The door opened heavily, with a long, drawn-out creak.
Alexander stepped over the threshold and stopped.
Warm, thick air struck him at once - meat, smoke, sour mead. Cold rose from the packed boards beneath his feet.
The feasting hall fell silent. Not at once, but the sound settled. Only the crackle of wood in the stove remained, and the quiet creak of a bench somewhere by the wall.
There was none of the usual roar of the warriors' hall here - no drunken shouts, no clatter of cups, no laughter.
A long table stretched through the hall. Thick boards, darkened by time, had been fitted into a single line and ran deep toward the far wall, where smoke gathered under the beams. The prince's place at the head remained empty.
All the other places were already taken, strictly by rank.
On either side sat the senior warriors, veterans, old advisers - men others stood behind, men whose consent held the prince's strength in the city and beyond. The prince's men. Heavy faces, beards ranging from almost white to nearly black.
Torchlight hung in ragged patches. It caught eyes, then sank faces back into shadow. The lamps and torches pulled out only cheekbones, eyes, and hands resting on the table. Some held cups, but did not drink.
All of them were looking at him.
Unhurried. Unblinking. As if they had been waiting a long time and could now, at last, take his measure.
Alexander stood in the doorway, feeling the heavy door close quietly behind him. The hinge-creak died, and the same thick, unmoving silence settled over the hall again.
Somewhere under the beams, a log cracked in the fire. A drop of fat fell, hissing, into the heat.
No one stood. No one greeted him.
Only at the far end of the table, at the right hand of the prince's place, sat Stanislav. The voivode slowly leaned back on the bench and looked at Alexander calmly and heavily, with the same gaze he used on raw iron in the undercroft.
Then, from the left side of the table, a bench scraped.
Ratibor rose, senior warrior of the field camp.
Huge. Broad. A broken nose, a red beard streaked with grey. His shoulders rolled wide, and the bench beneath him gave another strained creak.
He was already grinning.
Ratibor burst into a loud, rolling laugh, and several cups on the table rang.
"Ha! Alexander!" he thundered across the hall. "I knew you'd crawl out of death's claws, you devil! Vysheslav didn't beat you with a stick for nothing!"
He stepped out from behind the table, came over in heavy strides, and slapped Alexander on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway. His palm was enormous, like a shovel.
"So why are you standing there like a stranger? Sit down. We've been waiting for you, my prince."
He smelled of sweat, smoke, and something strong, like old leather.
Ratibor spoke roughly and gave another short laugh, as if he could not help himself. Near the middle of the table, someone clicked his tongue under his breath. Not everyone joined the laughter.
On the right side of the table, Tikhomir the Grey slowly rose - tall, spare, with a long silver beard. He did not smile and did not approach. He simply looked at Alexander for a long moment, calm and steady.
"Sit, my prince," he said quietly. He did not speak loudly, but everyone listened. "We will talk."
Ratibor snorted and waved toward the empty place at the head.
"Sit there already, before everything goes cold!"
Alexander nodded and walked along the table.
Ratibor moved after him, unhurried, with a heavy, bear-like gait, half a step behind, almost level. His place at the table remained empty, noticeable.
A low, dense murmur rose in the hall. Several heads turned from the left edge of the table. Tikhomir narrowed his eyes, and beside him old Veleslav slowly set his cup down and said something quietly to his neighbor.
Ratibor walked beside the prince, looking straight ahead. Each of his steps sounded dully through the floor.
At the prince's place, he paused for a moment. His broad back blocked Alexander from view, and several men on the left leaned forward despite themselves.
Then Ratibor turned sharply and went back to his place, the same heavy step, the same dull thud of boots.
Alexander reached the head of the table and sat.
The bench under him creaked once, thinly, almost apologetically.
Ratibor returned, set his elbows on the table, and was the first to reach for the meat. He took a piece in his hand and poured himself wine.
After him, the others reached as well - first those nearby, then farther down the table. Hands went to bread, to dishes, to cups. No one asked permission. No one looked to him and waited.
From the left came quiet whispering. Tikhomir slowly shook his head and said something short to Veleslav. The old man answered without raising his voice, not even turning toward the prince.
Alexander let his gaze pass over the table.
He saw how they ate and spoke among themselves, as freely and roughly as they would on campaign. One chewed loudly. Another wiped greasy fingers on his shirt. A third shoved a neighbor with his elbow without looking, demanding the bowl be passed.
They did not wait to be allowed to speak. They did not choose their words.
Some spoke without looking at him. Some did not even think it worth turning.
Alexander held his gaze for a moment, trying to find their edge - and found none.
