Awakening

The darkness was alive, like a dense cloud - cold and enveloping. It seeped into his body, gripping it with a sticky hold, dragging him into a void from which there was no escape.

The air was thick, as if saturated with resin - heavy and unyielding. With every breath, his throat tightened, his lungs filled as though with liquid metal, leaving behind a burning pain.

Alexander tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. It felt as though he were submerged in a sticky gloom, devoid of light, motion, and hope.

Panic struck him suddenly, like an icy grip. He felt trapped, like an animal in a snare, every attempt at movement binding his body tighter. His heart pounded so violently it echoed in his temples, and cold sweat ran down his back, sharpening the edge of his fear.

And then - there was a flash of light.

Fumm.

It tore through the darkness like a lightning strike. The blinding light seared his eyes, followed by a sound. Deep, resonant, like the tolling of a massive war bell, it reverberated through the space, splitting the world apart.

The world cracked.

An earsplitting crunch echoed around him, like the sound of shattering glass. The darkness vanished, yielding to a new reality.

When Alexander opened his eyes, he saw rough stone walls. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moisture and a faint aroma of incense. The dim torchlight revealed details: a wooden table, an empty bowl, cracked walls. Everything looked alien and frightening, like a dream turned into reality.

His body ached as though he had been beaten, every movement met with pain. He looked at his hands. They were younger, thinner than he remembered. The skin, rough and covered in small cuts, wasn't his. His fingers barely managed to clench into a fist.

- These aren't my hands...

He ran trembling fingers over his face. His nose, cheekbones, skin - none of it was right.

- Olexander... - a hoarse, unfamiliar voice escaped his lips. He flinched at the sound of his own voice.

It was as though the former owner of this body had awakened within, his voice echoing, shattering Alexander's consciousness into fragments. Memories surged in an unstoppable wave: faces, voices, laughter, screams, the clash of swords.

It all blended into chaos, leaving no room for coherent thought. Alexander clutched his temples, as if trying to contain the rising storm. But the memory of another life engulfed him completely, like a tempest washing everything away.

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

A clear, commanding voice broke through the panicked silence. Alexander raised his head. By the wall stood a man, broad-shouldered and sturdy, with a thick gray beard. His face was stern, his eyes heavy with resolve. His simple clothing couldn't hide his military bearing.

- Where am I? - Alexander croaked, his voice alien to his ears.

- Safe, my prince. That's what matters, - the man replied. His voice was deep, steady, 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

Prince? Iziaslav?

The words echoed in Alexander's mind like tolling bells.

- My… father? - his voice trembled, struggling under the weight of the words.

Stanislav nodded slowly, a shadow of grief darkening his face.

- Forgive me, my prince… We couldn't save your brothers

Brothers? The words hit like a hammer. He never had brothers… or did he? Memories - his or someone else's - swirled, tangling his mind.

- No… This is impossible, - he whispered, clutching his temples. Flashes of faces, laughter, then blood, screams, the clash of swords.

- They're all… dead? - he managed to choke out.

Stanislav averted his eyes.

- The Polovtsians and the Pechenegs. They struck simultaneously. Prince Iziaslav fell in battle. Sviatoslav was killed in Chernihiv, Vsevolod near Pereiaslav. The others were caught in ambushes. We thought you had perished as well, but the gods were merciful. When we arrived, only you remained standing

The words were like a dagger driven into his heart.

- No! - Alexander shouted. - This is impossible! I'm supposed to be home! I… I was just reading a book! This is a dream!

Alexander jumped to his feet, but a sharp pain in his body forced him back onto the bed.

- My prince, the Rurik dynasty has no one left but you. Kyiv awaits you. You are their last hope, - Stanislav said firmly.

