The rumor of Prince Oleksandr's miraculous survival, the last heir of Yaroslav the Wise, spread across Kyiv like wildfire through a dry steppe. Heralds, proclaiming the joyful news, drowned out the ceaseless hum of the bustling marketplaces with their thunderous voices, forcing even the busiest to pause.
- People of Kievan Rus'! Your prince is alive! - the heralds cried, their voices ringing across the squares like bell tolls, resonating deeply in hearts.
In the noisy markets, merchants forgot their trades, discussing the prince's fate with both anxiety and hope. Someone crossed themselves and exclaimed joyfully:
- The Lord has heard our prayers! This is a sign from above!
Yet others whispered, shaking their heads, their voices low and foreboding:
- But what if the enemies come again? Can he protect us?
Outside the churches, women clutching their children murmured prayers, their trembling words carried away by the wind, blending with its soft, mournful wail. One woman, bowing her head, whispered as though pleading:
- Lord, do not forsake us... do not forsake our prince...
Children, pressed close to their mothers, gazed at Saint Sophia Cathedral with hope in their eyes, as if expecting to see a sign there - a divine glow confirming the miraculous news. In the distance, near the church walls, elderly men stood in the shadows, their faces grim and their words hoarse and restrained:
- Hope is good. But survival matters more. Without a prince, hard times await us
The gaze of one old man, weary yet sharp, stretched into the distance as if trying to glimpse the future. His voice was quiet but firm:
- The great Prince Yaroslav was our pillar. Under him, everything was peaceful. People knew no hardships. But now... can his son rise to his level?
The other elders remained silent, but worry was etched into their faces. Hope mingled with shadows of fear. Everyone understood that without a prince, without a strong hand to keep Kievan Rus' united, an era of tribulation awaited. Yet, deep in their hearts, a faint spark persisted - fragile but alive.
Rumors, like river waves, spread further - along roads, rivers, through forests and villages, reaching the most distant corners of Kievan Rus'. Around every fire, at every crossroads, in every home, the words resounded:
- The prince is alive!
These words, like a magic incantation, rekindled hope. The people, shaken by the deaths of Yaroslav and his sons, saw Oleksandr's survival as a miracle granted by the heavens. But doubts lingered for many. Elderly men, seated by stoves, whispered:
- Can he hold on to power? And what if the Cumans come again?
These conversations, like serpents, slithered into homes, leaving behind a thin yet venomous trail of doubt. And yet, despite the whispers, hope warmed many hearts.
The morning after the princely council brought not only the chill of winter but also a resounding gathering at the square by Saint Sophia Cathedral. Metropolitan Illarion, adorned in his ceremonial robes, ascended the high balcony from which his voice would reach even the farthest corners of the square. From the towering balcony of Saint Sophia, his voice carried over the crowd like rolling thunder.
- People of Kievan Rus'! - Metropolitan Illarion's voice boomed like a peal of thunder, capturing the attention of even the most skeptical. - Today, we stand not just before news, but before a miracle. The Lord, in His infinite mercy, has given us a sign. In the hour when our hearts were full of fear, He has returned to us our prince - the last son of the great Yaroslav! Oleksandr is not just an heir. He is our future, our unity, and our shield against the enemy!
Illarion's gaze swept over the crowd, his voice rising even louder:
- Do you see the sky above us? It bears witness that Kievan Rus' will not fall! God is with us! Oleksandr is with us! And our land will once again be strong and united, as the great Prince Yaroslav desired!
The crowd, as though one entity, froze. Commoners crossed themselves, and the elderly raised their hands to the sky, murmuring prayers of gratitude. Women in the front rows wept, stretching their hands toward the cathedral. A young man in the center of the crowd lifted his son onto his shoulders and shouted:
- Praise be to God for saving the prince!
This cry echoed off the cathedral walls, taken up by dozens of voices, transforming the square into a singular roar.
- Praise! - resounded from all sides.
Yet amidst the throng, an old man in a dark cloak whispered to his neighbor:
- Praise… or farewell? If the enemies have learned of his return, they are already on their way
The neighbor shuddered but remained silent. The old man's words were swallowed by the crowd's roar, leaving behind a lingering unease.
Even the boyars, standing slightly apart, listened intently. Their eyes reflected understanding. Illarion's words were not merely about faith; they were a call for unity that could not be ignored.
- We must rally around Prince Oleksandr! - Illarion continued, his voice growing stronger, like a taut string vibrating to its limit, piercing the crowd. - Only a united people, under a single banner, can stand against the enemy. Our strength lies in unity, our destiny in togetherness! Only thus can we preserve what his father built. Only thus can we restore the glory of our land! God is with us, Kievan Rus' is with us, and the prince is with us!
