Awakening

Darkness. Thick, cold, all-encompassing. It seemed alive, coiling around him, penetrating every cell, dragging him into an endless void. Alexander tried to breathe, but the air felt viscous, as though his body were sinking into black tar.

Panic. Helpless, like a fly trapped in amber, he struggled against invisible shackles until a sharp flash of light cut through the darkness like a blade. The light struck his eyes, blinding him, followed by a sound - loud, commanding, like a thunderclap.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the world around him seemed to tear apart.

When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by stone walls. The air was damp, smelling of moisture and incense. The dim light of torches reflected off roughly plastered walls, casting long, unsettling shadows. In the corner stood a wooden table with an empty bowl. Every fiber of his body ached with a piercing realization.

Where am I?

Alexander tried to move. His muscles responded with sharp, excruciating pain, as if they'd been torn apart by iron hooks. His gaze fell on his hands. They were thinner, younger.

Panic surged again. He clenched his fingers to check if it was a dream. The fingers obeyed. With trembling hands, he touched his face: nose, cheekbones, skin - it was all foreign.

Oleksandr... - the word escaped his lips, his voice hoarse, as though forced through pain.

The word echoed in his mind, bringing a fresh wave of agony. The world spun as if a torrent of memories crashed into his consciousness. Unfamiliar faces. Voices. Laughter. The clang of steel. Pain. Screams.

He clutched his head, trying to quell the unbearable chaos.

- Your Highness, you've awakened. Thank the gods!

The voice pulled him out of the grip of panic. Alexander jerked his head up. Standing by the wall was a man in his fifties. Broad-shouldered, with a thick gray beard and a heavy gaze. His simple clothing did little to hide his military bearing.

- Where am I? - Alexander croaked. The sound of his own voice startled him - rough, deep, as though it belonged to someone else.

The man bowed his head.

- You are safe, my prince. That is what matters, - his voice was firm but tinged with weariness. - I am Stanislav, a boyar of your father and head of his retinue. I swore to protect Prince Iziaslav... but I failed. Now I swear to protect you. This time, I will fulfill my oath

Prince? Iziaslav? The words thundered in Alexander's head, but he couldn't connect them to himself.

- My... father? - His voice trembled as if it couldn't bear the weight of the words.

Stanislav nodded gravely.

- Forgive me, my prince... We could not save your brothers

The words stabbed like a dagger. Alexander froze. Brothers? He'd never had brothers. Or… had he?

- No... this can't be, - he whispered, clutching his temples. But unfamiliar faces flashed before his eyes: laughter, the warmth of brotherly hands, and then - screams, blood, the clash of swords.

- They're all... dead? - he barely managed to say.

Stanislav turned away, as if afraid to meet his gaze.

- The Cumans, the Pechenegs... they struck at the same time. Prince Iziaslav was attacked by an elite Cuman unit. Sviatoslav was killed in Chernihiv. Vsevolod - near Pereiaslav. The others fell in ambushes. We thought you wouldn't survive your wounds either. But the gods were merciful

The words sounded like a death sentence. Alexander stared at him but didn't see. His thoughts raced, refusing to accept this.

- No... no! I... - He tried to stand but collapsed back in pain. - This is some nightmare. I'm supposed to be home! I... I was just reading a book... this is impossible!

Stanislav watched him silently. There was no surprise in his eyes - only weariness.

- My prince, there is no one left of the Rurikid dynasty but you. The people await you. Kyiv awaits, - Stanislav's voice was firm, but there was a desperate hope in it. - You are our last hope

Alexander covered his face with his hands, trying to comprehend what was happening. He didn't want to hear this. But Stanislav's words pierced deep.

- Hope? Me? - He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. - I'm no prince. I'm... an ordinary man. I can't be your prince

Stanislav, after a pause, gently said:

- I understand your shock, young prince. But you have no choice. If not you, then who? Kievan Rus' will not survive without you. Rest now, my prince. I will ensure your safety

Before Alexander could protest, Stanislav left without delay.

