Chapitre 2: Awakening
The darkness was alive, like a dense cloud, cold and all-encompassing. It dug into his body with sticky, harsh tendrils, dragging him into a void where there was neither time nor escape. Eternity compressed into a single moment - infinite and frozen.
The air around him was thick, as though filled with viscous tar. Every breath was a struggle, as if his lungs were clenched in metal vices, leaving behind a painful, burning sensation. His throat tightened, refusing to let through this dense, poisonous air.
Alexander tried to move. His body felt forgotten, his muscles unresponsive. His arms and legs seemed alien, as if he were sinking into quicksand pulling him deeper and deeper. Panic rose like a cold wave, engulfing his consciousness, drowning it.
Cold sweat dripped down his back. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, as though it would burst through his ribs at any moment. His breathing came in ragged gasps. He was trapped. Helpless. Cornered by his own fear.
And then - a flash of light.
Fummm
Blinding radiance shattered the darkness like lightning striking at his very soul. The light tore through the void - sharp, merciless, and searing to the eyes. Alexander flinched, squeezed his eyes shut, recoiled, but the light had already filled everything.
Then came the sound - deep, heavy, like the toll of a great battle bell. It echoed through the void, breaking it into fragments.
The world cracked.
The sound of shattering glass deafened him. The splintering penetrated deeper than his ears - it vibrated through every cell of his body. The darkness scattered. The void vanished as if it had never existed. In its place, reality remained.
When Alexander opened his eyes, he saw battle. Radomir, standing firm as an unyielding wall, shielded him from the enemy's onslaught. Anna, her bowstring taut, loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark.
The stench of burning wood and iron hit his nostrils. Smoke and blood mingled in the air, saturating it with a heavy thickness. The clang of swords rang loudly in his ears, drowning out everything else.
The scene was so vivid, so horrifying, it felt as though he had just stepped back from the edge of hell itself.
Instinctively, he raised his hand, but instead of a sword, it grasped at nothing. His trembling palm fell uselessly onto something hard. His gaze froze on his rough, scarred, calloused hands. These hands… They looked foreign.
Alexander felt his chest tighten. The air around him grew sticky, viscous, like tar.
- It's a dream… - he whispered, barely finding the strength to speak. His voice came out hoarse, like after a long scream. - It's still just a dream…
He tried to rise, but a sharp pain pierced his ribs like a hot knife. His body refused to obey. Every muscle, as if filled with lead, rebelled against his will. He collapsed heavily back down, feeling the cold, rough texture of wood beneath his skin.
And then the pain washed over him again - sharp, burning, relentless. It was too real. He froze, his heart pounding faster. Pain couldn't be part of a dream. It pulsed with every breath, with every attempt to move, bringing an unbearable clarity.
- Dreams can't hurt… - he rasped. The thought echoed in his mind, tearing through the fog of disbelief. But if this wasn't a dream, then what was it?
Alexander looked at his hands again. His fingers instinctively clenched, as if searching for a weapon. His mind struggled to push away the images flashing before his eyes: faces, screams, desperate gazes. But the visions only grew sharper, scorching his memory with their unbearable vividness.
- These… aren't my hands… - he murmured, barely moving his lips. His eyes darted around the room, catching on the cracks in the walls, the faint flicker of torches. The stone walls and damp air had nothing in common with his familiar reality. But the pain reminded him this wasn't a dream.
He closed his eyes, but even in the darkness, the images burned brightly. Radomir, bleeding, standing his ground to the death for his prince. Anna, pulling her bowstring and shouting at him to keep moving forward. Their voices rang in his ears like echoes from the battlefield. They were dying for him.
- No… This is impossible… - he rasped, feeling his body once again overcome by weakness. He turned his head, feeling his muscles protest even the slightest movement. - It's a dream. It's still a dream…
But the pain wouldn't leave. It burned in his chest, in his ribs, in every nerve, piercing his body like undeniable proof to the contrary. The thought that this wasn't a dream grew clearer, pressing on his consciousness, which refused to accept reality.
- Am I dead? Or is this hell? - his voice trembled, coming out as a whisper. His hands rose to his face, his fingers feeling his nose, his cheekbones, his lips - everything felt foreign, wrong.
