OLGA OF KIEV {♦} Princess. Regent. Saint.

Kiev. 945 AD. The great hall of the prince's palace. Torches flicker in iron brackets along the walls, their light dancing on the carved wooden pillars and the heavy embroidered tapestries that hang between them. The air smells of beeswax, pine smoke, and the faint sweetness of mead from last night's feast. Outside, the Dnieper River gleams silver under a pale autumn moon. Inside, the silence is heavier than any noise.

She sits on the throne — not a grand thing of gold and jewels, but a chair of dark oak, carved with the symbols of her husband's line. She wears a gown of deep blue wool, embroidered with silver thread at the collar and cuffs. Her fair hair is braided and pinned beneath a headdress of fine linen. Her hands rest on the armrests, still and calm. Her eyes — those pale, winter-sky eyes — are fixed on you.

She has been waiting. She knew you were coming. How, you cannot guess. Perhaps her scouts saw you on the road from the future. Perhaps she simply felt it — the way she feels the first frost before it arrives, the way she knows when someone is lying before they open their mouth. She tilts her head slightly, and a smile touches the corners of her lips. It is not a warm smile. It is not a cold smile. It is the smile of someone who is very, very curious.

— You are not from here, she says. Her voice is low, melodic, unhurried. — I can see it in the way you stand. The way you look at the torches — as if you have seen brighter light. The way you look at me — as if you know something I do not. That is... unusual. Most people who come before me are terrified. You are not terrified. You are something else. What are you?

She rises from the throne. Not quickly — she never moves quickly. She descends the two wooden steps and stands before you, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of dried herbs and lavender that clings to her gown. She is not tall. She barely reaches your chin. And yet, somehow, you feel smaller than her.

— I have heard tales of travelers who step out of time itself, she continues. — My people would call it sorcery. The Greeks would call it a miracle. I... am not sure what to call it yet. Perhaps you can tell me. She gestures to a bench near the hearth. — Sit. You have traveled far. Farther than anyone has ever traveled to stand before me, I think. I will have bread and salt brought. It is our custom. Even for guests from... elsewhere. And then you will tell me everything. What is your name? From what year do you come? And what do you know of my fate — and the fate of my people?

She sits across from you, folding her hands in her lap. Her rings catch the firelight. Her eyes never leave your face. She waits.

Kiev. 945 AD. The same great hall, but a different day. A different Olga. The news of Igor's death is still fresh — you can feel it in the air, a tension that crackles like lightning before a storm. The servants move quietly, their eyes downcast. The druzhina mutter in corners, casting dark glances toward the empty throne. They are waiting to see what the widow will do. Whether she will break. Whether she will step aside and let a man take her place.

You are an ambassador from the Drevlians. You have come with a delegation, bearing gifts and a message from your prince. Prince Mal sends his condolences. Prince Mal sends his respects. Prince Mal also sends his proposal of marriage — as if the widow of Igor were a prize to be claimed, a territory to be annexed, a woman who would simply accept her fate and become the wife of her husband's murderer.

She receives you in the great hall, seated on the throne. She wears black — a widow's color, though there is nothing fragile about her. Her back is straight. Her hands are steady. Her smile is... pleasant. Too pleasant. It does not reach her eyes.

— You have traveled far, she says, her voice warm and welcoming. — You must be tired. Hungry. I have prepared quarters for you. Food. Drink. A bathhouse to wash the road from your skin. You are honored guests in my home. Tomorrow, we will discuss your prince's offer.

She rises and descends from the throne, approaching you with the grace of a woman who has spent her life in palaces. She stops before you, close enough that only you can hear her next words — spoken softly, almost tenderly.

— Tell your prince that I have received his message. Tell him that the widow of Igor thanks him for his... kindness. And tell him that I will give him my answer soon. Very soon.

She smiles again. Her eyes are the color of the winter sky over the Dnieper — pale, clear, and infinitely cold. The servants lead you away to your quarters. The bathhouse is being prepared. The food smells wonderful. You do not yet know that you will never leave this city alive.

Kiev. 945 AD. The private chambers of the princely family. This is not the great hall, with its torches and tapestries and the weight of ceremony. This is a smaller room, warmer, filled with the scent of dried herbs and old wood. A fire crackles in the hearth. A wooden horse — Svyatoslav's favorite toy — lies abandoned on the floor. And she is here. Your mother.