These were men of the war-court. They could not simply be gathered and ordered. They would follow him only if they chose to.
"You took your time, my prince."
The voice cut sharply across the hall.
Alexander shifted his gaze.
Miroslav Chernobai, sitting beside Stanislav, was the first to address him. The cup in his hand still hung in the air. The old man looked straight at him.
He was about to continue, but the door let out a long creak.
Not sharp. Drawn out, as if it were not being opened, but pulled from rest.
The words did not break off.
They simply stopped being heard.
Several men did not turn at once. One still watched the prince, as if weighing whether the question mattered more than the sound. But the creak went on, and heads turned toward the door after all.
A man appeared in the doorway - dry, composed, with a narrow face and a gaze that did not wander, but went straight to its place.
Radomir. The senior treasurer.
Behind him came a young scribe, clutching tablets and a rolled book to his chest.
The talk did not stop.
It simply… stumbled.
The torchlight bent in the draft, and shadows shifted across faces.
At the left edge of the table, someone shoved a cup aside; wood scraped against wood. At the right, an old hundredman with a scar at his temple slowly set down a half-eaten piece of bread and wiped his fingers on his shirt. His grin twisted, like an old scar.
Radomir stopped three steps from the table and looked over those seated.
Calmly. Row by row.
Miroslav did not continue. He turned slowly toward the treasurer, and as he looked at him, his fingers, resting on the table, slowly closed into a fist.
And in that uneven pause, the sound of chewing became clear.
Ratibor was eating.
Heavily. Loudly. Without haste. As if none of it concerned him. He did not lift his head. He tore meat with his teeth, chewing wide and open, the sound spreading along the table and settling over the silence.
Across from him, Zhdan Nepryadva kept drinking, unhurried.
At the lower end, closer to the door, the old hundredman with the scar leaned back and looked at the prince, not at Radomir, his grin crooked, teeth sparse.
"My prince… what is this? Do book-men eat meat with us now?"
He did not even raise his voice.
From the near end, someone gave a short snort. At the far end, men chewed slowly, looking from under their brows. Nearby, another leaned back on the bench and stared at Radomir.
From across the table came a dull voice:
"No free places. Find another one, Radomir."
Old standard-bearer Zhdan Nepryadva did not even lift his eyes. He drank, then waved a hand toward the treasurer as if brushing off a fly.
Radomir glanced at him - briefly, calmly and at once turned back toward the prince, as though no one had spoken.
Nearby, someone tore into meat with a crunch.
Zhdan set his cup down hard. The wood knocked dully; wine splashed over the rim and ran down his fingers.
He rose halfway from the bench, his broad shoulders tightening. His wet hand gripped the cup so hard the knuckles whitened. He fixed Radomir with a heavy, angry stare, nostrils flaring.
"Radomir, have you gone deaf?" he said, louder now.
Almost at once, heavy voices rose from different parts of the table:
"Answer when you're spoken to, treasurer!"
"Grown bold, ink-handed dog."
"What are we here - nothing?"
A broad-shouldered warrior with a grey streak in his beard slammed his palm onto the table and nodded to Zhdan. Two more senior men turned toward Radomir; one even half rose, the bench creaking under him.
A low rumble rolled along the table. Radomir had not answered them. Not in front of the senior druzhina.
He remained where he stood, his face still level and dry. His jaw tightened slightly; the fingers gripping the wax tablet and stylus whitened. He did not turn toward Zhdan. He did not take a step back. But something in him had tightened.
Zhdan stayed half risen, breathing heavily through his nose. Wine dripped from his fingers onto the bench.
"Enough," Alexander said calmly, without haste, without raising his voice. "I called him."
For a moment, the table quieted. Even Ratibor paused in his chewing and looked at him.
"He is not here to eat with you, but to record the merits of those who distinguished themselves."
A low murmur stirred through the hall. Several men exchanged glances. Alexander did not wait for it to grow.
"Voivode Stanislav told me earlier that many of the prince's men have distinguished themselves. I chose to mark them today."
His gaze moved along the table.
"Radomir will write it down before everyone. So there will be no needless talk later."
For a second, it grew quieter.
Several men glanced toward Stanislav. The voivode did not answer at once. He sat as he had been sitting; only his fingers shifted slightly on the cup. Then he gave a short nod.
Someone nearby gave a quiet huff. At the far end, they kept eating, but more slowly now.
Miroslav Chernobai lowered his cup. He ran his fingers along the rim, as if following the thought to its end, and only then lifted his gaze - first to Radomir, then to the prince.