He inhaled sharply, feeling the pain and fear thicken in his chest. Reality, dreams, memories - what was this? Everything blurred together, confusing his mind, but the pain, that cursed pain, wouldn't let him drift away.
Alexander gasped sharply, trying to steady the tremble that seized him like waves from a cold lake. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus, to control his breathing as he had done in his previous life when managing stress.
Breathing. Awareness. Action. It had always worked. But not now. Now it felt like the world was falling apart, like fragile glass shattering into pieces that could never be put back together.
- Your Highness, you've awakened. Praise the gods!
A voice, firm and deep like the blast of a war horn, pierced through the viscous veil of chaos. Alexander struggled to open his eyes, a sharp pain stabbing at his temples. He blinked several times, trying to focus.
In front of him, near the wall, stood a man - broad-shouldered and strong, with a thick, graying beard. His face, rough as stone, bore an expression of calm determination, and his heavy gaze clung to Alexander like to a final hope.
- Where am I? Who are you? - Alexander asked, and his voice sounded foreign to him. Hoarse, broken, as though it had escaped from someone else's throat. Instinctively, he raised a hand and touched his neck - he felt no pain, but exhaustion weighed heavily on his entire body.
- You are safe, my prince. That is what matters most, - the man said firmly, though his voice carried weariness, as if these words were backed by weeks of sleepless nights. - I am Stanislav, boyar to your father and leader of his druzhina. I swore to protect Prince Izyaslav… but I failed. Now I swear to protect you
Prince? Izyaslav?
The words echoed in Alexander's mind like a distant gong. He stared intently at Stanislav's face, searching for any hint that this was a joke or a mistake. But the man radiated such grim confidence that Alexander's heart tightened.
- My… father? - The words escaped his lips with difficulty. The pounding in his head grew stronger, like a thousand hammers striking at once.
Stanislav nodded, his expression darkening.
- Forgive me, my prince. We could not save your brothers.
Brothers? - Alexander felt something crack inside. The word cut through his consciousness, triggering flashes of images. Faces, voices, the clash of swords - all of it surged like waves. He clutched his temples, trying to stop the onslaught of pain, but it only intensified.
- I… don't have brothers… - he whispered, but the words sounded unconvincing, as though his own memory was betraying him. Images began to flash before his eyes - vivid, as if relived, but belonging to another life.
He saw Izyaslav - the eldest brother, whose calm and confidence had always both impressed and irritated Alexander. The memory surfaced like a vivid painting: Izyaslav looking at him with a composed gaze, speaking in a low, assured voice:
- Alexander, you are a master of the sword, but a state is not ruled by the blade. Kyivan Rus' demands intellect, not strength
These words carried a fatherly tone, but beneath them lay a cold strictness that Alexander had never wanted to heed.
Next came the image of Sviatoslav. His laughter, loud as thunder, and the smirk with which he always teased:
- Still sharpening your swords, brother? Try negotiating with the boyars - that's where the real battle is!
Sviatoslav was sincere, but his jests about politics always grated on Alexander's nerves. He despised such discussions - they felt hollow to him.
Vsevolod appeared next, stern yet fair. He always spoke directly, avoiding unnecessary words:
- Alexander, everyone has their place. Yours is on the battlefield. But remember, even a warrior must understand what he fights for
That voice echoed like a truth Alexander had once tried to escape, diving instead into training and hardening his body.
And finally, Vacheslav - kind and caring. His softness set him apart from the others.
- Alexander, life isn't just about war. Look at the world. Isn't it beautiful? - he often said, smiling. Vacheslav had tried to bring light into Alexander's life, but the younger brother, consumed by training and combat, dismissed his advice.
These images shifted so quickly that Alexander's head spun. The memories overwhelmed him in waves - he saw his brothers parting ways after their father's death, each departing to rule their own domain. They had been united only in memory, but reality had long since torn their bond apart.
- They're all… dead? - Alexander barely whispered, feeling the words stick in his throat. His voice trembled, and his breathing grew uneven. He gripped the edge of the table as if it could anchor him against the crushing weight of the truth.