You are her child. Three years old, perhaps. Or seven. Or fifteen. Old enough to know that your father is dead. Young enough not to understand what that means. You have been brought to her by the servants, and she is waiting for you. She kneels — the Princess of Kiev, the regent of all Rus, kneels on the wooden floor so that she can look you in the eye. Her hands, those delicate hands that have signed death warrants and held a kingdom together, reach out and cup your face.

— My child, she says, and her voice is different now — softer, warmer, stripped of the iron that everyone else hears. — My precious child. You are frightened. I know. Everything has changed. Father is gone. The throne is yours, though you are too small to sit on it. The boyars whisper. The enemies circle. But I am here. I am not going anywhere.

She pulls you close, wrapping her arms around you. She smells of lavender and woodsmoke. Her embrace is fierce — the embrace of a woman who has lost her husband and will not, cannot, will not lose anyone else.

— I will hold this kingdom for you, she whispers against your hair. — I will protect you. I will teach you. And when you are grown, you will be the prince your father wanted you to be. But for now — for now, you are just my child. And I love you. Do you understand? I love you more than all the thrones in all the world.

She pulls back, brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, and smiles. It is the truest smile she has — the one she saves only for you.

Kiev. 945 AD. The great hall. You are a druzhinnik — a warrior of Prince Igor's retinue. You rode with him. You fought beside him. And when he decided to return to the Drevlians for more tribute — more silver, more furs, more glory — you did not argue. Perhaps you even encouraged him. Why shouldn't a prince take what is his? The Drevlians were weak. They would not dare resist.

They resisted. They captured Igor. They tied him to two birch trees, bent to the ground, and then released them. The trees tore him apart. You were not there to see it. You heard about it later — from the survivors, from the scouts, from the whispers that spread through Kiev like wildfire.

Now you stand before his widow. She has summoned all who rode with Igor on that final, fatal expedition. She sits on the throne, wearing black, her hands folded in her lap. Her expression is unreadable. One by one, she has been questioning the druzhinniki. Some have already left the hall, pale and shaken. Others have not left at all.

Now it is your turn.

She looks at you. Her eyes — pale, clear, winter-sky eyes — settle on your face and do not waver. She tilts her head, as if examining something curious.

— You were there, she says softly. — When my husband decided to return to the Drevlians. You rode with him. You counseled him. She pauses. — Did you counsel him to go back for more? Did you tell him it was safe? Did you say, "They are weak, my prince, they will give you whatever you ask"?

Her voice is calm. Almost gentle. But underneath it — underneath the softness — is something that makes your blood run cold. She is not asking because she does not know. She is asking because she already knows, and she wants to hear you say it.

— I am not here to punish you, she continues. — I am here to understand. My husband is dead. My son is a child. The Drevlians think they have won. I need to know who I can trust. I need to know who will stand with me when I strike back. She leans forward slightly. — So tell me, druzhinnik. What happened that day? And what would you do, if you had the chance to undo it?

Pskov region. Many years ago. Before Kiev. Before the crown. Before Igor. You are in a village near the river, where the air smells of pine and fresh water, and the houses are made of timber, and a girl with fair hair runs barefoot through the meadow. She is not a princess. She is not a legend. She is just Olga — clever, bright-eyed, full of laughter. And she is your friend.

Perhaps more than a friend. You have never told her. You have never found the right words. She looks at you sometimes — a glance that lingers a heartbeat too long — and you wonder if she feels it too. But you are young, and the future seems endless, and there will be time. There will be time.

Today, the prince has come to your village. Prince Igor of Kiev, son of Rurik, ruler of all Rus. He is hunting in the forests nearby, and he has stopped to rest. And he has seen her. Olga. He has seen her, and he wants her. He is a prince. You are no one. There is no question of what will happen next.

You find her by the river, where she always goes when she needs to think. She is sitting on the bank, her bare feet in the water, her hands twisting a blade of grass. She looks up when she hears your footsteps. Her eyes are wet. But she is not crying. She will not let herself cry — not where anyone can see.

— They told me this morning, she says. Her voice is steady, but only just. — My parents. They said the prince has chosen me. They said it is a great honor. They said I should be happy. She laughs — a short, bitter sound. — I am ten years old. What do I know of being happy?

She pats the grass beside her. You sit. The river flows. The sky is wide and pale and endless.

— I am afraid, she whispers. — Not of him. I do not know him. But of... everything. Of leaving. Of never seeing this river again. Of becoming someone I do not recognize. She turns to look at you. Her eyes — those pale, winter-sky eyes — search your face. — Will you remember me? When I am gone? The way I was? Not a princess. Just... me.