"That is well enough, my prince…" he said calmly, almost softly. "But he still has no place here."
Those nearby took it up at once:
"True. It can be written outside the druzhina's table."
"Yes, Radomir, we respect you… but there is a measure to everything."
Alexander did not interrupt.
He listened.
He watched how the words moved along the table - not all at once, but through pauses, through glances.
"I am not saying he will come here every time. He will write it down once, now, and that will be the end of it."
Miroslav gave a faint smile and passed a hand over his beard.
"Today he stands at the table. Tomorrow he sits with us."
Several senior men nodded. One muttered something under his breath.
Zhdan had remained half risen all this time, breathing heavily. His gaze shifted from Miroslav to Radomir, then back to the prince.
Ratibor, who had been eating in silence, suddenly slammed his fist onto the table. The boards answered dully; pieces of meat flew from his hand and struck his neighbors.
"What are you all acting like - has the prince taken your women?"
He did not bother wiping his hands. He jabbed a gnawed bone toward Miroslav.
"The prince said once. That means once. Or do you mean to say he doesn't keep his word?"
For a moment, the hall emptied of sound.
Even those who had argued fell silent.
Miroslav did not answer at once. He looked at Ratibor, then turned his gaze to the prince. His fingers returned to his beard, slower now.
Then he gave a short nod.
"Once, then once. I have no objection."
The others hesitated. Someone shrugged. Someone looked away. But one by one, they began to agree - without the earlier force, as if no longer certain it was worth pressing.
Alexander remained silent, watching their faces - not the words, but how they shifted. One yielding first. Another holding the pause. A third already looking away, as if he had decided everything for himself.
He did not interfere. He did not hurry. He simply watched, and the argument began to die on its own, as if no one remained to carry it.
At last, Alexander leaned forward slightly.
"The..."
Shtukhr.
Zhdan rose sharply.
"My prince, even once is not..."
"Zhdan."
From the prince's right, a firm, steady voice cut in. Stanislav lifted his eyes and said, calm and even:
"Sit."
Zhdan clenched his teeth. His breath still moved heavily in his chest. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table. He was already about to answer, to force it out, when the commander beside him pulled him down without warning. The bench creaked under his weight.
Zhdan jerked, thrown off for a moment, then turned sharply, seized the man by his clothing, and dragged him toward himself.
"You bastard..."
The word came out hard, but without the certainty it had carried before. He broke off, staring into his comrade's face. The other man looked back, displeased but steady, as if he had done exactly what had to be done.
Zhdan frowned and only then realized that everyone was looking at him.
Not at the prince. Not at Radomir.
At him.
There was irritation in some eyes. Cold distance in others. Miroslav slowly shook his head. Those nearest did not look away.
Zhdan searched for something to hold onto and found nothing.
Not a single nod.
Not a single movement in his favor.
He froze, still gripping the man's clothes.
Then he let go sharply, as if burned, turned away, and bent over his plate without looking at anyone. His jaw still worked. His fingers still tightened.
But he did not raise his eyes again.
Alexander said nothing.
He did not even turn his head toward Zhdan.
Calmly, he took a piece of meat, broke it off, brought it to his mouth, and began to chew. His back was straight, his shoulders relaxed, his gaze fixed ahead.
A heavy tension settled over the hall.
Several of the prince's men kept watching him, waiting for the young prince to show himself to put Zhdan in his place, raise his voice, show his temper, break, or crush him.
Miroslav set his cup down unfinished. Ratibor froze with a piece of meat in his hand, watching from under his brows.
But Alexander went on chewing, without changing his posture or expression.
The murmur in the hall did not vanish; it sank lower, grew heavier. Veleslav cursed quietly through his teeth. His neighbor scraped the bench as he shifted back. Someone breathed out heavily and passed a hand over his beard.
The tension hung in the air like smoke.
Only when that waiting began to ebb - slowly, reluctantly did Alexander make a brief motion of his hand toward Radomir and speak in an even, matter-of-fact tone:
"Then we begin. We'll set it down, and the treasurer will go."
Radomir nodded and moved toward him. He walked without haste, as if the matter had already been settled. Tikhomir the Grey watched him in silence, then shifted his gaze to Alexander.
They had not gathered simply to eat. This meal was meant to show what the new prince was made of, but the matter had already shifted.
Tikhomir pressed his lips together.
The young prince had done almost nothing - had not raised his voice, had not pressed, had not threatened, yet the table had quietly turned under him. Now the hall listened to him, not to one another, and it had happened so quietly that no one had managed to stop it.