- The Poles, Hungarians, Pechenegs, and Cumans struck all at once. Prince Izyaslav… - Stanislav took a deep breath. - He was in the southern territories, inspecting the borders of the Kyivan Principality. The Cumans ambushed him in the forest, attacking without warning. His druzhina was surrounded. Izyaslav fought to the end, but there were too many of them. He fell as a warrior
Alexander closed his eyes, imagining the scene - Izyaslav, gripping his sword, standing firm among his loyal druzhina, battling wave after wave of enemies. The image felt too vivid, too real.
- Sviatoslav… - Stanislav continued, his voice growing quieter. - In Chernihiv, his army was attacked. The Cumans pretended to be merchants, infiltrated the city, and at night opened the gates to their forces. Sviatoslav personally led the defense, but he was mortally wounded. His men managed to drive out the enemy, but the prince did not live to see the dawn
Alexander clenched his teeth. He saw Sviatoslav in his memory - fierce, confident, wielding a sword. And now that image shattered into fragments.
- Vsevolod was struck down near Pereiaslav, - Stanislav said, his tone growing graver. - He was heading to the city to bolster its defenses. But the enemy already knew his route. An ambush. His druzhina resisted, but they had no chance. Vsevolod fought to the last to save his men
Alexander listened in silence, feeling a hollow void grow within his chest.
- And Vyacheslav? - he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.
- On the road to Smolensk. His detachment was ambushed. They tried to break through, but they were all slaughtered
Stanislav stepped forward, his gaze filled with pain, though he tried to mask it.
- We thought you had perished as well. When we arrived, you were the only one left alive
The words fell on Alexander like boulders, crushing him into the bed. He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. All of this… it couldn't be real. His rational mind clung to explanations but found none.
- This… is a dream… This is a dream! - he cried out, his voice echoing through the room. - I was reading a book! This is a dream!
He tried to rise, but pain shot through his body. His chest, shoulders, ribs - everything ached as if he had truly been in battle. His arms shook, unable to bear the weight of his own body. He collapsed back down, breathing heavily, sweat streaming down his temples and soaking his hair.
Stanislav stepped closer, his heavy footsteps echoing in the room. He folded his hands behind his back, watching Alexander. His face betrayed no emotion, only iron resolve.
- My prince, there are no other Rurikids left. Kyiv awaits you. You are their last hope
Alexander let out a bitter laugh, his chest heaving as if he were both laughing and crying.
- Hope? Me? You're mistaken. I'm no prince. I'm… just an ordinary man
Stanislav waited a few seconds, letting the prince's words hang in the air. Then he leaned forward slightly.
- You have no choice, my prince. Who else, if not you? Kyivan Rus' awaits its ruler, - he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of steel. - Rest now. This attack seems to have left deep scars - not only on your body but on your mind. We will do everything to ensure your safety
Before Alexander could protest, Stanislav bowed deeply and left the room without waiting for a response. At the threshold, he stopped and, in a measured yet firm voice, gave orders to his best warriors, Mstislav and Mirnomir:
- Guard the prince as if he were our greatest treasure. No one enters without my permission. Kill on sight if necessary
- Understood! - the warriors replied in unison, their faces unflinching.
Mstislav and Mirnomir took their positions, their gazes cold and their hands confidently gripping their sword hilts. They were the embodiment of resolve, ready to strike down anyone who dared approach. Stanislav, without slowing his step for a moment, strode purposefully toward the Council Hall.
Stanislav entered the Council Hall with a steady stride, as though carrying the weight of Kyivan Rus' destiny on his shoulders. His broad frame, accentuated by his wide shoulders, commanded both respect and a subtle sense of unease.
His footsteps broke the heavy silence. In the hall were two men - Metropolitan Illarion and Oleg, the head of the Boyar Administration. Illarion, known for his gentle yet firm faith, watched Stanislav's every move with hands clasped in a gesture of prayer. Oleg, by contrast, sat with a furrowed brow, as though his thoughts wandered far into the labyrinth of intrigue.
The other advisors - the chief general and the diplomat - were absent, each tending to tasks aimed at mitigating the crisis that threatened to unravel Kyivan Rus'. And the crisis was unprecedented.
The deaths of Yaroslav the Wise and his sons had shaken the realm. The princes' demise had given rise to rumors and mistrust. Who had orchestrated the ambush? The Cumans and Pechenegs, as witnesses claimed? Or were those behind it seeking power within Kyivan Rus' itself? Some whispered accusations against the Hungarians or Poles, but no evidence surfaced. The rumors grew like weeds after a rainstorm.
