The alarm clock struck his skull. Not rang - struck. Right into the bone. As if someone had hammered a scream into his brain.
Alexander jolted up. His shoulder slammed into the doorframe - with a crunch, with the wood's malicious memory. His jaw locked.
- Who's screaming?
Not him. Not his voice. Muffled, alien. As if he had surfaced from a dream he hadn't seen.
He stood. Breathed. The air - thick, like jelly from old dreams. Dusty, stagnant. It smelled of mold and something forgotten. As if someone had died in this air - someone he was supposed to remember.
He ran his hand over his face. The stubble dug into his fingers like a reminder: you're still here. Alive - does not mean whole.
Light was breaking through the cracks in the curtains like a knife, slicing the darkness. It did not warm. It scratched.
On the wall - silhouettes of trees, trembling, like the dead who haven't been called in a long time.
He stepped forward.
The floorboards groaned under his feet like an old man lifted from a coffin. Dust - like ashes. Crumbs - traces of someone else's life. He had been here, but had not lived.
The shower - not vigor. A sentence. Every drop - like a snap on the bones. You do not wake up. You just realize you're not asleep.
Coffee - bitterness. Ash.
The cup - a ring of dried time. In the reflection - a shadow.
Not a face. The trace of a man.
He turned away.
Once, morning was different.
Light called. Snow crunched. Coffee smelled like home. He believed. He smiled. Now - not even memory. Only the shadow of a shard. Someone else's fairytale.
The phone - cold, like marble. He scrolled. Didn't read.
Didn't search. Just moved away. Until... a line:
"How to survive and change the medieval world"
Nonsense. A meme. He meant to scroll past.
Couldn't.
The words glowed. Not light - smoldering. Like an ember in ash that wouldn't die out.
He tapped.
"Survival is power. Where every step is a battle. Where breathing is already a choice. Where weakness is a sentence"
He exhaled. Smirked. But his fingers didn't pull away.
He read.
And the words entered. Not as meaning. As cutting.
Stone. Damp. Mold. Soot. The taste of iron on the tongue. Walls that remember. Air that judges.
"Not what you have. What you can do. That is life"
He didn't read. He heard. From inside. From the bones.
"Could you?"
He closed his eyes.
And everything disappeared.
He turned away from the glass. Everything - as before. The room. The shadow. The silence. Only he - no longer the same.
Once, his voice signed decrees. Closed deals. Put crosses on fates - millions of tons, millions of dollars, millions of other lives.
Now - it is silent.
He didn't remember how he reached the site. How he chose. How he paid. It all happened not by will - by an inner call. As if he hadn't been searching for the book, but it had waited for him to crack.
When the package arrived - his fingers trembled.
But not from excitement. From cold that came from within - as if his skin understood before his mind.
The cover - dark wood. The patterns - not ornament, but memory. Like the trace of a nail that had pinned down ancestors.
He ran his finger across them - and the air grew denser. Smelled of... ash. Wet soil. Clotted blood. Old fire.
He opened it.
The words were not read - they were absorbed. As if he wasn't guiding his eyes over the lines, but the lines were gnawing into him.
"You - alone. No right to memory. No alliances. Only you. And them"
The book's voice sounded not in his head - in his chest. In his bones. As if the blood had changed its language.
"What will you choose, Alexander? Who will you throw under the sword to survive yourself?"
He closed the book.
But did not close the question.
He once knew how to choose. Strategies. Supplies. Life limits per ton of oil. He knew what the right refusal was. Knew how to take a step - and stay clean.
And now?
Now a step - means blood.
He approached the window.
His gaze slid over the glass, the streets, the gray world that suddenly seemed... unreal. Like a backdrop he had been sewn into by mistake.
He exhaled. And it was not desire. Not a dream. It was recognition.
- I'm ready
At that moment - a call. One. No screen, no light.
As if the air itself decided to remind him that it, too, had a voice.
He flinched. Turned - no one. Only the room, empty and not his.
