did not reply with words. Simply stepped forward. Calmly, without force. In every movement - the experience of a man who knows how power speaks.
- We are inclined to believe: the strength of a city lies not in its walls. And not in its gold, - he said. Calmly. With pauses, as if each word were measured with a chisel.
- It is in those who hold it when the wind shifts. Not because they can. Because - they must
He turned his gaze to Olga.
- Your reception, lady, - is not a sign of courtesy. It is a signal. We have heard it.
He did not smile. But held her gaze.
Did not press. He tested: did it land - or rebound.
Olga did not reply. Only inclined her head slightly. And at that moment, Boyarin Branimir stepped forward.
Not noisily - with the weight of one who knows: the walls in his house listen.
Fingers - to the belt. Not a threat. A habit of keeping close what can speak without words.
Voice - polite. But firm. Like a boot on stone.
- Follow me, - he said. - Everything is prepared
A pause. He turned his gaze to Nikodim - not like a host. Like a tracker, studying a trail in the snow.
- Kiev is not in gold. It is in the earth. Those who lived - remember. Those who left - not all arrived. And those who returned - are no longer guests. Here they do not ask. They watch - will you stand beside?
One of the Varangians tensed. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly.
Sofia understood: it was not a strike. It was a step onto thin ice - to see where it would crack.
Nikodim did not slow. But his voice - from the first word, trembled slightly, as if slipping off a thought.
- A home - is not walls. It is hearing, - he said. His voice steady, as though walking a tightrope. - And if Kiev knows how to hear, then perhaps - how to remember, too
A pause. He inclined his head slightly. Almost respectfully. Almost.
- But memory - is not always a virtue. Sometimes - a knot that strangles. I wonder, boyarin Branimir... - he took half a step, gaze to his face, - ...does Kiev remember what ought to be forgotten?
For a fraction of a second - silence.
Not the silence of attention.
The silence of stillness.
As after a phrase over which there is no argument - only waiting to see who moves first.
Branimir did not reply. But his gaze slowed. Hardened.
Not threatening. But like an axe from which no words are expected.
He did not blink. But his face changed.
He understood: this was no guest speaking. Byzantium had donned the mask of a friend - and extended a probe.
Nikodim caught on. A moment too late.
And understood: he had overreached.
Placed the weight wrong. The words - wrong. And here, in Kiev, even a pause can become a debt.
Sofia did not look at them.
She simply stepped slightly to the left, as if sidestepping a sound.
But in that sidestep - the whole essence: not to support, not to hinder, but to move away from a possible strike. Even by a word.
For her, this was not a scene.
This was a duel of styles: sword and poison.
Komnenos stood slightly aside.
Hands - on his cloak. Foot - near the wall. Those who knew, saw: he had already marked the angle of view and the exit.
He was not waiting - he was calculating the distance to a throw.
Sofia sensed: he was not merely watching. He was building a move. In case Nikodim again played too brightly. Too quickly. Too much his own.
Olga waited. Her smile - a shield, not an adornment.
- Gentlemen, - she said, inclining her head slightly, - the prince will receive you in the evening. For now, he has other matters. But in Kiev, honored guests are always - close to the heart of power. Please
She turned, pointing to the passage leading to the gates that opened out of the princely court - there, beyond the palisade, yet still within the detinets, rose the Guest House. Not by the terem, but in its shadow.
- Your quarters are in the main guest house. It stands at the very edge of the princely court, so that you may be near us, yet within your own silence. We hope that there you will feel not only peace, but also the reverence Rus' preserves for the great realm of the Romans
Nikodim nodded - as an envoy, not as a guest. Komnenos glanced slightly sideways - marked it.
And then stepped forward the spiritual representative of the Empire, Agaphius Scholasticus. His palms - within his sleeves. His face - like an icon: without emotion, but not without meaning.
- Bread, once offered - must be held. A gift may be light. The answer - always heavier, - he said softly, yet in a way that made all fall still. - We shall receive as we must. And leave with memory. Let the walls of this house - hear us, as we strive to hear those who dwell within them
He bowed. Slightly. But more was not required. This was not an answer to a woman. To Kiev.