Already outside, Stanislav issued short, precise orders to his best warriors: guard the prince as if he were the greatest treasure. Without wasting time, he headed to the Council Hall.

Inside the hall were only Metropolitan Hilarion and Oleg, head of the Boyar Council. The others -the chief military commander and the head of diplomacy - were absent, dealing with what seemed like more urgent matters.

None of them believed Alexander would survive. For them, the question was different: what to do when Kievan Rus' was left without a prince and the lands plunged into chaos?

The death of Yaroslav and his sons had shocked all of Rus'. So many losses in such a short time. The people whispered about the tragedy, speculating what forces were behind the ambush. Were it really the Cumans and Pechenegs, as witnesses claimed? Or were betrayals and conspiracies brewing within the boyar elite, aimed at toppling central power?

The conversations fell silent when Stanislav entered. His presence made both men rise from their seats.

- Well? - Oleg was the first to speak, peering into Stanislav's face. - What of the prince?

- He lives, - Stanislav said firmly, his voice as sharp as a sword striking a shield. - And he's awake. He is recovering

Metropolitan Hilarion folded his hands in prayer, his face lighting up as if he had witnessed a miracle.

- This is a sign from above. The gods have blessed us!

Oleg, the head of the Boyar Council, nodded cautiously:

- Then all is not lost. We mustn't delay. The people need to know we have a prince. That Kievan Rus' will endure!

Metropolitan Hilarion crossed himself:

- The gods are with us

Stanislav felt a fire ignite in his chest. He believed: if there was even a spark of hope, it was worth fighting for to the end.

Meanwhile, Alexander lay on the bed, feeling exhaustion and pain slowly recede. The air carried the scent of incense and dampness, and the fire crackled in the hearth. His body ached from his wounds but not so much that he couldn't move. His eyes roamed over the stone ceiling.

He closed his eyes, trying to process what had happened. How had he ended up here? How could he escape? This wasn't a dream. He felt the cold stone floor, the weight of the blanket, saw the flicker of flames in the torches. It was all too real.

- I'm in Kievan Rus'. This can't be true...

He turned onto his side, feeling a sharp pain in his ribs, and stared at the wall. His thoughts wandered between past and present. What should he do? How should he live in this world? How could he go back?

He had to go back. It was the only logical thought.

- I don't belong in this time. My time is waiting for me. But... is it?

He frowned. Who was waiting for him there? A wife who had left, taking their child because he had nothing to offer? Parents who were no longer alive? Relatives who had long scattered to their own families? A job he hated?

- No. No one is waiting for me there

He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to suppress the surge of pain. Suddenly, his gaze fell on an object lying next to him on the bed. A book. Plain, with a dark leather cover. He blinked, stretched out his hand, and picked it up. What kind of book could be in the prince's bed?

His fingers ran over the cover. His heart began to race. He had seen it before.

Opening it, he read the title.

How to Survive and Change a Medieval World

The book he had been reading before all of this began. His breathing quickened. He flipped through the pages rapidly. The words on the page danced before his eyes:

A practical guide for those who want not only to survive but to achieve power in the harsh world of the past.

He froze, realizing he was holding something incredible.

- This book... could it be the cause of all this? But how?

He began to read. The lines seemed written just for him: advice on building fortresses, developing economies, negotiating with lords, raising armies, avoiding betrayal. He turned page after page until one phrase struck him like a knife:

Power is not given to the weak. If you want to survive, use what you have: knowledge, cunning, determination, and strength.

Alexander closed the book and placed it on the table beside him. His heart was pounding. His eyes burned with fire.

- Isn't this what I've always dreamed of?

In his youth, he had loved stories of knights, kings, great battles. He dreamed of campaigns and glory. But he also understood that the reality of this world was far from romantic. His brothers had just been slaughtered. His family was gone. He was alone.

But now he had a chance.

A chance to become what I always dreamed of being. A chance not just to survive but to change everything.

He clenched his fists. This was no longer just a dream. This was reality. He would not be a passive observer, a stranger in this world. Now, he was the prince.

He was the Grand Prince of Kievan Rus'.