On the floor - the book. Though he hadn't dropped it.
He picked it up. And on the cover - a title that hadn't been there.
"The World of Iron and Blood"
Like a brand. Like a sentence. Like a door that doesn't ask if you're ready to enter.
The world held its breath.
And into that silence - not a scream. A strike. As if the sky had cracked.
- PRINCE! AMBUSH!
Mud - in the face. Clang - in the bone. Air - like iron driven into the lungs.
The sword - in hand. Heavy, familiar. Not as a weapon - as a part.
The voice - sharp, precise, but not his:
- Form up! To the left flank!
And it's already too late to ask where he is.
He is - there.
Where no one asks. Where they shout.
Where every step - a frontier. Where weakness - a sentence. Where a name - is what they scream before death.
He called this world into being.
Now he is in it.
And the book?
It is - in him.
Every line - iron.
Every word - blood.
It has begun.
He did not know how he ended up here. Simply - was.
Amid scream, steel, and smoke tearing the sky. The field stretched out before him like split flesh - black, fetid, oozing death.
Beneath his feet - a springy slurry, mixed with blood, snow, and meat. The air trembled, thick with soot, as if the world had exhaled and could no longer breathe in.
Sword in hand. Shield - in the other. He did not remember taking them. Had not chosen - they simply were. Like hands. Like eyes. As if someone else had left them to him - and gone.
He stepped forward. The ground groaned.
The sound of clashing - muffled, like bone hitting iron. Somewhere nearby - a scream. Not human. A beast, wounded, tearing toward death.
Alexander was not breathing - he was drawing in air like a drowning man, not knowing why. He could hear the heart in his chest beating to someone else's rhythm. It beat - for another man's war.
He wanted to scream - not from pain, from rupture.
Between the body that acted, and the mind that did not agree. But the voice stayed inside. Turned to stone. Swallowed itself.
A swing. A strike. Metal meets flesh.
He felt it - in his fingers, in his elbows, in his spine.
But not in himself. He was simply - the bearer. The movement. The form. And the essence - somewhere beside him, like an observer forgotten.
- Form up! - someone shouted. A voice like a hammer. It struck - not the ears, the back.
Shield - forward. Sword - up. Step. Lunge. Blood.
Thick, hot, like ashes beneath the skin.
He exhaled. As if that breath had broken through a wall. Inside - himself again. Almost. For a moment.
He saw - a youth. An enemy. Too young. His eyes - darted. And in that look - a reflection. His own. Confusion. Horror. Helplessness before what had begun.
- No, - Alexander thought. - Not me
But the hand - raised the sword.
And the strike - was precise.
The youth collapsed.
Everything froze.
And then - cracked.
A rumble. A scream. A roar.
- For the prince! For the land! - it was no longer a voice. It was - the breath of the formation.
Steel fused with flesh. The warband moved - not like people. Like a wave. Shields - a single shell. Spears - like the ribs of a beast ready to bite.
To the left - a flash. The forest burst into arrows. Bowstrings sang like death. The arrows struck - not the body, the closure. The belief that one could hold.
- Most Holy... - someone began. Did not finish.
A gasp. A fall. A bolt - in the throat.
And again a step.
Voivode Radomir - beside him. His voice like rock:
- We are the wall. Do not waver. Left - hold!
He threw the enemy off - from the shoulder. His shield cracked. He did not flinch. He stood. And the whole formation held on him - on the voice that did not scream, but held the fabric of time.
Alexander felt the ring tighten. The flank cracking, like ice before a collapse.
- Prince! To the center! - Radomir, again. - It's a trap!
But he could not go. His legs - went forward on their own. Not into attack. Into challenge.
He stepped. The sword - soared.
A strike. Another.
Every movement - not from strength. From will, of which there was almost none left. But for now - still some.
- God is with us! - someone shouted. Alexander did not know - was it him.
The air thickened.
Bodies fell. The formation held.