The boyars of Chernigov remained in place, seeing the Byzantines off with their gazes. Boyarin Dmitry of Volhynia, standing closer to the exit, gave a snort:
- They walk as if they heard nothing at all
Senior Boyarin Artemy of Chernigov did not respond at once. His eyes did not blink. His voice - like stone in cold water:
- They heard. But decided they need not remember
They walked back the same path - along the paved road running beside the walls of the princely court. The stones beneath their feet - even, but not polished: here, the eye was not flattered. Here, order was shown.
To the left - the walls: dark oak, like the bone of the earth, carved by centuries. To the right - greenery reaching for the sun between buildings.
Sofia walked apart from the group, peering.
Beside the shadow of the terem - a few apple trees, planted long ago. Their trunks somewhat crooked, yet cared for. Between them - bushes, currant leaves and specks of mint. No alleys, no marble - only a living rhythm: greenery, light, roots.
It smelled of fresh bark and damp wood.
In the gaps between buildings flickered other trees - not a garden, but a hint.
A design, hidden in the everyday. She could not grasp it all with her eyes - but she felt it was no accidental patch. This - was part of something larger.
And then they passed through the gates.
The Guest House did not need to be searched for. It stood in the shadow of the princely wall - not far, to be kept in sight, but apart, to offer a sense of seclusion.
A place for delegations, where every stone said: you are not at home, but not among foes.
It rose without ostentatious weight.
The walls - oak, broad and mute. The roof - shingle, darkened with time and bearing a faint pattern. Tall windows. Carved doorframes. The door - with carvings of feasts, hunts, harvests. A sign not of wealth. Of an invitation to an equal conversation.
As they approached, Sofia saw - the house was not surrounded by an empty yard, but by a shaped landscape.
There were no fences. But everything breathed intent.
The apple trees - taller than in the princely court. The bushes - denser. Between them - herbs, gathered not for beauty, but for use: nettle, oregano, shepherd's purse. The scent - richer. Here, it smelled of honey. Resin. Earth ready for fruit.
In one corner - a neat row of hives. The beehives painted. In another - a solitary linden tree, old, as if it could hear.
By the tree - movement.
A servant, young, in a simple shirt, bent down - as if calling something.
Out from the shadow came a cat. Grey, striped, lazy as a summer evening. The servant lifted it into his arms, as though not for the first time.
The cat pressed its forehead to his chin, began to purr. Not loudly - as if to itself.
No one noticed. Only Sofia.
She did not smile. But paused.
The cat looked at her - not as at a stranger. As at one passing by.
Then - jumped down. Not to the ground. To a stone by the wall. Looked back - and settled.
It looked - not into the window. Past it. To where someone usually came.
The servant did not notice. But Sofia - did.
He was not waiting for food. He knew: at this time, someone was usually here.
A living routine. Not by order - by memory.
She did not know exactly what that meant. But she felt: the house had its own habits. And she - was already written into them.
Warmth, not her own. Received.
As if no reception was being prepared here - here, they lived. And if the house spoke, it did not speak with words.
With memory. With its setting. With a language that is not explained - but read.
Sofia stopped. And the breathing changed.
At the entrance to the Guest House stood two members of the druzhina. Not guards - a boundary. Shields slanted, spears grounded. Their eyes did not move - but they saw everything. Each guest entered not merely a house. A field of vision.
Olga did not stop. Only nodded. The druzhinniki opened the doors without a word. Heavy, bound in iron from within. No clank - it slid, like a sigh.
- Please, - she said softly, without turning back. Yet her voice rang out clearly, like a doorframe under the palm.
- This place was prepared for you back under Grand Prince Yaroslav. He believed: honor is not in gold, but in how one receives a word
Nikodim inclined his head slightly - not in gratitude, but as an envoy acknowledging formality, knowing its cost.
The others followed behind him. Komnenos lightly gripped the edge of his cloak at the chest - where once the baldric had lain. The sword belt.
He did not think - he remembered. The body recalled the weight. The emptiness at his side.
Everything here resembled a palace. But the stone - was foreign. Colder.