Illarion remained silent, but his gaze betrayed an anxious expectation. Oleg, always one to anticipate events, studied Stanislav's face intently, trying to guess what he might say.
- Praise the gods, Stanislav, - Illarion finally spoke, his voice soft but quivering with restrained tension. - What news of Prince Alexander?
Oleg lifted his head slightly, his narrowed eyes sharpening. The question was direct, but Oleg knew the answer could change everything. His lips tightened, as though bracing for something that might shatter the fragile order.
- The prince is alive, - Stanislav announced firmly, his voice rolling through the hall like a thunderclap. - Moreover, he has regained consciousness and, surprisingly, is recovering quickly
Illarion immediately clasped his hands in a prayerful gesture. His face lit up with joy he made no attempt to conceal.
- A blessing from above, - he whispered, then more loudly: - Our prayers have been heard. Kyivan Rus' will not be left without a ruler
Oleg maintained his composure, but his eyes gleamed with tension. He did not share the metropolitan's enthusiasm. The fact that Alexander had survived was unexpected. And in unexpected events, Oleg always saw danger.
- Hope still lives, - he said dryly, thoughtfully stroking his beard. - But we must not delude ourselves. The people need to know this. Kyivan Rus' must not be seen as weak. The prince lives, and power remains strong. But that alone is not enough
- The people must know, - Illarion nodded, his voice gaining firmness. - But haste is dangerous. The rumors of the princes' deaths are still fresh. Any misstep could ignite rebellion
Listening to them, Stanislav felt anger bubbling inside him. He knew they were both right, but it didn't lessen his irritation. These two men, each in their own way, pulled the country in different directions. And he stood between them, forced to maintain balance.
- We cannot allow chaos, - he finally said, struggling to keep his voice steady. - Alexander's survival is no accident. It's a sign. Kyivan Rus' needs him. And not just him - it needs all of us. If we think only of our own gain, we will destroy this country
Illarion nodded, his face remaining calm, though his eyes betrayed weariness.
- We must remember that a prince is not only a ruler but also a symbol. If the people believe the gods blessed his survival, it will strengthen their faith and Kyivan Rus'. We can restore order
- But the risk is too great, - Oleg leaned forward slightly, his voice predatory, like someone accustomed to seeing others' weaknesses. - What if the prince doesn't meet expectations? What if he's too weak to rule? Then what? Rebellions? War?
- Do you doubt divine will, Oleg? - Illarion raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but cold.
Oleg scoffed softly but said nothing.
Sensing the tense silence, Stanislav firmly added:
- Tomorrow, we will gather everyone. The heralds will announce the prince's return, and the priests will support his word. We don't have time for debates. Stability is the priority
He glanced at both men, his gaze filled with resolve.
- Alexander is the last of Yaroslav's sons. This is not a choice. This is destiny
Illarion folded his hands in a prayerful gesture again, his voice soft:
- Destiny or trial - it is not for us to judge. The important thing is to follow the truth
- Truth or profit? - Oleg retorted, rising from his seat. - Tomorrow, we'll decide how to proceed. But remember, Illarion, power is not only faith but also strength. The people need to see it. Without that, everything will collapse
Illarion fixed a piercing gaze on Oleg. His face remained calm, but a spark of firmness flashed in his eyes.
- Strength without faith is nothing but violence, Oleg, - he said, his voice soft yet imbued with steel. - The people do not merely see strength; they sense its righteousness. Without that, a ruler becomes a tyrant, and the people become a mob ready to rebel
Oleg smirked, though a hint of wariness flickered in his expression.
- Fine words, Illarion. But what is more important - ideals or maintaining order? If the prince proves weak, no prayers will save Kyivan Rus'. We need not just faith but pragmatism. Tomorrow, we will see the truth
Stanislav, standing between them, raised his hand, silencing them both. His gaze was heavy, his voice firm and unyielding.
- Enough. We don't have time for arguments. Each of you is right in your own way, but the priority now is preserving Kyivan Rus'. Alexander is the sole heir, and we must support him, give him a chance to prove himself. The people need to see that we are united in this decision
He cast a reproachful glance at both of them before sharply turning away.