Beside him - Mentor Vysheslav. His sword - like a shadow, cutting precisely. Without sound. Without mercy.
Alexander was again - and not. He watched from within.
- This is the end, - flashed through.
But then...
The world stilled.
And from that silence - a shot through:
- Prince, go forward. We'll hold them
Radomir's voice was like ash - firm, searing, but already crumbling. In it there was no weakness. Only weariness he could no longer hide.
He stood - at the center of the line. Like a stone, driven into the earth.
His shield - all in notches. Dents from arrows, cracks from swords. And still it held. Held like an old tree that had not fallen only because it had forgotten how to do so.
The blows poured, but he did not sway. He gnawed at the earth with his heels, just to not move back.
Blood ran down from his shoulder like dew down a morning leaf. But there was no time to count the drops.
He knew - the end was near. Not later. Not later than this hour.
In his chest - not fear. Emptiness. Only one thought: he never told his son he was proud. Never. Not once.
And now this battle - is all that will remain of him instead of words.
- Damn you all... - he hissed, parrying a lunge.
His gaze darted to the prince. Not by chance - as if checking: is he still standing.
Alexander was still holding on. The sword - in his hand. But his fingers gripped the hilt as if afraid to let go not of the weapon, but of himself.
The line was trembling - like a forest under a storm. Panic - like a rasp in the lungs of the warband. Not visible. But already there.
Radomir clenched his teeth. Not from pain. From the thought that it would not be enough.
- Still holding, - he whispered. Not as a statement. As a breath between two collapses.
The shield shuddered. Cracked. He didn't look. He felt the wood split - like a nerve, broken by another's scream.
His arm moved back - not from fear, from calculation. He struck not simply in response - but at the point where the enemy lost balance. As old Ratibor had taught. As only those do who already know they are dying.
And then - an arrow.
Right into the side. With a crunch. As if someone had stabbed a knife into an icy river.
He froze. Not from pain - from how suddenly the weight of the body disappeared. As if the ground beneath did not hold - only tolerated.
The air grew heavy, like lead. His lips - bitter with blood.
- Damn it...
He did not fall right away. He stepped back once, as if about to say something important - and only then sank down. Not into mud. Into memory.
Vysheslav saw. How a cliff falls. How something breaks that was never supposed to.
He stepped forward. Not to save. To avenge.
His blade - like a blacksmith's hand. Each strike - like a hammer. Each movement - a formula. Deadly. Perfect.
- Prince! Stand firm! We - are the shield! For you! For Rus'!
And it was not inspiration. It was an order. Simple. Like steel.
Junior warrior Stanimir - at the center.
Shield in hand. Knuckles - white. Sweat and dust on his face. Breath - like torn cloth.
He did not feel the shield - only the weight pressing into his shoulder, as if someone had laid a palm there: not to stop, but to remind him that behind - was no one.
He saw the enemy. The spear. The swing.
And stepped forward.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he could not do otherwise.
The sword trembled. In his head - an image: mother at the threshold. Her voice. Honey. Hay. Warmth.
He remembered how she stroked his shoulder - exactly like the shield pressed now. Not to comfort. To remind: you are mine. But you are no longer home.
- For her, - he whispered.
The strike.
The spear - into the side. Through the mail. Through the scream.
He froze.
Did not fall right away. His legs tensed - as if the very earth begged: not now. Endure. Just a moment more.
The shield - still held.
But the hands were weakening. Legs - limp. The whole body - like not his own. He tried to breathe, but his chest would not obey: the air seemed to pass by.
He sank down. Not like a warrior. Like a man.
Fingers - toward the sword. Gaze - toward the shield. The hand - slipped. Missed.
In that moment he understood: no one would notice his feat. No cries, no name. Only silence.
The sky - clear. And indifferent.
- I wanted to go home...
But he didn't say it. Didn't make it.
The body - to the earth. Lightly. Like a stalk of grain.
The hand with the sword - clenched. But without strength.
In his eyes - crimson snow. And the sun. The last.