He did not look at the rugs. He watched - from which angle it would be easiest to break formation.
Which of the "servants" would move to his belt first.
And where the nearest column was, behind which one could vanish.
In that gaze was the past. One who had survived three palace conspiracies does not admire a building. He looks for where the leap will come from.
When they entered, they were met by the soft scent of pine and wax - fresh, slightly resinous. The air was warm, but clean. Nothing shouted of wealth, but everything spoke of order.
The hall was high, its walls paneled in dark wood. Carpets - from Persia, without ostentation, but with dense pattern. On the walls - embroidered cloths: the hunt, the harvest, princely feasts. Everything - in place.
Servants moved soundlessly, in clean linen shirts. One adjusted a tablecloth. Another poured wine.
At that moment a third - mid-step - brushed against a jug.
The jug tilted - nearly fell. The first caught it in time.
They looked at each other. Quickly. Almost without expression.
Nothing had happened. But it became clear: here - it was not only gold and symbols. Here too - were people.
And Sofia noticed it. Because everything around was built like a stage. And this - was not a performance.
A fourth brought out a tray covered in leather, with a horn cup and bread - and met Branimir's gaze.
For a half-beat. No nod. No sign. Only a pause, slightly longer than needed.
Not words - weight. A test. A signal. Or a warning.
The servant slowed slightly. Seemed to look too long. And at that moment - the tray shifted. Not dangerously, but sharply. Like a hitch in breath. One misstep - and everything could have fallen.
Branimir's finger twitched slightly - barely noticeable. As if ready to catch. He did not catch. And did not move to.
He stood as always. Hands behind his belt. Back straight. No motion. No hint.
The servant beside caught it - quickly, without noise. The fourth stabilized. The tray stood level. And he walked on, as if nothing had happened.
But it had.
Those who watched - saw. Not what occurred. What could have. And what did not - because it did not need to.
No one spoke a word. But now one servant knew: he was being watched. And the others understood: here even a glance - carries weight.
Olga, paying no attention, walked ahead. Not a mistress. An architect.
In each step - calculation. The house stands not by walls. By beams. The weight - is on her.
Sofia watched her from behind - and did not understand.
She had heard: in Rus', women do not partake in feasts or matters.
They do not advise. Do not command.
This was not Constantinople, where the widow of a basileus might rule an empire through her son.
This was the edge of the sword and silence. A woman - a shadow.
But Olga was no shadow.
Not one man in the hall distanced himself from her. Not one turned his gaze aside. Some boyars looked reserved, but not down. Even the druzhinniki listened when she spoke.
Sofia sensed: they listened to her here. Not as a wife. Not as an ornament. As part of power.
She did not know who she was.
Perhaps a voivode's widow? Or of princely blood? Or filling a place left by someone's death? In Byzantium, such things happened. But in Rus'?..
Sofia lowered her gaze. Something here did not align. And that - was the most unsettling.
They continued walking. The steps thudded dully against the wooden floor.
The wide corridors of the guest house were lined with wooden panels, finely carved: scenes of hunts, feasts, the baptism of Rus'. Above the panels - tapestries with elegant patterns. Not lavish - integral. The space did not boast, it impressed.
The scent of pine, wax, and dry aromatic herbs filled the air. On the shelves - vases. Not for beauty. For memory.
- This house was built for the finest guests of Rus', - said Olga, turning to Nikodim. Her voice was soft, but within it rang a firm, long-set pride. - We wished for you to feel here not only comfort - but respect
The delegation followed. Every gaze - at work.
Nikodim lingered on one of the panels: a rider with a spear and a priest with a cross. Symbols of power and spirit - side by side. He noted it. Said nothing.
Sofia, walking a little behind, caught on details: the curl of carving on a door arch, a painted plate with a geometric pattern like in Mistra. Light slid across the floor - through patterned windows - and seemed alive. She did not smile. But she saw.
- Greatness lies not in the walls, but in how they receive, - said Nikodim, without stopping. - You show that Kiev knows how to honor its allies, Lady Olga
Olga nodded - formally. But her gaze lingered. Not on Nikodim. On the girl walking just behind.