His speech concluded with a solemn hymn, taken up by the clergy gathered beneath the balcony. The crowd joined in, and the voices filled the square. In that moment, it seemed all of Kievan Rus' sang in unison with Kyiv.
The voices merged into a single wave that seemed to lift the very ground beneath their feet. Even those who had doubted at first began to sing, feeling how the hymn united everyone - from humble peasants to noble boyars. It was more than a song; it was an oath made to the heavens themselves.
Kyiv immediately began preparations for the grand event. The city buzzed with noise and activity. Merchants hurriedly brought offerings, their carts creaking under the weight of goods. Boyars arrived in decorated carriages, their retinues of warriors proudly marching behind them. Peasants traveled from distant villages, carrying nothing but hope and a desire to see their prince.
The streets were filled with the scents of freshly baked bread, the smoke of forges, and the burning of resinous torches. Masons, their hands wrapped in coarse cloth, tapped at the cobblestones, inspecting every crack. Carpenters, shouting and laughing, erected platforms for the nobility, their axes rhythmically striking like a tolling bell. Nearby, farmers carried baskets brimming with gifts - apples, honey, flax. In a corner of the square, where beggars gathered, children argued loudly:
- I saw him! The prince's sword is taller than me!
- And I heard he's going to give gold to everyone who comes!
These words brought laughter and wistful smiles to the adults, but no one dared interrupt the children. On the day of miracles, even childish fantasies sounded like promises.
Children darted among the workers, loudly discussing how "the prince himself would give them gifts."
Ignat stood on the city wall, his figure a dark silhouette against the gray winter sky. The wind tugged at his cloak as if trying to carry him away, but he stood motionless, carved from stone. His sharp gaze scanned the bustling crowd below. Every stranger seemed a threat to him, every smile a veiled danger. A glimmer of vigilance flickered in his eyes.
- We must remain vigilant, - he said, his voice low but taut like a drawn string. - In this crowd, there may be not only spies but also traitors ready to strike
Beside him, slightly apart, stood Stanislav, the head of the princely druzhina. His stern face was thoughtful, his gaze following the movement of the masons erecting platforms by the cathedral. Their axes struck rhythmically, as if counting down to something inevitable. He frowned, folding his arms across his chest.
- These seven days will demand quick and precise action, - he remarked quietly, without looking away. - Every person entering Kyiv must be checked. We must reduce the number of spies to zero, even if it means working tirelessly day and night
Ignat turned his head slightly toward Stanislav, his voice harsh, tinged with irony:
- Easy to say, Stanislav. Do you have any idea how many people will enter Kyiv in these days? This isn't finding needles in a haystack. It's an avalanche, and behind every smile, there could be a dagger
Stanislav briefly glanced at Ignat. His face remained impassive, but a glimmer of resolve shone in his eyes:
- That's why we need to act decisively. We can't afford a mistake. This isn't just a coronation - it's a matter of survival for all of Kievan Rus'
Ignat nodded, turning his gaze back to the crowd. His expression remained stern, as if etched in stone. He said nothing more, but his eyes revealed a thought: the coming days would test not only the prince but everyone prepared to defend him with their lives.
While Kyiv hummed like a giant hive preparing for the coronation, tension gripped the steppes in the heart of Polovtsian lands. Inside a large tent, dimly lit by oil lamps, Khan Kirchan stood before a scout. Shadows from the flames flickered across the walls, forming shapes of predatory beasts ready to pounce. Each gust of wind made the flames dance, as if the steppe itself tried to eavesdrop on the words of the khan.
The scout trembled like a leaf, drenched in sweat under Kirchan's piercing gaze. He struggled to speak, his dry lips moving soundlessly.
- Repeat that, - Kirchan's voice, cold as a winter wind, lashed the scout. - Say it again. I want to hear how you explain your failure. - His eyes, sharp as steel blades, bore into the scout, making him tremble even more
The scout swallowed hard, barely keeping his knees from giving way.
- My Khan... - he whispered, his dry lips barely able to form the words, as if each was a knife to his throat. - Our people, along with the Pechenegs and others... They failed. One of the princes, Oleksandr, survived. - His voice broke, and his hands trembled so violently that he instinctively clasped them to his chest. - Spies in Kyiv say... they plan to crown him in a week
Kirchan froze, his face hardening into stone while his eyes ignited with fury. Suddenly, he slammed his fist onto the table with such force that one of the oil lamps wavered, spilling droplets of oil onto a map. The wood cracked under the blow, and the scout yelped like a frightened animal, cringing to the floor.
- You fools, useless, incompetent idiots! - Kirchan roared, his voice like the crack of a whip echoing through the tent. - Everything was planned perfectly! One boy - just one! - and you couldn't even handle that!
He leaned forward, his eyes flashing cold hatred.
- Do you know what happens to those who fail me?