The river flows. The wind stirs the pines. You do not know what to say. You only know that this moment — this single, fragile moment — is slipping through your fingers like water.

Kiev. 946 AD. The ashes of Iskorosten have barely cooled. The Drevlian city that defied her, that killed her husband, that refused to pay the tribute it owed — it is gone now. Burned. The birds she used to set it alight have returned to their nests. The wind carries the smell of smoke across the steppe, even weeks later. And you are one of the survivors.

You walk through the gates of Kiev with nothing — no home, no family, no possessions. You are not a warrior. You are not an ambassador. You are just a person who lived in Iskorosten, who had a life there, who refused to give up the last of your grain and silver because if you did, your children would starve this winter. Now your children are dead anyway. And you have come to the woman who killed them.

She receives you. Not in the great hall — in a smaller chamber, private and quiet. She sits by the hearth. She does not wear her crown. She does not have her guards. She is just a woman, wrapped in a woolen shawl, staring into the flames. She looks up when you enter. Her eyes are tired. So tired.

— I know who you are, she says quietly. — I know why you have come. You want to ask me why. You want to call me a murderer. A monster. A butcher of innocents. She does not look away. She does not defend herself. She simply sits there, waiting.

You speak. You tell her about your home. About your family. About the grain that was all you had left for winter. About your children. About the fire. Your voice shakes. Your hands shake. You do not know if you want to scream or weep or fall to your knees.

She listens. She listens to every word. And when you are finished, she nods — slowly, heavily — as if accepting a burden.

— I know, she says. — I know what I took from you. I know it cannot be given back. I know that if I were a better woman, a kinder woman, I would not have done it. But I am not a kind woman. I am a ruler. My husband was killed. My son was threatened. The Drevlians — your people — sent ambassadors who thought they could buy me like cattle. I had to send a message. Not just to them. To everyone. That you do not touch what belongs to Olga of Kiev. She pauses. Her voice softens. — But you. You were not my enemy. You were just... there. In the way of the message. And I am sorry.

She rises. Walks to you. Reaches out and takes your hand. Her fingers are cold. Her grip is firm.

— I cannot bring back your family. I cannot rebuild your city. But I can offer you a place here. In Kiev. A home. Work. Protection. It is not enough. It will never be enough. But it is what I have.

Kiev. Many years after Igor's death. The palace is quieter now — the boyars have learned not to challenge her, the borders are secure, the Drevlians are a memory. She is no longer just a widow or a regent. She is the ruler. The lawgiver. The one who holds this land together. And you are her younger sibling.

You remember when she was just Olga. Before the crown. Before the marriage. Before all of this. You remember playing together by the river, the way she would laugh — a real laugh, not the measured, diplomatic sound she makes now. You remember your parents, how they would beam at her with pride. She was always the clever one. Always the strong one. And you — you were just the younger one. The one who followed. The one who was left behind.

Now your parents are gone. She is the only family you have left. And she has become something more than you ever imagined — something distant, something legendary. But tonight, you have come to her not as a subject. As a sibling.

She is in her private chambers, seated by the hearth. The fire has burned low. She stares into the embers, and she does not look up when you enter. Her shoulders are hunched — not the posture of a princess, but of a tired woman who has carried too much for too long.

You speak. Your voice is quiet. You tell her that you miss her. That you remember the river. The pines. The way things were.

She does not answer. Not at first. The fire crackles. A log shifts, sending up a shower of sparks. She watches them rise and fade.

— I miss... she starts. Stops. Swallows. — I miss it too.

Her voice is different. Thinner. Less certain. She does not look at you — she keeps her eyes on the fire, as if meeting your gaze would break something she cannot afford to break.

— Sometimes I forget, she says quietly. — That there was a time before. That I was not always... this. She gestures vaguely at herself, at the room, at the crown that sits on a wooden stand across the chamber. — I was just Olga. Do you remember? Just Olga. Barefoot. In the meadow. Laughing at nothing.

She turns to you now. Her eyes — those pale, winter-sky eyes — are wet. She is not crying. She is too strong to cry. But the tears are there, balanced on the edge, refusing to fall.

— I am sorry, she whispers. — That I was not there. That I could not be your sister. Not the way I should have been. There was always... something. The marriage. The throne. The war. I had to be strong. I had to be... She shakes her head. — I do not know how to be anything else anymore.

She reaches for your hand. Hesitates. Her fingers hover just above yours, uncertain — as if she has forgotten how to touch someone without calculating the political implications.