He became part of this land. Forever.
No one noticed.
The battle - went on.
Clatter. Scream. Thud.
Life - dies here quickly.
And silence - never happens.
Senior warband warrior Dobrynya stood beside Vysheslav - like a pillar carved from stone. He saw Stanimir fall, and the others, and only then - barely - the corner of his mouth twitched.
The smirk disappeared. Not fear. Acknowledgment: it did not go according to plan.
He gripped his sword - tightly. As if he wanted to squeeze the pain out of the steel.
Silently. Without excess. His gaze - direct. The weariness - beneath the skin. But in his eyes - the fire of the blacksmith's temper, not anger. The essence of craft.
- Look upon Perun... - he exhaled, parrying the enemy's blade. His voice - like a growl through stone.
- If you fear me, think how you'll face the gods afterward
The shield - hummed. Like a forge bellows. The metal - trembled. But held. As did he.
Every movement - precise. Without scream. Without pomp. Not a battle. A craft. He was not fighting - he was forging vengeance.
Every "bang" - like a hammer strike on the anvil. His hands knew what to do. The heart - knew why.
He did not speak. He fought.
But each time his blade found flesh, his lips barely moved:
- Forgive me, brother...
He remembered them all. And for each - he cut.
Until he felt - not pain, not fear. Cold. From within. As if a blade had entered the furnace.
A blade.
Right in the side. With a crunch. Through mail. Like cloth.
The world slowed.
He smirked. Not in rage. Calmly. Like a master who lacked time to finish.
- Well then... - he whispered. - I knew it
A step back. Not retreat - brace. He stood. Planted himself. Covered his comrade. Shield - up. Sword - trembling, but still in hand.
- Hold, men... - a rasp. - As long as we hold - Rus' breathes...
His knees began to give. His hands - grow cold. The sword - fell.
He collapsed - slowly. Like a tree. Like memory.
His gaze - still alive. He searched. Saw.
A young warband fighter - with a bloodied shield. Still holding. Still.
- Just don't waver... - barely audible. Like a covenant. Like a command.
And in the final moment - he raised his eyes to the sky. Red. Warm. Farewell.
He inhaled. Without words. Simply - was. To the end.
The shield fell beside him. Covered in cracks. Like a seal of persistence.
And in the fallen hand - a handful of earth. It clung to the fingers. But looked like clay. As if the battle itself had molded something new from it.
And even in the dead body - it could be felt: he did not give in.
Those who saw - understood without words.
To fight to the end.
And in them - it flared. Again. Once more.
And among the clatter, where shields were falling, where the earth drank blood - there was she.
Boyarina Anna.
Not a warrior. Not a warband fighter. But - here.
A bow in her hands. Once - a game in the woods. Father. Brother. Laughter. A target from an old bucket.
Back then, her father said: "Never shoot at the living"
And now - nothing living remained. Everything - enemies, or dead.
Now - no game. And she - no longer a girl.
But still nearby.
Always had been. Not in battle. In the shadow. Behind the back.
Alexander did not know she was here. That she had not left, as he ordered. She had always been near. And now - closer than ever.
Her fingers trembled. Not from fear. From memory.
She found an arrow - like in childhood. The hand knew how to do it. But now - it was not an arrow. It was the weight of another's life.
Her eyes darted. And found.
A sword was rising. Alexander was nearby.
His face - in blood. But the look - the same. Stubborn. Real. The only one to which she wanted to tie what was left of herself.
She drew the bowstring. Uncertainly. But - drew.
- Lord...
The word came out like steam - from a wound.
The finger slipped.
The shot.
The enemy's body collapsed.
But it did not get easier.
Everything inside - clenched. Muffled. As if the arrow had pierced the wrong one.
Anna froze.
And then - the spear.
Into the shoulder. Into the body. Into the chest.
A jerk. The taste of blood. A breath - crumpled. Like a rasp through cloth.
She fell.
Face into the mud.