- Hope? Me? - Alexander scoffed bitterly. - I'm no prince. I'm just an ordinary man

Stanislav paused, seeing that the young prince Alexander was deeply shocked and continued to speak nonsense. But he needed to explain:

- You have no choice, my prince. If not you, then who? Kievan Rus is waiting for its ruler, - Stanislav paused, his voice softening but not losing its firmness. - Rest now. This attack seems to have left deep marks - not only on your body but also on your mind. We will do everything to keep you safe

Before Alexander could protest, Stanislav bowed deeply and left the room without waiting for a response. Beyond the door, he stopped and, with a restrained but firm voice, gave orders to his best warriors, Mstislav and Myrnomyr:

- Guard the prince as if he were the most sacred treasure. No one enters without my permission. Kill on sight, if necessary

- Understood! - the warriors responded in unison, their faces unflinching.

Mstislav and Myrnomyr took their positions, their gazes turning cold, hands confidently gripping their swords. They were the embodiment of resolve, ready to strike down anyone who dared approach. Stanislav, without pausing, strode confidently toward the Council Hall.

Soon, Stanislav entered the Council Hall with a confident stride, as if carrying the weight of destiny itself. His imposing figure, emphasized by broad shoulders, commanded not only respect but a faint sense of awe.

The rough sound of his boots striking the stone floor cut through the tense silence in the hall. Inside were only Metropolitan Illarion and Head of Department Oleg - two of the most influential men in Kievan Rus. Others - the chief military commander and the head of diplomacy - were absent, preoccupied with matters deemed more urgent.

None of them believed Alexander would survive. For them, the question wasn't whether the prince lived but what to do when the power of Kievan Rus would be left without a ruler, and the lands plunged into chaos.

The death of Yaroslav the Wise and his sons had shocked all of Kievan Rus. So many losses in such a short time. The people whispered of the tragedy, speculating about the forces behind the ambush. Were the Polovtsians and Pechenegs truly responsible, as witnesses claimed? Or were treachery and conspiracies brewing within the boyar nobility, aimed at undermining central authority?

The animated debate between the councilors ceased the moment Stanislav crossed the threshold.

- Praise the gods, Stanislav! - Illarion spoke first, his usually steady voice trembling, betraying the tension he struggled to conceal. - What news of the young prince?

Oleg, frowning, raised his head. His narrowed gaze was sharp and penetrating, like a man accustomed to seeking hidden meanings in every word. Yet even he couldn't hide the faint spark of hope that flickered in his eyes.

- The prince lives, - Stanislav declared loudly, his voice rolling through the hall like the tolling of a bell. - Moreover, he has regained consciousness. He's recovering faster than expected

Illarion immediately clasped his hands in a gesture of prayer. His face lit up as if he had witnessed a sign from the heavens.

- This is a blessing from above! Our prayers have been heard, - he proclaimed solemnly.

Oleg, in contrast, maintained his mask of restraint. He nodded as if confirming what he'd heard, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of caution, almost suspicion.

- So, there is still hope, - he said dryly. - But let's not delude ourselves. What matters now is that the people learn of this. Kievan Rus must not appear weak. The prince lives, which means the authority remains steadfast and unshaken

Illarion nodded, his gaze hardening.

- The people must know, - he agreed, though his voice grew more pensive. - However, we must proceed with caution. The wounds inflicted by the deaths of the princes have not yet healed, and our enemies may exploit even the slightest hint of instability. If we act too hastily, it could work against us

Stanislav felt a fire ignite within him. He knew that Alexander's survival was not just a miracle. It was an opportunity that could not be squandered.

- We will do everything to maintain order, - he added firmly. - Right now, the prince's recovery is paramount

- Indeed, Alexander is the sole heir left to us by the Great Prince Yaroslav the Wise. Together, we must help him become what the gods destined him to be, - Illarion nodded, looking at them.

Oleg nodded cautiously, but unease flickered in his eyes. His sharp, pragmatic mind was already contemplating possible scenarios.