Sofia carried herself modestly, silently, but Olga had already noted: one of the elder men had let her go ahead at the entrance. Two servants had looked at her with expectation, not as an attendant.
One of the younger Byzantines, not a soldier, seemed to walk beneath her gaze, not beside her. And that was enough.
Olga did not know who she was. But understood: not merely a companion. A center. Though hidden.
- Here, when we are silent - we listen more deeply, - said Olga. Her voice - warmer, but not softer.
- This girl… they look to her. Which means - they await from her. May I know - who is she?
Nikodim did not answer at once. His glance - swift, like the drawing of a blade. Slid over Sofia as over a tested edge.
- Sofia is the granddaughter of one of our senior magistri, - he said evenly. - Her presence here is part of a journey. But even on this path, her judgments already bear weight. Through her - not by word, but by look - one can understand what the Empire is worthy of
Olga nodded, and Branimir, silent all this time, allowed himself a barely visible smirk. Not for outsiders. For his own.
- Well then, gentlemen, - he said. His voice - dry, without flattery. - I hope you feel at home here. If not - you'll say so. We'll fix it
He stepped forward. Not aside - deeper. As if not offering to guests - but testing whether the house would bear their weight.
The eunuch behind Sofia slightly slowed his pace. The Varangian near Komnenos shifted, just perceptibly. But Branimir's gaze had already passed over him - and moved on.
Nikodim said nothing. Only shifted his eyes.
Slowly. As if measuring the house - not for comfort, but for survival.
No threat. No pressure. Only a question: - Will this place endure us?
He did not smile. Did not bow his head. But Sofia felt:
that gaze would remain in the walls.
Even after he left.
Like setting a stone. Without a cry.
But then no grass grows beneath it.
Olga did not let the silence thicken. With a light gesture she pointed to a door carved with scenes - hunt, feast, vow. Her words flowed evenly, without pressure - like the close of a move begun.
- These are your quarters, Lord Nikodim
The room - spacious. Floor - of dark wood. Carpets muffled the steps. The bed - sturdy, with an embroidered coverlet. The table - draped with cloth, wine and goblets - in their places.
Everything - not for show. For confirmation: you were awaited here.
- Thank you, Lady Olga, - said Nikodim. Gently, yet restrained. - This is not courtesy. It is order. We hear it
He stepped inside - not as into chambers, but into an accord.
Sofia stopped at the threshold. Did not step forward. But her gaze - moved. Across corners, across light, across silhouettes of furniture. She did not look - she read. No gesture, no breath - yet everything had already settled into memory.
Olga turned to her. And to those who stood nearby: her female attendants, silent, yet not superfluous. A girl so young - with such shadows behind her - had not come merely to learn.
- For you, Lady Sofia, - came Olga's words. Her voice - warm, but direct. Not condescension - an invitation into the frame. - Separate chambers. Seclusion and silence. I believe you will appreciate them
Sofia inclined her head. Not low - enough. To yield nothing, but acknowledge: here, they hold tighter.
- Thank you. Your house - does not explain. It holds
She did not smile. But did not retreat either. Her gaze remained - where it ought: just below power, but not in the dust.
It could have ended there. But Olga - did not move on. She lingered. Stepped closer. Not sharply - like water beneath a threshold.
Her palm almost touched Sofia's shoulder. Almost. Right at the edge where tact becomes a test.
Sofia did not recoil. But her eyes deepened for a moment. As when the air thickens before a storm.
Olga saw it - and did not withdraw. But neither did she move further. The silence between them grew too tangible. And all noticed.
Komnenos - shifted. Not a step. A shift in center of gravity.
The boy in the corner - halted his motion. One of the Varangians - repositioned his foot. Casually. But that was already readiness.
Sofia inclined her head. Quietly. Respectfully. Like closing a shutter at dawn - without a knock. Without weakness.
Olga nodded as well. But in that nod was a bridge - not extended, but marked. Half-built. Enough for now.
She turned to the others.
- For your companions - all is likewise prepared, - she said, already moving. - By rank. By essence. Without flattery. Without oversight
Komnenos stepped forward first.