Warm slurry beneath her cheek. Breathing - impossible. Moving - impossible.
- He won't know, - she thought. - But it's all right. I knew him. That's enough
Her fingers reached - not for a weapon. For the ground. For a point. To hold on. To something, at least.
On her knees.
The body trembles. But the gaze - still holds him. Her point.
He stood. Sword in hand. Did not know she was watching. That she - was still holding on to him. Even now.
- I still can... - a breath.
Not strength. The last of the wish to be near.
The hand jerked. Did not reach.
Blood - flowed. But not with pain. With silence.
She did not say "farewell."
Only - "forgive."
And that - with lips. Without sound.
The body sank down. Not like a light silhouette. Like a shadow, too tired to keep holding on.
No heroism. No light. Only - near.
The world froze.
Only for a moment.
But it was enough.
Shields clash again.
Swords cut.
The scream returns, like a storm.
And she - remained. Like a name no one shouted aloud.
Mentor Vysheslav saw them fall one by one.
Each name - like a tooth torn out.
But pain - none.
Pain would be a luxury.
He stepped forward.
Not to save. To repay a debt.
His blade - did not soar. It struck. Like an axe. Like a whip. Like a sentence.
- The stone cracked, - he exhaled. - But did not shatter
His voice - hoarse. Like metal wrapped in sinew. He did not shout. He instilled. Through the clatter. Through death.
The shield - cracked. Split apart. He cast it aside like something useless.
- I don't need junk. I'll stand for you myself
He stood. Alone. Before the line. Like a patch on torn fabric.
The sword - in one hand. With the other - he covered the one who still stood. With his shoulder. His body. As best he could.
He did not look at the enemies. He had known them long. Their gestures, swings, rhythm. He had taught such men. Their faces did not interest him. All of this - old.
A strike. First. Second. Third.
Blood - burst forth. But did not take strength.
An arrow - to the side. Deep. He flinched. But did not fall.
- Weak, - he smirked. - Wasted your arrow
He took a step. The sword rose.
A blow - to the throat of one. A blow - to the chest of the next.
He did not seek death.
He did not let it pass by without resistance.
He did not look into faces. There was nothing left to find there.
- Prince, - he barked. - Do not waver. Rus' stands as long as we do!
And again a step.
And again steel.
When the spear entered his chest - he did not scream.
He held his breath. As if he wanted to save it for someone else.
He looked at the field. Where his own lay. Where others still stood - barely.
Where swords trembled in worn hands.
He took a step back. One. So as not to fall forward.
And sat down. Slowly. Gently. As if he did not want to disturb the earth.
Facing his own.
The sword - still in hand. Eyes - open. Lips - in a faint smirk.
He saw everything. Like a master of the blade, who had finished his work.
And that was all.
Without words.
Without a finale. Without conclusions.
He simply was.
To the end.
In the distance, cries and the clashing of weapons thundered. Everything continued - but already without him.
Alexander stood alone.
They - lay.
Radomir. Vysheslav. Dobrynya. Anna.
And many others.
He knew them. Each one. By voice. By gait. By how they held a shield or smiled under their breath.
Now - he could not remember.
Not because he had forgotten. Because it no longer fit. Only a dull heaviness remained in his head, as if memory had become a stone that pressed but showed nothing.
Stanimir - with the face of a boy and a wound that could not be covered.
Yaromir, who was always nearby - now beneath the hooves of history.
Ilya. Quick as wind. Gone - without sound.
They had been - a wall.
Now - a shadow.
And he - in the center of this darkness.
Alive.
Too alive. To the point of pain.
The blood beneath his boots squelched like memory. Each drop - a name. Each step - reproach.
He did not walk. He drifted through the weave of another's loyalty, which he had not earned.
- You stood to the end... And I?
The voice within - not his. The voice of the field. The voice of guilt.
The sword struck. But without meaning. The hands - moved, but not he with them.
They - lived separately. He - observed.
Enemies approached. Died. Came again. Died again.
