World of Iron and Blood

The alarm did not ring. It crashed.

Into the temple. Dull. With a crunch.

Alexander jolted up - and hit the doorframe with his shoulder.

Pain. Breath knocked out. Jaw clenched.

- Who's yelling?

The voice - not his.

Muffled. As if someone else's mouth spoke inside his head.

He stood up.

Listened to his body. Legs trembling.

Air - viscous, like rotting fabric under the ceiling.

He sniffed: dust, wood, old dampness.

The room smelled like a box of memories someone had forgotten to open.

He ran a hand over his face. Stubble - like needles.

Alive.

But as if inside this skin - someone else.

Light was breaking through the cracks. Harsh. Not warm.

On the wall - the shadows of trees.

They trembled, as if trying to remember what wind was.

He walked.

The floorboards creaked. Not plaintively. Just a fact: someone else is here.

In the kitchen - silence.

The cup - in dust.

The coffee - as if he had boiled anger.

He drank. Not for taste. So his tongue would feel at least something.

The reflection in the window - not him. A contour.

As if the body was worn by emptiness.

He turned away.

He once knew how to wait.

Not for people - for moments.

The first snow. A voice on the phone. The smell of a book in a new bag.

All of it - not things. Anchors.

Thin, almost invisible. But - his.

Now - nothing.

No snow. No phone. No smell.

Only the coffee remained.

Bitter. Like the thought: you lost everything, but didn't even notice when.

He sat. Slowly. His back cracked.

Fingers moved over the phone by themselves. Scrolling. Not reading.

No news. No messages. No meaning.

Just - a run into the screen. Without legs. Inward.

And suddenly - he stumbled.

"How to survive and change a medieval world."

Nonsense. A meme. He wanted to scroll past.

But the screen slightly trembled.

He lowered his gaze - and suddenly saw the lock screen.

A photo. Random. Old.

Only the background: snow, a fir tree, a light bulb in the corner.

And nothing else. No faces, no names.

He didn't remember who it was.

But his heart responded.

As if a name was torn out of him - one he had known since birth.

He swiped his finger - and the photo vanished.

The light left. Darkness remained.

His finger twitched - and could not. Froze.

The words - did not shine. They smoldered. Like a coal in ash that does not die even in water.

He tapped.

"Survival is power. Where every breath is a battle. Where weakness is not a mistake. A sentence."

He exhaled. Smirked. Wanted to close. Stand up. Turn it off.

But the body - did not move. Only the fingers. As if they had grown into the glass. As if they were searching for fire under the skin.

He read.

No. He did not read.

He heard.

Through skin. Through fillings. Through the past.

Stone. Dampness. Mold. Iron on the teeth. Air that presses. Walls that watch.

"Not what you have. But what you endure. That is what you are."

He jerked his hand away. The phone flew. Hit the floor.

He cursed. Sat. Breathed - like after a blow.

Pause. Silence. But inside - it had not quieted.

He picked up the phone.

The screen was blank. But he already knew where to look.

He did not remember buying it. The book had come - by itself. As if it had chosen not an address, but a moment.

The package arrived. The box - black. The fabric - like leather that had survived fire.

The cover - not paper. Not leather. Something... in between. As if compressed darkness. The patterns - as if scratched by claws.

It smelled of ash. Of crypt dust. Of clotted blood.

He ran his finger over it - and time shifted.

Opened it.

The words were not read. They entered.

Like a wedge.

Like a nail.

Like poison.

"Alone. Without memory. Without a world. Only you. And what will come for you."

He recoiled. Closed it. Wanted to throw it away. Out the window. Into himself.

But couldn't.

The book watched. Not from outside. From within.

He collapsed into the chair. Not sat - collapsed. As if he had sat in someone else's place. And knew - it had always been his.

"You are not a hero. You are feed. Until you become a beast."

He closed his eyes. His shoulders trembled.

He remembered numbers. Contracts. Capitals. Lives on the scales. He knew how to choose. Coldly. Precisely. Without a scream.

Now he couldn't.

Once he chose right - and lost everything.

Since then, being right - not salvation. A sentence.

And so he does not seek a way out. He waits for it to pull him in.

A call.

One. Without a screen. Without light.

As if the air decided to speak.

He flinched. As if current pierced his chest.

He turned - and understood: he was no longer here. In this room. In this world.

On the floor - the book. Though he had not dropped it.

On the cover - a new name.

"World of Iron and Blood"

Like a brand. Like an order. Like a door he had already entered.

And then - the strike.

As if the sky cracked.

- PRINCE! AMBUSH!

Mud - to the face. Clang - in the ear. Air - like a heated blade.