The scout dared not lift his head, his lips moved, but no sound escaped. The khan's anger hung in the air like a thundercloud before a storm. The scout's knees buckled, and his words seemed to stick in his throat. He knew that any word he spoke could be his last.
Kirchan straightened, running a hand over his face as if to regain control. His fingers trembled for a brief moment before he waved dismissively, as though swatting at an irritating fly.
- Get out of my sight before I decide you're as worthless as dust on the wind
The scout scrambled to his feet and bolted for the exit. The heavy tent flap fell closed behind him with a faint rustle. In the silence, Kirchan remained motionless, like a statue, until he spoke again, his voice hoarse but calm:
- Summon Tarkhan
Minutes later, a tall man entered the tent. His figure, carved like stone, radiated strength and confidence. His heavy armor glinted faintly in the lamp's light, while his face remained emotionless. This was Tarkhan, one of Kirchan's most skilled and loyal warriors, whose name inspired both respect and fear.
- You called for me, my Khan? - His voice was deep and steady, carrying an undercurrent of power.
Kirchan gestured for him to sit but remained standing, his gaze fixed on the map littered with markers of attacks and routes.
- Tell me, Tarkhan, what makes the steppe wolf strong? - Kirchan's voice was contemplative, as though he posed the question to himself.
- Its fangs, my Khan, - Tarkhan replied after a pause.
Kirchan smirked, though something dark flickered in his eyes.
- No. Its hunger. Hunger makes us strong, drives us to seek more, to take what isn't ours, to survive where others perish. But hunger can become a curse if you let it control you
He turned to Tarkhan, his face set like stone.
- Kievan Rus' is a fat stag on our pasture. It has weakened and is nearly divided, ready to fall. But if we allow it to regain strength, that stag may become a wolf that comes for our herds. This isn't just a war. It's survival
Tarkhan nodded silently, his face impassive but his eyes gleaming. He was accustomed to Kirchan's ruthless orders, but even he understood that this mission was different. He inclined his head slightly, signaling his readiness to do whatever was necessary.
- You will take charge of this matter. Gather the best men, those who won't flinch in the face of death. Take the tukmakchi and kantari. Have the Pechenegs send a unit as well. The young prince Oleksandr must join his father and brothers in the afterlife. Failure is not an option
- It will be done, my Khan, - Tarkhan replied calmly, bowing slightly.
Tarkhan left the tent, his steps heavy, like hammer blows on snow. He went straight to his men - elite warriors who understood the price of blood. Their eyes gleamed in the night like those of steppe wolves ready to hunt.
When the tent was empty, Kirchan remained alone. Silence enveloped the space, broken only by the occasional crackle of oil lamps and the sound of the wind outside. He picked up a cup of kumis and took a long, thoughtful sip. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows across the walls of the tent, forming the shapes of predatory beasts and the echoes of past victories.
- They say this boy is chosen by the gods... - Kirchan sneered, raising the cup. His voice was low, laced with contemptuous mockery. - But haven't gods fallen before? I've seen them die in the flames of our arrows, their temples crumble under the hooves of our horses. No so-called chosen one will stand against the steppe
He slowly set the cup down and bent over the map, illuminated by the dim light of the lamps. His finger traced the cities of Kievan Rus', as though already claiming their riches.
- When he falls, Kievan Rus' will collapse like an old yurt, - he declared, his words a grim verdict. - Its lands will be ours, its gold mine, and its people slaves
A glint of avarice flashed in the khan's eyes. He envisioned the future - caravans laden with gold flowing into his tents, princes kneeling and begging for mercy, and the steppe stretching endlessly to the horizon, conquered under his rule. He knew that becoming the mightiest among the Polovtsian khans was his destiny, and Kievan Rus' was the key to achieving it.
Outside, the neighing of horses and the clang of sharpening blades echoed through the camp. The encampment, like a massive predator, breathed tension, preparing to pounce. Every sound seemed to belong to a single rhythm - the rhythm of war.
Kirchan raised his cup again, his lips curling into a crooked, almost predatory smile. His voice was soft, but it carried the full weight of his ambitions:
- To the hunger that makes us stronger
Taking one last sip, he flung the cup to the floor. It rolled across the wooden planks with a dull thud. Beyond the tent, the wind howled, lifting sand and tugging at the fabric, as though answering its master. The lamps flickered, their light unsteady, like the breath of the steppe itself.
The wind grew stronger, whistling through the tent with whispers, as if the steppe spoke to Kirchan, affirming his plans. The khan, unmoving, lifted his head, steel determination burning in his eyes.
He knew the storm was coming. But he also knew that this storm was his chance to rewrite the history of the steppe.
***
I improved chapter 4 of Preparing for the coronation and split it into two separate chapters.