But there were fewer of them. Their steps - quieter. Their strikes - rarer.
And then - silence.
He heard how no one was shouting.
Looked - and understood.
They were leaving.
The enemies. Hunched. Silent. Hiding their faces beneath their helmets.
It was a forest. An ambush. They counted on a swift strike. On the prince's head - and a retreat into the thicket.
But the prince had not fallen. And the warband had not wavered.
Now they themselves were trapped between blood - and time.
The commander stood. Did not hurry. Watched.
Between the trees - shadows.
Reinforcements.
Slow. But coming. They were late. But not too late.
And before him - not one prince. But two dozen warband fighters.
Not a formation. Shards. Blood, shields, faces in ash. But they stood.
They were enough to make any step toward the prince turn into meat.
He weighed it.
A step forward - and they would not be victors, but prey.
He raised a hand. Not to strike.
Signal: "Enough."
Turn. Silence. Withdrawal.
They had not lost.
They had simply not finished. Because everything had changed.
And now - that was all. Silence. Not peace - deferred death.
The forest no longer screamed. Only smelled. Of blood, metal, sweat.
Beneath the feet - earth, saturated with them. With those who stood. Who did not rise.
Alexander slowly lowered his gaze.
And only then - noticed that he was still holding the sword.
The sword - was there.
But the hand no longer wanted to hold it.
Not from weakness.
From shame.
He unclenched his fingers. Slowly. Almost reluctantly. As if releasing someone else's fate from his grip.
The sword fell.
The thud - like a nail into a coffin lid.
He did not cry out. Did not sigh. He simply could no longer hold a weapon while they - were in the ground, and he - was not.
He wanted to say something - could not.
Too muffled. Too deep.
And then - the horn.
Not a sound. A blow. Into the sky. Into the soul.
The horn roared like an ancient god, long forgotten, but come to say: "It is not over."
Above the forest - banners. Torn. In blood. Alive.
The air - flowed like tar. Dense. Storm-laden. Vibrating.
The blood in his veins - did not drain. It pounded. Demanded.
He whispered:
- Is this the end?
No. The horn answered.
A second time. Longer. Deeper.
Like a sentence.
He collapsed. His body - into mud. Into blood. Into dust.
Before he fell, his hand clenched into a fist - as if trying to hold on to at least one of them. At least someone.
But the palm was empty.
Eyes - to the sky.
And in the final moment - a whisper. Not from the world. From within.
- You stood. Now - go
And the darkness closed in.
Not death. Not salvation.
A crossing.
He was gone.
But the one who remains - holds the page.
The gaze. The breath.
And if you are reading - you are already near.
The book lies. Open. But empty. The last page - smooth, like water before a storm.
In the reflection - no name. Only waiting.
The shadows - not from letters. From the one who reads.
You do not know why you reach out.
But it's no longer possible not to touch.
The cold of the paper - like the touch of a blade.
And this is not a beginning.
It is already your continuation.
***
1. Revision - 688 words (December 11)
2. Revision - 1,265 words (January 14)
3. Revision - 5,824 words (January 25)
4. Revision - 3,456 words (April 10, final)
Word count refers to the original text; in English or other languages, it may be higher.
If you've read this far - it means you've heard what I wanted to say.
From Chapter 28 begins what I've been working toward for a long time.
A style that doesn't paint - but cuts. Where every word is like a step across ice that might crack. Where pathos is killed by reality, and the heroes speak not because they want to - but because they can't help it.
The first volume is not perfect.
The early chapters still sound different: denser, rougher, more straightforward. I'm not hiding this. I'm not rewriting everything at once - only leveling it out. Slowly. Rigorously. Until the scene holds not by words, but by breath.
If now you move on to Chapter Two - and feel that the style has shifted - don't be afraid. This is not a fall. This is the path. And I'm not leaving it.
I keep going. Chapter by chapter. So that each one - holds.
Thank you for being here.
This is only the beginning.