- Tomorrow, - he repeated curtly, leaving the hall. His footsteps echoed through the tense silence.
Illarion and Oleg remained standing, each lost in thought, both fully aware that their argument was only the beginning of the trials to come.
Meanwhile Alexander lay motionless, feeling how fatigue and pain held him captive. His body ached, but no longer with the sharp, searing intensity that turned every breath into agony. The air was damp, saturated with moisture and a faint scent of incense. The only sound breaking the silence was the steady crackling of the fire in the hearth, its rhythmic cadence grounding Alexander to reality.
He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening. The cold rigidity of the surface beneath him, the rough texture of the blanket, the flickering firelight on the stone walls - all of it felt too real. Too tangible. The pain throbbed in his chest, his ribs, and every movement served as a constant reminder: this was no illusion.
- I'm… in Kyivan Rus', - he whispered faintly, his voice dry and raspy, unfamiliar even to himself.
The words echoed in his mind as though demanding confirmation. Alexander turned onto his side, wincing as a sharp pain pierced his ribs. His gaze settled on a cracked section of the wall.
His thoughts raced chaotically, as though two worlds were vying to tear his consciousness apart. The life he had left behind - a world of familiarity, predictability - and this strange new realm, brutal and bloody, demanding his full attention.
- I have to go back, - he murmured, though he hardly believed his own words. - I… don't belong here. My life is… there…
But his voice faltered, hanging in the stillness of the room. A question, sharp as a dagger, stabbed into his mind:
- Is anyone waiting for me there?
He froze. Even the pain seemed to retreat in the face of this revelation. Who had truly been left behind in his former world? A wife who had left, taking with her nothing but memories of unfulfilled promises? Parents who were gone? Colleagues? Relatives? A job he despised but endured for the illusion of stability?
- No, - he whispered, barely audible. His voice carried the weight of a confession he feared to acknowledge. - There's… no one there
The words burned his soul. He shut his eyes, but even in the darkness, fragments of his past emerged - blurry, distant, as though they belonged to someone else. His breathing grew uneven, his chest tightening under a wave of bitter regret. The pain within was far greater than any physical ache.
His gaze fell on an object lying beside him on the bed. A simple book. It hadn't drawn his attention at first, but now it seemed to call to him, as though it held the answers to everything.
His trembling fingers reached out for it. The dark, textured cover felt familiar. He froze, his heartbeat quickening. This couldn't be.
- How? - he exhaled, running his fingers over the surface, as if afraid the touch would dispel it. His eyes widened as he read the title:
"How to Survive and Change the Medieval World."
The very book he had held before being transported here. His breathing quickened, and his fingers tightened around the cover. He opened it, flipping through the pages. The words, both familiar and alien, leapt off the page as if each line were meant for him.
"A practical guide for those who seek not just survival but power in the harsh world of the past."
He froze, realizing he held something extraordinary. How had it ended up here? Why? These questions surged through his mind, but the answers dissolved into the silence. The book's lines captivated him, drawing him deeper into this new reality.
Advice on building fortresses, strengthening economies, negotiating with chieftains, rallying armies, and avoiding betrayal. Each word seemed to come alive, painting vivid images in his mind, as though the book itself was alive.
And then, one sentence struck him like a blade:
"Power is not granted to the weak. If you want to survive, use what you have: knowledge, cunning, resolve, and strength."
Alexander closed the book and set it beside him. His heart pounded so loudly it felt almost tangible. His eyes burned with the fire of someone who had found their answer.
- Isn't this what I've always wanted? - he murmured, staring at the ceiling in exhaustion.
He remembered the dreams of his youth - knights and kings, heroic deeds on the battlefield. But now, the romance of those dreams had vanished. All that remained was reality. This land was merciless. His "brothers" - even if they were not truly his memories - had fallen without mercy. There was no place for weakness here.
And suddenly, he understood. This was an opportunity. A chance to become what he could never be in his previous life. Not just to survive, but to change everything.
He clenched his fists, feeling tension ripple through his body, awakening his will. This was no longer a childhood dream.
This was a world of iron and blood, where survival was the law.
- I will survive, - he said quietly, but his voice was firm. His eyes shone with determination. - And I will become the Grand Prince of Kyivan Rus'
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone