He woke up - not in his body.
Inside a shell that didn't belong to him.
The air - like sandpaper. The throat - snapped shut. Fingers - dust. The heart - on pause. Consciousness shrunk into a tight, leaden drop. Panic crept in - not shaking, but pressing.
- Breathe... - it rasped out of him.
The exhale scraped out the warmth.
Light - not a flash. Through him. As if the brain had been struck from inside the skull.
He didn't come back - he woke up inside the wrong flesh. And the world looked at him - like a counterfeit.
Fragments surfaced. Radomir. A scar. Anna - and arrows. A single breath - like a formation. No tremble. No words.
Smoke. Blood. Iron. Ash - like salt on the gums.
He pressed his cheek - rough stubble. The skin - not his. Fingers trembled. But held.
He lifted his gaze.
The torch - not for light, for life. The light didn't shine - it breathed. The room contracted like the lungs of someone else's body.
He gulped the air - like a command. But the response didn't come. Only soot. The hand twitched - the gesture that always triggered the interface at home.
Nothing. The air - deaf. The world - unresponsive.
- System... - he breathed out. And even he understood: there was no system anymore.
He turned his head toward the shadow. Not a screen. Not a line of contact. Just wood.
On the table - a carved cup. Empty. But a print of lips - dark, almost black. He reached out. The metal - burned.
And in the finger - it ripped. The same one he had signed with. The pain - the same.
He understood: this wasn't a dream. Because pain remembers faster than the mind.
And then - a voice. Through the door. Not a name. A question:
- Did he survive?
A step. A creak. A knock on wood. Someone nearby. He wasn't alone.
He tried to stand - but the body hummed. In the chest - not a pulse. Something else. Not a heart.
A snake.
A burn. A ring. Warm - but not alive. A heat that refused to let him die.
He jerked - and a flash tore through his side. Like a whip braided from pain. He clenched his teeth. Forehead - damp. Spine - in stone.
He tried again - slowly, like someone crawling out from under rubble.
He had opened his chest - and found nothing of himself inside.
Only her.
He leaned on the edge of the bed. Coarse cloth bit into the skin. Under his fingers - wood. Not polymer, not steel. Living. Dead. Fresh.
He slowly looked around. The room.
The walls - not clay, but not stone either. Tightly joined logs, in the seams - not cracks, but handprints. Not fractures - intention. The ceiling smoked - and not for the first time. In the corner - a mark from a brazier: like a hand pressed to the belly of a house.
The windows - openings. One boarded. The other - cloudy with bubbled glass. The light - as if afraid to enter.
The air held heavy. Not dust - weight. Honey and ash. And something warm, spicy - from fabric or a body long gone.
He stood - not just to see, to measure.
Height - around 240. Counted by breath. To the exit - three steps. The door - not vintage, but real. Thick. On heavy hinges. No handle - only a ring. No hidden lock. No access. Only weight.
No hatches. No interfaces. No visible supplies. If living - then under siege.
On the wall - a shield. Oak-hearted. The sign wasn't carved - it was burned in. Heraldic. Even ash knew whose it was.
He stepped to the window. On the sill - a splinter. Almost burned. But on it - a line. Like a carve. Like someone's mark. Like his own signature. He ran his finger over it - and flinched. Not from pain. From recognition.
He tried to say his name. The real one. From before.
Didn't work. He whispered:
- Who am I...
And didn't believe the answer. From behind the door - another voice:
- Prince, do I have your leave to enter?
He froze. Then:
- Don't come in
And from behind the door - silence. Instant. He had spoken - and they obeyed.
Not because they knew him. Because they believed.
He was already standing. But not as a man - as someone wounded.
A lurch - and the body responded: pain. Under the ribs - like stakes driven in. He didn't fall. But he bent. Deep. Almost to the floor.
No chainmail hung - it was an aketon. Soaked in sweat, smoke, and time. His? Not his?
He ran a palm along his side - the cloth was damp. Too much. Dark. Smelled of iron. He clenched his teeth. Straightened again.
- Alive, - he said. Not with voice. With body.