Not softly. As if testing the boards: should they crack - he would be atop.
His step - not about respect. About control.
His gaze slid across Sofia. Not as at a girl. As at a point - where the entire net might unravel.
Not a question. Not interest. A test for resilience.
He said nothing. But Sofia understood: he did not remember.
He - assessed. As one places a sword upon the scales.
Sofia entered her chambers.
She drew a slow breath. Ran her palm across her wrist.
On her finger - a fine scratch. Almost vanished. Left from the road, when a ribbon caught on the saddle's edge. Pulled tight - and tore the skin.
A trifle. But the mark remained.
She had not cried out then. And now - only looked.
The scratch had darkened. Sealed. But not disappeared. Like a sign left not by will, but by fact: I was there. And entered here.
She approached the window.
The board beneath her foot creaked slightly - not a sound, but a prick of memory.
In the courtyard - shadow, damp smoke, and the hum of old dust, like an ancient broom shivered in her chest.
Farther off, at the edge - an old man.
Broom in hand. Boots - worn. Belt - askew. He swept the ground before the porch. Small strokes. Unhurried. As if not for tidiness, but because otherwise - he did not know how.
Once - he glanced upward. Not at her, at first. Simply - there. And yet - he saw.
He nodded. As if in passing. Like a man who had seen - and was not surprised.
- Late, - he said.
And moved on. No pause. No clarification. As if speaking to himself. Or long since knowing to whom.
Sofia did not understand.
The word hung - without meaning. Without addressee.
And yet - it struck. Not in the mind. In the body. Low. As if cold brushed her from within.
She could not say what exactly. But there was something in the old man's voice.
Not foreign. Familiar.
It came back - without reason.
Home. A voice. Childhood.
When "late" meant: time for bed. Not to fear.
Now - the opposite. And she felt fear.
Not for him. For herself.
For the one who believed: the road is a choice.
And now walks it. Already.
Not knowing whose she is.
Sofia exhaled. Not loudly. Not deeply.
Only - so her face would not tremble.
She knew: a pause was ahead.
But now - there was still a scene.
The rest were settled in the same wing. Komnenos, Kallistratos, Phokas, Scholasticus - each received his own quarters. No splendor. No slight. Everything was measured. With precision. Like a chess array, where the board was not squares, but glances.
The bodyguards, eunuchs, and others were taken downstairs. Spacious. Unadorned. But even there everything said:
In Kiev, they do not sleep. In Kiev, they watch. Always.
Branimir stood in shadow. Not hiding - aligning. His gaze - sharp. No detail escaped him. Everything recorded: sound, gesture, deviation from norm.
- Everything required - will be passed to you, - said Olga. Her voice firm. Not a command. Responsibility. - Make sure all is flawless
Boyarin Branimir inclined his head slightly. His lips twitched - not in a smile, in the severing of words.
- As you say, Olga. They will not go unseen
A servant passed by. Slowed - by a step, no more. A brief glance. Not upward. Sideways. As if he remembered a face. Or sensed a gaze.
Branimir turned his head. Met his eyes. Let it go.
Not his matter. For now.
Olga nodded. And left.
Her steps - soft, like fabric. But in their rhythm - a frame. She did not vanish. She left behind her strength - the kind that stays in the room even when no one is there.
Branimir remained.
He was not guarding. He was waiting.
Watching not the delegation. The potential weak point.
He did not speak.
He knew when it would be too late.
And then - he raised his gaze.
On the tree, at the edge of the courtyard - a raven. Dark. Like a knot against the grey sky. Sat sideways, did not caw. Watched.
Him.
Branimir did not look away. One second. Two.
He was not superstitious. But such things do not come for nothing. Not by chance. Not a guest. A sign.
Someone had sent it - not through the gates. Through the fabric of the day.
He stepped closer to the shadow of a post - and at that moment, someone quietly called to him from behind. He turned.
When he looked again - the raven was gone.
It had flown. Without a sound. Only the air stirred.
And in that - something stayed.
As if it was not just a bird that had watched.
But a witness.