- The people must hear of the prince's return, - he said, softening his tone. - But they also need to see that authority remains strong. We must handle this carefully. Let the heralds announce it in the squares, and the priests proclaim it in their churches, - Oleg added, glancing at Illarion.

The metropolitan nodded, but his face darkened. He knew the church was not just a spiritual pillar for the prince but also a tool of politics.

- The church will always stand for truth and justice, - he said quietly but firmly. - But remember, Oleg, if we play at intrigue, we will lose what makes us strong - the people's faith.

Oleg merely grunted, while Stanislav cast a glance at both of them.

- Tomorrow, at the gathering, we will decide what to do next. Send word to everyone in Kyiv. Let no one be late

- Agreed

Meanwhile, Alexander lay on the bed, feeling exhaustion and pain slowly recede. The air was thick with the scent of incense and dampness; the crackling fire in the hearth was the only sound tethering him to reality.

His body still ached from the wounds, but not enough to keep him immobile. His eyes wandered across the stone ceiling, where the torchlight danced in restless reflections.

He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening. This wasn't a dream. The cold stone floor, the weight of the blanket, the flickering flames - it was all too real to be an illusion. And then there was the pain.

- I'm in Kievan Rus, - he whispered to himself. - This can't be real…

He turned onto his side, feeling a sharp pain in his ribs, and stared at the wall. His thoughts darted between the past and the present, as though two worlds were tearing his consciousness apart. What was he supposed to do? How could he live in this world? How could he return home?

- I have to go back. I don't belong in this time. My life is there… - But his voice faltered, barely audible in the silence. - Is there anyone waiting for me?

The question cut so sharply that even the pain momentarily receded. Who truly waited for him in that world? A wife who had left, taking their child, because he couldn't offer them anything but empty promises? Parents who were no longer alive? Relatives, scattered across their own lives? A job he hated but endured for the sake of stability?

- No, - he whispered, closing his eyes. - No one is waiting for me there

His breath hitched, and he fought to suppress the surge of pain that gripped both his body and soul. But his gaze fell on an object lying beside him on the bed. A simple book. The kind of book that had been plentiful in his 21st century - but here, in Kievan Rus? How? From where? Could it be…

His fingers slowly reached out, brushing the dark cover as if it might vanish at his touch. His heart pounded as the familiar texture confirmed his suspicions. He had seen it before. Turning it over, he read the title slowly:

"How to Survive and Transform the Medieval World"

The book he had been reading before it all began. His breathing quickened as he hurriedly opened it and began flipping through the pages. The words danced before his eyes, almost beckoning him into this new, terrifying world:

"A practical guide for those who not only wish to survive but also to achieve power in the harsh world of the past"

Alexander froze, realizing he was holding something extraordinary. His fingers traced the lines, feeling their weight. How had this book ended up here? And why? But there were no answers - only the lines that seemed to be written specifically for him.

He started reading. Advice on building fortresses, developing economies, negotiating with lords, recruiting armies, avoiding betrayal. Each word came to life before his eyes. He turned the pages until one phrase pierced his consciousness like a knife:

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

His gaze lingered on those words. He closed the book and set it aside. His heart was still racing, and his eyes burned with newfound fire.

- Hadn't I always dreamed of this? - he muttered.

In his youth, he had loved stories about knights, kings, and great battles. He could spend hours imagining himself in armor, shaping destinies on the battlefield. But now, facing the truth, Alexander understood that this world was far from romantic dreams.

This world was brutal. His brothers, his family - even if they weren't truly his - had been mercilessly slaughtered. He was the only one left. But solitude brought something else: a chance.

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

He clenched his fists, feeling tension surge through his body. This was no longer a dream from books or youthful fantasies. This had become his reality.

Alexander realized that if he merely drifted with the current, he was doomed. This world spared no one who showed weakness.

Here, the law was made of Iron and Blood.

- I will survive, - he said softly at first, but his voice grew stronger, gaining a steel edge. - And I will become the Great Prince of Kievan Rus