Radomir came up and stopped beside the prince. He did not sit. He took out the tablet, turned it once in his palm; the stylus settled into his fingers by habit, and without fuss he prepared to write.
Several men at the left edge followed him with their eyes. One grimaced. Another simply looked away, but without the earlier insistence, as if the argument now cost more than silence.
Now everyone was watching the prince.
Some were already reckoning what they might receive. Others watched more closely, trying to understand what kind of man this new prince was, whether he would keep measure or try to buy them with generosity, and where that generosity would end.
Tikhomir looked slowly over the table again. Half of them had already stopped arguing and were simply waiting, not because they had agreed, but because they had chosen to see what would come next, and not to be the ones who rose at the wrong moment.
At that moment he felt a light touch on the crown of his head, almost a tickle.
He brushed at it absently and found a thin strand of cobweb between his fingers. He frowned, glanced up at the beams, but there was nothing there, not a thread in sight, as if it had come from nowhere.
He turned his head slightly and met Alexander's gaze.
Calm. Direct. Already measuring, as if the prince had noticed him before he himself had understood what he was doing.
But the gaze had already moved on.
Alexander was looking around the table, not lingering on anyone. The men continued eating, drinking, speaking among themselves, but already under their breath. He leaned forward, set his elbows on the table, and spoke so all could hear:
"As my father rewarded, I will do no less. To the senior men, now a good belt, fur, and a silver grivna. On the day of ascension to the throne, a horse with harness and silver according to rank, as is proper."
In the hall, the chewing stopped. Several men froze with their hands above the table.
"To the warriors - boots and a belt now, a kuna to each. On the day of ascension to the throne, an addition according to service, and a horse for merit. To the household guards and the boys, caftans, knives, and meat in plenty tomorrow. And whoever proves himself in service will have a place among the guard and a share according to merit."
A low murmur rolled along the left edge of the table. Ratibor was the first to grin and slap his palm heavily on the board.
"Now that's our way! At last the prince speaks in deeds!"
Several senior men nodded. Someone tapped his cup against the wood. Another gave a short huff into his beard. But most reacted more heavily.
Alexander shifted his gaze to Stanislav and held it there a moment longer than needed. The voivode did not move. No nod. No smile. Only the same heavy, measuring look.
"All according to rank and conscience," the prince said more quietly, but firmly. "Stanislav, name four senior men to whom I will give a special mark today. Those who stood above the rest in honor and service."
He leaned back and added, now to the whole table, with quiet weight:
"Whoever serves me faithfully will not be left unrewarded."
A visible ripple passed along the table.
Miroslav stroked his beard and looked at Stanislav with a different expression now, something like understanding, even a trace of approval. The prince had shifted the choice onto the voivode: the rewards would come from the prince, but any grievance would fall on the man who named the names.
All eyes turned to Stanislav.
But Tikhomir the Grey was not looking at him.
He was watching the prince.
In his gaze there was surprise, edged with caution. This young prince was acting too cleverly, too deliberately, not at all like the Alexander Tikhomir had heard of.
Stanislav did not hurry. He looked slowly along the table, pausing on each man as if already weighing and setting some aside. One of the senior men on the left edge straightened sharply, as though he had already been named, and at once lowered his eyes.
Then the voivode leaned forward slightly and spoke, low and measured:
"First… Yaromir, commander of a hundred."
From the right edge, someone gave a quiet huff. Stanislav did not so much as flick an eyebrow.
"In summer, on the Dnieper road, he drove off raiders, returned the merchants' goods… and did not spend his own men."
Yaromir sat farther down the table, back straight, jaw tight. He lifted his head slowly and looked at the voivode. In his eyes flickered restrained surprise and something close to pride.
Beside him, one of the veterans gave a short nod.
Yaromir did not smile, but the fingers resting on the table loosened. He straightened slightly, as if receiving an unspoken confirmation: he had been named first for a reason.
On the left, someone muttered under his breath, displeased, but fell silent at once under the voivode's gaze.
Stanislav let the moment settle.
"Second… Ratibor."
Now no one moved.
"In winter, on the Pripyat, he brought the volost to obedience. When the tiun was killed and tribute failed, he set it right… and the silver reached Kiev in full."
Ratibor leaned his elbow heavily on the table.
His broad face remained still. Only his eyes showed it dark, steady satisfaction. He gave Stanislav a slow, deliberate nod. Not submissive. As one acknowledging what he already considered his due.
"Third… Miroslav Chernobai."
Someone set a cup down a little louder than needed.
Miroslav did not move. Only the fingers in his beard stilled halfway.