The sword - in hand. The weight - familiar. Not a weapon. An extension.

The voice - sharp. Not his:

- Form up! To the left flank!

And that's it. Too late to ask who he is. Where. Why.

He - is there.

Where they do not think.

Where they decide.

Where a name is shouted before death.

He summoned this world.

And it came.

And the book?

It is inside.

Not in memory. In flesh.

Each line - iron.

Each word - blood.

And in the first moment of silence he understood:

He did not say: "I'm ready."

He said: "I am yours."

And the darkness heard.

...and answered - not with a voice.

With steel. With a scream. With slaughter.

He did not fall into this world.

He entered.

By himself.

Without explanations. Without a path.

Simply - he was.

A scream. A clang. Smoke.

In front of him - a road. Torn. Dead. Bodies in the mud.

Underfoot - a mash of snow, blood, and earth. Slippery. Deep. Feels like it's about to swallow.

In the air - soot and heat. Swallowing hurts. As if you're breathing coal.

In one hand - a sword. In the other - a shield. He didn't take them. Simply… they were there.

He stepped forward. The ground squelched.

To the left - a scream. Not human. Like a beast dying a hundred times a minute.

He did not breathe. Just drew in air however he could. Chest burned. Heart beat without his command. As if it were someone else's.

He wanted to scream.

Not from pain. From splitting. Between the body that fights - and the mind that doesn't believe.

But the throat wouldn't allow. The voice stuck. Like a stone.

A blow. A swing. A thud.

Steel - against flesh.

He feels it - in his hand. In his elbow. In his back.

But as if it's not him doing it. The hands - act on their own. The eyes - watch. He - is beside. Not inside.

- Form up! - someone's voice thundered. Foreign. But real.

The body responded. Shield - forward. Sword - up. Step. Strike.

Blood - burst out. Hot. Real.

He exhaled. And in that exhale - he returned. Almost.

In front of him - a youth. An enemy.

Too young. Eyes - trembling. And in them he saw himself. From before.

- Not me, - thought Alexander.

But the sword was already flying.

It struck true.

The youth fell.

Silence. For a moment.

And then - an explosion.

Roar. Shouting. Battle.

- For the prince! For the land! - someone shouted. Not one - many.

Shields locked. The retinue advanced.

Not like men. Like a beast.

To the left - a flash.

The forest exploded with arrows.

Bowstrings whistled like whips.

Arrows fell not just upon men - but upon certainty. Upon formation. Upon what holds a fight together.

- Holy... - someone exhaled. Didn't finish.

A rasp. A fall. A bolt - in the throat.

And again a step.

Forward.

Voivode Radomir - beside him.

Speaking calmly, as if in a temple:

- We are the wall. Hold. To the left - stay firm.

He shoved an enemy with his shoulder. Shield - cracked.

But he did not retreat. Not a step.

The whole formation held on him.

Not on strength. On voice.

He did not yell - he stitched the battle together like a seam binds skin.

Alexander felt:

the ring was tightening.

The flank cracking.

Like ice - before collapse.

- Prince! To the center! - again Radomir.

But the legs didn't obey.

He could not leave.

He went - not to attack. Forward.

Simply forward. Because there was no other way.

The sword rose.

Strike. Again.

The arm felt no weight.

It simply acted. Because it must.

- God is with us! - someone shouted. Maybe himself. It didn't matter.

The air grew thick. Bodies fell.

The formation - held.

Nearby - Mentor Vysheslav.

Silent. But the sword in his hand moved as if he himself were part of the steel. Precise. Swift. Without excess.

A thought flashed:

- This is the end

And then - silence.

Instant. Crushing. As if the battle held its breath.

From the silence - a voice:

- Prince! Go! We'll hold them!

Radomir's voice - hoarse, torn, as if scraped across the throat.

But firm.

He stood. In the center.

As if nailed to the ground.

Shield - full of dents. Swords, arrows, time.

But still he held. Not because he could. Because he did not allow himself otherwise.

Blows rained down.

He did not retreat. Only dug his feet deeper into the earth.

Blood - flowed from his shoulder. Warm. But no longer mattered.

He knew - it was over.

Not the end of the battle. The end of him.

Inside - empty. No fear, no prayers.

Only one thought: he never told his son he was proud. Not once.

This clash - now all that will remain in place of words.

- Damn you... - an exhale. A strike.

A glance - to the prince.

Alexander stood. Held the sword.

But fingers - like stone. The grip not for the weapon. For not falling apart.

The flank trembled. Not loudly. Like a wall before a crack.

Radomir whispered:

- We hold...