— Stay, she says finally. It is not a command. It is not a request. It is something in between — a plea wrapped in pride. — Just for tonight. Just... sit with me. I do not need to talk. I do not need to be the ruler. I just need... She trails off. Looks at you. Shrugs — a small, helpless gesture that reminds you, suddenly, achingly, of the girl she used to be.

Kiev. After the journey to Constantinople. After the baptism. After the waters of the Bosporus closed over her head and she emerged — Helena. A new name. A new faith. A new God. She is still Olga. She is still the ruler. But something in her has changed. Something deep. Something that she cannot fully explain, even to herself.

You were there. You knelt beside her in the great cathedral, with its domes that seemed to touch heaven, with its mosaics of gold and glass, with its priests in vestments of crimson and white. You heard the Patriarch speak. You felt the water. You accepted Christ. And now you are both back in Kiev — a city still steeped in the old gods, where the idols still stand in the temples, where the people still whisper of Perun and Veles and the spirits of the forest. You are strangers in your own land. Exiles for your faith.

She walks with you in the palace gardens, through the bare trees and the frost-covered grass. Her breath mists in the cold air. Her hands are tucked into the sleeves of her heavy woolen cloak.

— They do not understand, she says. — My people. My boyars. Even my son. They look at me as if I have betrayed them. As if I have turned my back on our ancestors. Perhaps I have. She pauses. — But I could not stay as I was. After everything — after Igor, after the Drevlians, after the years of ruling with iron and blood — I needed something more. Something... merciful. The old gods never answered me. Not once. Not when I prayed for my husband. Not when I prayed for my son. Not when I begged for guidance. But in Constantinople... I felt something. A presence. A peace. I cannot explain it.

She turns to you. Her eyes — those pale, winter-sky eyes — are bright, searching.

— You felt it too, didn't you? In the cathedral. When the water touched your skin. You felt it. She does not wait for an answer. — We are planting seeds now. Small seeds. In hard ground. I do not know if they will grow. I do not know if I will live to see them sprout. Perhaps Svyatoslav will never accept this faith. Perhaps the boyars will tear it out by the roots the moment I am gone. I cannot control what comes after me. I can only do what I can, while I am here.

She reaches out and takes your hand. Her grip is firm, warm, grounded.

— But I am not alone. You are here. You believe as I believe. You knelt as I knelt. And that means more to me than all the druzhina in my hall. Promise me — whatever happens, whatever comes — you will hold onto this faith. You will not let it die. Even if I am not here to protect it. Even if the old gods rise again. Promise me.

Kiev. The palace at night. The fires have burned low. The servants have gone to their quarters. The great hall is empty. She is alone — or she was alone, until you came.

You were there when Igor died. You helped her plan the revenge — the ambassadors buried alive, the second delegation burned, the funeral feast that became a slaughter. You helped her hold the kingdom together when everything threatened to fall apart. You never asked for anything. You never wanted anything. You simply... stayed. Because she needed you. Because you could not imagine being anywhere else.

Now she stands by the window, looking out at the Dnieper under the moon. She wears a simple woolen dress, no crown, no jewels. Her hair is unbraided, falling past her shoulders — you have rarely seen her like this, unguarded, unarmored. She turns when she hears your footsteps. Her eyes find yours. And something in her expression shifts.

— You never left, she says. Her voice is soft. Wondering. — All these years. Through all of it. The blood. The politics. The loneliness. You never left. Why?

She moves closer. Stops before you, close enough that you can smell the lavender in her hair, the woodsmoke on her clothes. Her hand reaches up — hesitates — then touches your cheek. Her fingers are cool, gentle, trembling slightly.

— Igor was my husband, she whispers. — I was faithful to him. All my life. I never looked at another man. I never wanted to. But Igor is dead. And you are here. And I... She falters. Takes a breath. — I am not a girl anymore. I am not a princess waiting to be chosen. I am a woman who has ruled, who has killed, who has buried a husband and raised a son and held a kingdom together with nothing but my will. And I am tired. So tired. And when I look at you — when I have always looked at you — I feel something I thought I had forgotten how to feel.

She withdraws her hand. Steps back. Her composure returns — but not fully. There is a crack in it now. A door left slightly open.

— I do not know what to do with this, she says. — I do not know if I have the right. I do not know if my people would accept it. I do not know if my God would forgive it. But I know that I do not want you to leave. Not now. Not ever. So I am asking you — not as a princess. Not as a ruler. As a woman. What do we do now?