Stanislav turned fully toward him and spoke calmly, almost with respect:
"For many years he has held the prince's hand upon the land. Sometimes by word, sometimes by sword… and the tribute comes as it should, without loss."
Miroslav inclined his head slightly a short, restrained gesture, the way of old men. Across from him, a veteran turned aside and spat loudly beneath the bench.
Alexander held his gaze on him for a moment, as if expecting someone to check him.
Someone nearby stopped chewing. Another looked away, as though nothing had happened.
No one intervened.
Stanislav held the moment just long enough, then continued, in the same even tone:
"Fourth… Zhdan Nepryadva."
Zhdan rose sharply.
The bench creaked loud. Cups trembled; one rocked and nearly fell. His neighbor, caught off guard, dropped his bread.
Zhdan straightened to his full height, shoulders spread. He looked first at the voivode, then shifted his heavy gaze to the prince. His face was stone, but something burned in his eyes, fury and pride together.
Stanislav went on as if none of it mattered:
"For not letting the standard fall in the last battle… though blood had already filled his eyes. While Zhdan stands, the honor of the old druzhina stands."
A veteran breathed out through his teeth. Another nodded without lifting his eyes. The man beside Zhdan tightened his jaw, but said nothing.
No one was chewing now. No one whispered.
The whole hall watched Zhdan.
Alexander gave each of them the slightest nod and turned to Radomir.
"Write it down."
The treasurer bowed his head. The tablet rested across his palm; the stylus settled into his fingers. Around the table, no one moved. Cups were held, but not raised.
By the stove, a log cracked, dry and sharp louder than it should have been.
Alexander did not hurry. He looked once more at those who had been named not long, just enough for each to understand he had been seen. Then he spoke, calm and without pressure:
"To Yaromir, commander of a hundred, for the summer campaign on the Dnieper road a gold grivna and a good belt with silver plaques."
The stylus scratched across the wax.
"To Ratibor, for the winter pacification of the volost on the Pripyat a gold grivna and a horse with harness."
At the far end, someone set his cup down slowly. The wood answered dully, and again it fell quiet.
"To Miroslav, for long-standing, steady rule upon the land a gold grivna and sable fur for a cloak."
Radomir wrote quickly, without looking up. The young scribe behind him stood rigid, pressing the book to his chest, as if he too understood: this was not about counting gifts.
Alexander held his gaze on Zhdan for a moment.
"To Zhdan, for not letting the standard fall in battle a gold grivna and a sword with a silver hilt."
Radomir's stylus scratched once more and stopped.
"Written."
Alexander nodded, without looking at him.
"After the meal, issue it. Under seal. So that princely memory is not mistaken for drunken talk."
Ratibor drew in a loud breath, wiped his greasy fingers on the cloth, and said with heavy approval:
"Now that's business. Our way. I thought it would be green youth… but no. The prince holds a firm hand."
A short murmur passed along the table. From the near end someone picked it up, muttering a few words under his breath. Another nodded without raising his eyes.
Miroslav Chernobai slowly turned his cup between his fingers and only then inclined his head, barely noticeable.
"Generous, my prince," he said calmly, without a smile. "If you keep your measure like this, men will remember."
The words were even, but there was more in them than praise.
Alexander met his gaze just as calmly.
"That is why I do it. So they remember not words, but deeds."
Miroslav gave no reply. He passed his hand over his beard again and lowered his eyes, as if leaving the argument within himself for now.
Stanislav took his cup in silence. Drank. And for the first time that evening, allowed himself to lean back, just slightly.
Tikhomir the Grey sat motionless, his dry fingers folded on the table. For a long while he watched the prince, then Stanislav, then the senior men on either side. Nothing changed in his face.
Only his gaze grew deeper. Sharper.
Radomir gathered the tablets, bowed silently, and withdrew. The young scribe hurried after him. They left as quietly as they had come. The heavy door gave its familiar creak, but now it did not cut the hall. It passed through it and faded under the beams.
After a few heartbeats, the talk returned at first cautious, in fragments, then fuller.
Bowls and cups began to move again. Someone reached for meat. Someone was already arguing about the river crossing, about horses, about how long the bridge on Podol would hold. Voices strengthened. Laughter grew rougher, more alive.
Ratibor spoke loudly, broadly, breaking in on others, knocking his knuckles against the table as if nothing had happened.
But farther down the row, men kept their voices lower. There they spoke under their breath, without haste, and from time to time their eyes still returned to the prince.
Veleslav, seated at the left edge of the table, lifted his cup toward him without rising and without saying a word.
Alexander answered with the same brief motion and drank.