Not as certainty. As a remainder of breath.

Shield - cracked. He didn't look. He just knew.

The wood gave - like a spine breaking.

He struck in return. Precisely. At the mark. Without anger. Only because that was how he was taught. That was the way.

And then - an arrow. Into the side.

Not pain. Simply - the weight vanished.

As if the ground beneath him said: "that's all."

He staggered.

One step back. As if he wanted to say something.

And - sat. Did not collapse. Settled.

Eyes - forward.

Silent.

Vysheslav saw.

How the one who stood the longest - went out.

He stepped forward.

Not to save. To avenge.

Sword - in hand. Like a hammer.

- Stand! We are the shield! For Rus'!

And it was not inspiration. It was an order. Simple. Like steel.

Retainer Stanimir was walking second in the flank.

Not in the vanguard. Not at the rear. In the middle. As always.

He held his shield. But he did not think. Did not feel. Simply walked. As taught.

The sword was in his hand. Not heavy. Simply... not his.

He stumbled.

The grass underfoot - damp. A blade flashed to the side. Or a spear. He couldn't tell.

It entered his side. Instantly. Without pain.

He exhaled - briefly. Like a sneeze. Turned his head. And that was all.

For a moment he saw the prince. Not a gaze. A silhouette.

No one called out. No one turned. No one noticed.

He did not fall - he sank. Like grass bending under a boot.

No words. No thought.

Simply vanished.

Then - mud. Then - nothing.

No one called out. The name was not remembered. Only steps nearby - as if he had never been.

But the line did not collapse.

Because there was him.

Senior retainer Dobrynya.

He did not notice who had fallen. Not because he did not want to - because he could not.

He held the line.

Without words. Without thoughts. As always.

He was the senior. The steel one. The strict one. No one ever heard complaints from him. Only commands.

This time he said nothing.

Simply stepped forward.

A blade - into the belly. From the side. Quiet.

He did not cry out. Only stumbled. Fell to one knee.

No one noticed.

Vysheslav was already fighting another. Alexander was looking the other way.

Dobrynya wanted to rise.

Could not.

No words. No glance. No clang.

Simply - disappeared. Like mist.

Only the shield. In blood. And a carved mark on the strap - a simple knot. Without a name.

He was.

Now - he is not.

And no one called out.

Dust - in the air. Bodies - in the mud. Everything clattered. Everything fell.

And amid that din, where shields shattered, where the earth drank blood - she was there.

Boyarina Anna.

Not a warrior. Not a retainer. 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 had said: - Never shoot at the living

But now - everything is either dead, or coming at you with a sword.

Now - not a game. And she - not 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.

Her fingers trembled. Not from fear - from too much all at once. Everything rang inside.

She felt for the arrow - as in childhood. Just the same. But now - not wood, not a target. Now it was weight. A decision.

Her eyes darted. Found.

A sword was rising. Alexander was near. His face - in blood. But the gaze - still the same.

And then - her fingers drew the bowstring.

- Lor... - broken off. Not a prayer. Not a word. Just a breath.

Shot.

The enemy's body collapsed. And that was all.

But it did not bring relief. Only made it worse.

There was only one arrow. And inside - it was as if it had come out of her, not the bow.

She froze.

The spear - not loud. Simply entered. The shoulder. The chest. Through fabric, through skin, through her.

She did not scream. Only a rasp. Compressed. As if she had forbidden herself to scream.

Fell face first into the mud.

Warmth. Against her cheek. Like in childhood - if you fall into the grass. But now - not grass. Blood.

- He... - she did not finish. The thought stumbled. - He... won't know...

She did not know what she had meant to say next.

But there was something.

Her fingers moved. Not to the bow. To the ground. Simply - to hold on.

On her knees. Through pain. Her body trembled. Her eyes held - him. Her point.

He stood. Sword in hand. He did not know.

That she - was still holding on. To him. To the moment. To what had been.

- I still... - a breath. Without meaning. Without aim. Simply not to disappear.

Her hand - jerked. Did not reach.

The blood flowed calmly. Like water.

She did not say "farewell."

Only her lips moved. Almost - "forgive me."

The body sank. Not heroically. Not beautifully. Simply - gave up.

Like a shadow, tired of clinging.

No one called her name.

The world did not stop.

Shields clashed.

The cry returned, like a wave.

And she - remained.

In the shadow. In the mud. In him.

And he exhaled.

Sharply. Without reason. As if someone had taken part of the warmth.

He did not know what he had lost.

But the loss - was.

And then - a step.

Senior boyar Vysheslav Izyaslavsky stepped forward.