He wasn't standing. Something inside held him. Not thought. Not muscle.
The habit of moving forward - even when death was already behind.
He realized: this wasn't his will. But it was in him.
The ring under the ribs - heat. Wouldn't let him forget. Wouldn't let him veer off.
Around him - emptiness. But inside - two axes.
One - his. Broken. The other - someone else's. But straight.
As if a shaft had been driven into his chest. Not for a banner. For support. He hadn't asked to stand. But he stood. Because lying down - was no longer an option.
He didn't remember. He ignited. As if someone inside him had said:
- A prince doesn't fall. He walks until he burns
He didn't recognize the voice. But he nodded. Not with a question. With assent.
Like those who rise at dawn knowing - it will be slaughter.
He touched his chest. Where the heart should be. Now - a ring. Like a vow. Like a blade, embedded tip-first.
He didn't know who he was. But he knew: he was no longer the same.
Something - inside. Deeper than fear. Not a name. Not a thought. Will.
Not his - but now it was.
He didn't breathe - he received. Didn't stand - he anchored.
Without memory. Without a past. But no longer a guest. Already - a part.
Behind the door - no sound.
And then - a step. Just one. Time entered.
The door opened without knocking. Not harsh - simply as those do who've always had the right to enter.
A man stepped in. A mass of shoulders, chainmail grown into his body. Face burned. Eyes - like someone who's seen his kin buried, but never buried himself.
He stopped. For a moment - just looked. Not fear. Not recognition. Something in between: as if the dead suddenly breathed, but you didn't know who it was.
He took a step. His mouth opened - then closed. And only then, as if he made a decision:
- Prince... You're standing. That means someone's still holding on
The voice passed through him, as if the earth spoke to bone.
- Who are you? - Alexander's voice faltered, as if something cracked inside.
- Prince, I am Stanislav, voivode of Grand Prince Yaroslav, your father
Alexander heard the words - but they didn't form meaning.
"Prince. Voivode. Yaroslav." The words sounded like reconstruction.
As if someone were staging a play, and he wasn't the actor - but a spectator who stumbled behind the curtains. He froze. Not from fear. From analysis.
The brain worked - scanned, like in a council session. But the world - wasn't a report. It was a wound.
"Prince" - not a title. A role. "Voivode" - a rank, not just a post. "Yaroslav" - not a name, not a friend. A figure. A language. A structure of address. A manner of speaking.
Too... real. Too heavy to be fantasy. He already knew this wasn't the 21st century. Knew - but hadn't accepted.
And then - a flash. Not light. Memory. Not his.
Mud. Roar. A banner in his hands. Eye - stabbed by clangor. Beneath his fingers - parchment. Wax. Seal. None of it his. But the body knew.
He recoiled. As if someone had entered him from the inside.
Stanislav stepped closer.
- Have you truly forgotten?
The name cut through the fog.
- Yaroslav...
He exhaled. Almost aloud. Almost to himself:
- Wait... Yaroslav the Wise?
Silence - not a pause. A break. A glitch. As if another century crashed into a stranger's speech.
Stanislav didn't answer at once. No tremble in his face. But the eyes twitched. Like a dog hearing a word it doesn't know - but knows it doesn't belong.
He looked at Alexander. Not as a prince. As someone who had said the wrong time.
Then he nodded. Slowly. As if weighing - not the truth, but its place.
- Your father... yes. Grand Prince Yaroslav
He didn't repeat "the Wise." Not because he disagreed. Because he didn't know it was already attached.
Alexander froze. As if a tree had fallen - and its roots pierced his chest.
- My... father?...
Stanislav froze. Not because he didn't know what to say.
Because it was the first time he'd heard it - from him. From the prince. From the son. From the one who should have remembered - and didn't.
Alexander stepped closer:
- He... where is he?
Stanislav didn't answer.
- In Kiev? In Vyshhorod?
And then in Stanislav's face - something broke. Not skin. Not voice. Loyalty.
As if a sworn man had heard: "I don't know whom you swore to."
- Prince, - he breathed. - You... held his hand
Alexander didn't understand.
- You stood beside him. When he passed. The word - to us. The sons - to you
He spoke calmly. But in each word - it was like stitching a wound that refused to close.
Alexander paled.
- I?.. - not a question. A curse.
- You were with him. On the last day. You heard him say: "Don't spill blood among yourselves."
A pause. Dull.
- And you forgot
Stanislav didn't accuse. But in his eyes - a crack. Like a warrior being told: you never fought.
- Vanished... - Alexander whispered. - I didn't...
He didn't collapse - something inside him did.
- What about the brothers?..
Stanislav exhaled. Not like a man holding back pain. Like one who could no longer look away.
- They fell. Not together. Not all at once. But one after another
He didn't look at the face - but into a past that no longer answered.
- Prince Izyaslav was lured into the woods. Ambush. Held to the end - but alone. I begged him to wait. He left - with a small retinue. Didn't wait for the main host
- Prince Svyatoslav was betrayed by merchants. The gates opened from inside. He met them - and sealed them. With his own body
- Prince Vsevolod was burned not far from Pereyaslavl. Only iron remained. Not a single body
- Prince Vyacheslav rode to Smolensk. Didn't return. Found later. All - blood
Stanislav didn't fall silent - he stopped. Because beyond that - there were no more words. Just emptiness.
Alexander didn't sway - he caved inward. As if a sack opened in his chest - and inside: salt, blood, and names.
He didn't know them. But the body jolted - as if it had failed to hold someone's hand.
He tried to speak - only managed:
- That... wasn't me...
Stanislav didn't respond.
Alexander closed his eyes. Not to hide. To not see the faces he couldn't remember - but knew had been.
Not in memory.
In the bones. In the voice. In the gait. In the scars that remained - though names didn't.
- I don't know them, - he breathed. - But it feels like... something's been ripped out
He clutched his chest - not from pain. From the emptiness that hurt.
Stanislav exhaled. Not in words. In memory.
- When we found you - we didn't believe. The face - yours. The scar - yours. But you lay like a corpse. And were silent like someone else
He wasn't explaining. He was remembering how he buried the living.
- We thought - he fell. Like the rest. Just later. No word. No sword in hand. Alone
He stopped. Not to give space. Because beyond that - it couldn't be said without breaking. He clenched his fist. Not in anger. Reflex. Of one who failed to hold - and still stayed.
Alexander stood. But as if on a ledge - beyond which nothing was his. Not name. Not body. Not past.
His fingers trembled. Stanislav wanted to extend a hand. Or step back. But between them was death. Shared. Unlived.
The snake beneath his skin coiled. He jerked. Pain flared - like iron through blood.
He collapsed. Heavily. Not to the floor - into the space where names should have been.
Stanislav caught him. No sharpness. No comfort. Like in battle. Catching the one still alive - but not yet aware of it.
- Breathe, - quiet. But the voice held like a blade by the edge. - As long as you breathe - something stands
He looked - straight. Like one looks at a tree that was cut - but grows again.
- You are the last son of the Grand Prince
- I?.. not a voice. An echo.
- Doesn't matter anymore. Whether you wanted to. Whether you were. You remain. Which means - now you are.
The spine didn't rise. It was pulled - as if someone had strung his tendons over the shaft of a spear.
Alexander didn't straighten. Necessity did.
Everything was gone: brothers, faces, light. Left behind - an empty throne and Metropolitan Illarion, tracing a cross not on a forehead - but on absence.
Stanislav stepped closer. Not nearer - nearer wasn't possible. He didn't ask. He led - to a point beyond which there would be no "back."
- No one prays to marble here. They hold on to what breathes. The living is needed. Not the best. And you - are alive. We won't abandon you, but we won't let you hide either. Rest. Morning will come. And with it - blood
He left. The silence crashed down with the door.
Only Alexander remained. And the room. And the darkness - not smoke, but soot. Not air, but residue.
He tried to breathe. Couldn't. As if inside - only ash.
The body stirred. Not movement - mass. Without name. Toward the wall.
The shield hung - like an eye. Like a question: - You - whose flesh?
"They said - you are a prince."
"They said - you remained."
He looked at the shield. And suddenly understood: no one would come. No doctors. No police. No system. No network he had once torn from his flesh.
No one.
He understood it was absurd. But the body - didn't agree.
He hadn't been spared. He had been rewritten.
Not judged. Reassigned.
The world hadn't issued a verdict. It gave him a body. And blood - as sentence.
Damaged. Smoked. Breathing. He was no longer condemned. He was what was left.
He exhaled. Long. As if pulling out whatever still clung to yesterday.
- I didn't ask. I stayed. So I'll carry
His fingers touched the chest. Where the serpent slept. It didn't move. But he felt - it was watching.
He didn't know what to do. Didn't know who he was. But he knew: the way back was gone.
So only forward.
He closed his eyes. Not to sleep. To accept. And when they opened - he was no longer who he had been.
Not stronger. But without the past.
He looked at his hand. It no longer seemed borrowed. The skin - his. The weight of the aketon - familiar.
He didn't notice the moment the world stopped being hostile.
When the shield stopped being a relic. When the wall stopped being "not a panel" - and became a house.
In the future, he would have called a briefing. Started a protocol. But here - there was only one: survive if you can. Then lead.
He reached for the shield. Lifted it. Not like an artifact. Like a limb.
Something stirred in the chest. A stab. A flare.
Dust in the mouth - like meal. Between teeth - soil. Wet. Not his. Blood - like tea off steel. Underfoot - damp wood. And a voice. His. Or not his.
- With me
Memory didn't return. It strained. As if it were being ripped through fabric. Not his war - but his fingers. Not his eyes - but the tears.
He wasn't in place. He was under someone's skin. Or someone - under his.
- For now, - he whispered. The voice wavered. Not from weakness. From truth. He knew it wasn't true.
The shield was in his hand. Heavy. His.
So it had already begun. Without permission. Without a name.
He hadn't chosen. He had been chosen.
And while he sat in that stone silence, somewhere, beyond the wall, a name was already walking.
Not his - but toward him.
Not as prayer. Not as request.
But as sentence. As binding. As a name given not at birth - but at what remained.
In the small princely chamber - a pause. Deaf. Like before a verdict. The stone did not wait for opinions. It waited for a decision.
Inside - only two. But it felt like the hall was crowded with shadows. With voices you couldn't hear. First - Grand Prince Yaroslav. Then - his sons.
Rus' remained - like a body whose heart still beat, but no one could hear it.
They spoke of the Polovtsians. The Pechenegs. A strike from four sides. But too precise. Too... timely. The whisper crept from volost to volost. The Ugrians. The Lyakhs. But more often - our own.
Someone knew the positions. Who was guarded - who was alone. Who struck - and where they hid. Behind smoke. Behind words.
From the corridor - a voice. No words. One tone. Like from someone who speaks - but knows: beyond the door, it's already fire. That voice held what the chamber did not. Fear. The people.
Metropolitan Illarion stood in half-shadow. Hands clasped - not in prayer. To stop the tremble. He looked at neither Boyar Oleg Vyshgorodsky nor the door.
His gaze - inward. Like one who had already placed a period - and now regretted it.
Oleg said nothing. But the choice in him was already made. He saw: prince or not - Rus' would still fall into foreign hands. And he waited for the moment they would give it a name.
Into this heaviness - footsteps. Unhurried. No knock. Heavy, as if the one approaching carried bodies, not tidings.
Stanislav entered. Not like a messenger. Like one who had remained. Upright. No bow. Behind him - death. Ahead - judgment. Behind - only corpses.
- What of Prince Alexander? - asked Illarion.
- Alive, - Stanislav said bluntly. - Awake
Silence. Oleg nodded slowly.
- Then the throne has a face. And that means no one will push the collapse - yet. They'll wait. Watch. Until he speaks - or falls. But they'll be near. Not out of faith. Out of calculation. To be ready to lend a shoulder. Or a blade. In time
Stanislav looked closely. His tone flat, bare.
- You speak like you've already chosen the moment
Oleg didn't reply at once. He turned - not to him, to Illarion. But spoke to him.
- Look who's near. And who isn't. Where is High Voivode Ignat? Where are the Lebedinskys? Where are the elder boyars? They waited for there not even to be a body. And now they wait for the prince to rise - and stagger. To be there. Or first. Or last
Stanislav clenched his fingers. His shoulders tensed.
- You've no place questioning the loyalty of Yaroslav's voivodes. They held the shield when others were writing wills
Oleg didn't argue. But spoke with the bluntness of a bonesetter:
- The Lebedinskys are already in Chernigov. Securing the princely line of Sviatoslav. Their land, their right. But too swift
- Ignat was in Pereyaslavl. Gathered his own. What's left of Prince Vsevolod's men - with him. Already in Kiev. Waiting. Not moving. Holding the word like a banner. But silent
He exhaled. As if recalling something too important to forget.
- No one remains at the throne. They're all with the crown
Illarion - softer than a candle in a draft:
- Then... there is little time. Or perhaps little grace. If they wait for a crown - not a face
Beyond the door - a voice. Too loud. Too alive. Illarion flinched. Hand to chest. Almost a cross. But he didn't cross himself. Just held it. As if afraid the hand would slip through emptiness.
Oleg lifted his eyes. His voice calm. But there was a crack in it.
- They don't wait for a crown. They wait... for a replacement. A prince is like a nail. He either holds - or splits the board. If this one breaks - they'll drive in another. Darker. Deeper
Stanislav stepped closer. Slowly. Like one placing a marker. His words sounded not like speech - but weight.
- In Polotsk, they crown Vseslav Bryachislavich. Not in a church - under a tree. A volkhv with a blade. No coronet. No rite
He says: "I am not crowned - I am remade."
Stanislav held his gaze on Illarion - as if checking: is he listening?
- People don't go to him for right - but for fear. Because in his eyes there's not power. There's an edge
Stanislav went quiet. He'd said all. Now he just breathed.
Oleg looked to the floor.
- The prince lives. That's fact. But he won't rise today. Not to the window. Not to the throne. Not to the people. If he steps out - he won't make it. If he makes it - he'll fall. And with him - the throne
He fell silent. And the silence wasn't emptiness - it was waiting.
- The healers gave two days, - said Stanislav. - I wrung it from them. No more. Less - it's danger
- Will Rus' give it? - asked Illarion.
- It will, - Oleg said firmly. - It waits, but does not burst. Still holds. Because no one has yet said "no." Because it still breathes "maybe."
Illarion raised his eyes. Not to them - to the void.
- Two days, - he said. - Not for the prince. For us
A pause. As if he marked it down like a date.
- In two days he rises. Or we do. One of us
Stanislav didn't speak. He only nodded - as if carving it from bone. As if the command came not from words - but marrow.
- Then we wait no longer. At first light - a council, - he said. - All who served under Yaroslav - will be there. Those who don't come - we decide without them. Let them choose: to stand - or to become a signature beneath someone else's will
He turned. Two steps to the door. Then, half-turning back:
- We're not waiting for him to rise. We're deciding how Rus' will rise - so he'll have something to return to
Illarion sank slowly onto the bench. Not in prayer. Not in weariness. As if the word was taken from him - and only the body remained.
- I don't know who we pray to anymore, - he said. - Everything's collapsing, and I'm still wondering which day is right to say "yes." He looked not at them - but up. At the empty ceiling
- Forgive me, Lord. But maybe you're no longer here
Oleg wanted to speak - he couldn't. Stanislav paused - but didn't turn back.
- If it falls - then Rus' was only an echo all along, - said Stanislav. - Not a home. Just a cry for a murdered father
He left.
Two remained behind.
One - silent, as if everything had already happened. The other - as if still hoping.
Both said nothing. But one - knew what must be done. The other - knew there was no time left to wait.
It wasn't the land that trembled. It was people. The ones who didn't fall - clenched their jaws.
They weren't crushed. But something cracked beneath them.
Someone coughed behind the door. Heard - but did not enter. Understood: from this moment, all that comes - will come on a voice.