There was no shield anymore. It had burst. He threw away the shards - and that was all.

Sword - in hand. Eyes - ahead. Back straight.

- I won't hide, - he said.

Without pathos. Simply aloud. So he could hear himself.

In front of him was a gap in the line. Someone had fallen. Others were tired. Someone was silent. Someone no longer breathed.

He stood there.

Not to plug it.

Simply knew - otherwise everything would collapse.

He struck.

Directly. Evenly. Without flourish.

Each one - in the chest, in the neck, in the head. Precisely.

He did not seek glory. He did his job.

As he had been taught.

As he had done all his life.

His shoulder burned. His leg buckled. Air slashed his throat.

He knew - he would not last long.

But as long as he stood - Rus' stood.

He knew that. And therefore - did not retreat.

And then - a blow. A spear. Into his side. Between the rings.

He did not scream.

Simply inhaled.

Swayed.

Took a step back - so as not to fall on his back. So he could die facing his own.

He sat.

Sword in hand. Eyes open.

- Prince... - he said quietly. - Hold. As long as we hold...

And that was all.

He no longer breathed.

But no one thought he gave up.

He left - as a stone leaves. Without noise. But empty after him.

And into that emptiness - stood he.

Alexander.

They - lay.

Radomir. Vysheslav. Dobrynya. Anna and the others.

He knew them. By voice. By gait. By how they held a shield, how they kept silent.

Now - he could not remember.

Not forgotten. Simply would not fit. As if memory had become a stone. Heavy. Silent. Without faces.

Stanimir - with the face of a boy and a wound that cannot be covered.

Yaromir - always nearby. Now - beneath the hooves of time.

Ilya - the wind. Gone. Without a sound.

They were - like a wall.

Now - like dust in the cracks.

He - at the center. Among the dead. Alive.

Too alive.

Blood squelched underfoot like betrayal. Each drop - someone's name. Each step - reproach.

He did not walk. He slid through others' loyalty he had not earned.

- You stood... And I?

Not his voice. The voice of the field. The voice of guilt.

The sword struck. The hands moved. But not he. They, themselves.

Enemies approached. Died. Approached. Again. Again.

Then - silence.

He heard how no one screamed.

Looked - and understood.

They were leaving.

The enemies. Hunched. Silent. Hiding their faces.

The forest - had been an ambush. The prince - the target.

But the prince had not fallen. And the retinue had not wavered.

Now they themselves - trapped. Blood behind. Reinforcements - ahead.

From the thicket - banners. Torn. In blood. But alive.

Two dozen warriors. Not a formation - a remainder.

But enough that any step would become meat.

The commander of the ambush assessed.

One gesture - "enough."

And - turn. Silence. Withdrawal.

They had not lost.

But did not finish. Because everything had changed.

Silence remained. Not peace - delayed death.

Alexander stood.

Then - down.

He sat. Not like a prince. Not like a warrior.

Like one who understood everything - but too late.

His hand jerked. To his chest. Not for the wound. For the word he had not said.

He looked at his palm. There - something thin.

A red hair. One.

He did not know how. Did not know when.

But knew - whose.

He clenched it between his fingers. Tightly. So the wind would not take it.

And only then did he realize - he was crying. Without sound. Without face. Simply - flowing.

He looked - and only then noticed: he was still holding the sword.

His hand - with white knuckles.

He unclenched his fingers. Slowly. As if releasing someone else's fate.

The sword fell.

The sound - like a crack in the heart. Not a clang. A fracture.

He wanted to speak.

Could not.

And then - the horn.

Not a sound. A command from somewhere ancient.

It tore not the ears - the chest.

Above the forest - banners. Trembling.

The air - stretched, like resin.

He whispered:

- Is this the end?

No. The horn replied.

Deeper. A second time. Like a sentence.

He did not collapse.

He fell inward. Into the mud. Into their blood.

Before falling, his palm clenched into a fist.

Empty.

But the skin on his fingers - bore the prints of other hands.

He held them. Did not save. But held.

Eyes - to the sky.

And a flash - not of light. Of memory.

He remembered.

He hadn't meant to read. Just to scroll past.

And now - he himself is written. A page that will not be in the table of contents.

He did not say "I am ready."

He said: "I am yours."

And became theirs.

A whisper. Barely audible. Not in words. In the inner body:

- You stood. Now - go

And the darkness closed.

Not death.

Transition.

He left.

But the one who remains - holds the page.

The book lies. Open. Empty. The last - smooth, like water before a storm.

You look into it - and do not reflect.

You reach - not for the book.

For the self you do not yet know.

And your fingers - already at the edge of the page.

Too late.