Morning came reluctantly, as if unwilling to uncover the sky hidden behind heavy grey-brown clouds.
Vilk opened his eyes slowly, feeling the chill and dampness seeping through the cracks of the old manor walls even before his thoughts found their way back to the waking world. The weather had turned suddenly, as though the earth sought repayment for its earlier kindness.

Rain lashed with merciless rhythm, drumming a somber cadence against the tiles, while the wind tore through the treetops, bending them into deep, painful bows. Even the manor itself — lately brought back to life by Vilk’s and Sika’s hands — seemed strange and hostile today, as if unwilling to accept the changes forced upon it by human will.

Vilk rose, stretching slowly, feeling the familiar tension of muscle beneath his skin. Three days’ stubble and his tousled dark hair gave him a rugged, worn look. He pulled on his dark executioner’s jerkin — fitted, functional, reinforced with leather — and buckled his belt with knives attached. Ever watchful. Ever ready.

In the corridor, he ran into Sika, already bustling about since dawn, directing repairs and making sure the workers didn’t slack. She wore a loosely thrown jacket, her short thick hair even more disheveled than usual.

— Weather suits your mood — she teased, giving him a quick look-over. There was amusement in her eyes, but also fatigue. The night at Jan’s had left its mark on them both — faint, but present.

Vilk sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the weariness that clung to him like the damp of morning.
— Seems that way — he muttered, voice rough from sleep. A dull throb pulsed behind his temples, not quite pain, but a reminder of the previous night — the laughter, the talk, the flickering candlelight in Jan’s hall.

At the doorway, he caught a glimpse of Kiki. She was barely visible — a shadow merging with the wooden walls, too subtle to call a full presence. The air around her trembled faintly, as though carrying the echo of a movement just past.

— Come back — she whispered, her voice a breath, or perhaps just the shape of a thought. — This house remembers who lived within its bones.

Vilk glanced at her briefly, uncertain whether he’d truly heard her or if her presence alone had conjured the words. He nodded slightly, turned, and walked on. Kiki was not the kind that needed answers — it was enough that her whispers lingered in the walls.

Grym waited for him by the door. The dog sat calmly, his scars and greying fur blending into the dim corridor.
— Stay — Vilk said, resting his hand on the coarse fur. — I’ll be back before nightfall.

Grym raised his head, pale eyes calm, knowing. In that gaze, Vilk saw something he couldn’t name — as if the beast already sensed what lay ahead.

Moments later, Vilk mounted his horse, pulled his hood over his head, and rode toward Tarnów, letting the rain wash across his face, as though it might cleanse him of the day yet to come.

The road passed in silence — only the whistle of wind and the rhythmic thud of hooves against wet ground. Entering the town, Vilk felt a faint unease. The streets were strangely empty, the weather having driven everyone to shelter. But what struck him most was the absence of a familiar figure — Jagna, who usually lingered near the market or the gates. Her absence left a hollow note in him.

He stopped by the bakery, stepping into the warm air heavy with the scent of bread and damp ash from the oven. He met no one’s gaze. There was no need.
The loaf was already there — set aside, its underside turned to the ceiling, as if its purpose were beyond question, needing no words or exchange. Vilk picked it up without hesitation and left as quietly as he came. He didn’t have to look back to know the baker’s eyes would follow him long after he was gone.

He reached the executioner’s house quickly. The air hung wet and cold, the darkness of the dungeons breathing faintly with its own slow rhythm. Vilk walked the stone corridors; his boots echoed dully off the walls. The stains of dirt and blood in the cracks of the floor reminded him of the recent days — of those who had shuffled across these same stones before falling still.

He didn’t linger. He worked. From the cupboard, he took his tools, inspecting each one in silence, reacquainting himself with their weight and feel. He flipped through the ledger, reviewing the latest decrees. He knew men lied — but he also knew that truth could be far more treacherous.

Some of the prisoners spoke to him, searching his face for anything human. He replied sparingly, watching their eyes, their hands. In a place like this, words were nothing — only nature mattered, the small betrayals of the body.

Time dripped away with the steady beat of water from the ceiling, the scrape of movement in distant corridors, and the muted clang of iron on wood. Eventually, Vilk closed the ledger, rubbed the back of his neck, and stood. He still had a few days before the hangman from Biecz would arrive. Until then, he’d do what he could to piece together the stories of those waiting below.

When he left, the rain had eased, but it still fell steadily, forming dark pools on the cobblestones. Vilk mounted again, listening to the muffled breath of the city sinking into dusk. Thoughts of Jagna still lingered, but he pushed them aside. He was too tired for riddles without answers.

By the time he reached home, the night had settled — heavy and cold. It was one of those days that ended just as heavily as they began.

It was deep in the night when Grym’s low, warning growl broke the silence. The sound was deep and trembling. Vilk opened his eyes, instinctively reaching for his weapon.

Outside, rain slashed the ground, and wind drove moisture through every crack of the old manor. In the dim light of the lantern by the gate, movement flickered — figures, a cart draped in tarps, horses stamping uneasily beneath the scent of the dog.

Sika appeared behind him, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. Behind them came the brothers — Jegor and Viktor — armed, eyes glinting like the eyes of wild beasts.

— Kto tut hodi? — Viktor growled, narrowing his eyes.
— Ne znaju... — muttered Jegor, tilting his head as if sniffing the air. — Oni sut... putniki? Kramari? Tanečniki?

One of the strangers — an older man, his face lined and furrowed, stepped forward, raising his hands in a calming gesture. Tall, lean, his long coat soaked from the road. His face bore the marks of hard years — deep lines around the mouth, skin drawn tight over sharp bones — yet his gaze remained steady. He spoke evenly, without fear, but weighing every word.

— Our mistake — he said slowly. — Years ago, this place stood empty. We’ve stopped here often on the road north. A familiar route. We didn’t know it had changed hands.

Vilk said nothing, studying them.

— Forgive us — the man added, still meeting his eyes. — But since we’re here... perhaps we can find a way to understand each other? The storm is fierce tonight.

Grym didn’t move, fur bristling faintly, eyes fixed. The air felt taut. Sika tilted her head, appraising them, waiting for more.

— We can repay your kindness — the man continued. — Let us stay till morning, till the storm passes. We can offer a show. Music. Trade, if that suits you. We’re no beggars. We make our own way.

Vilk listened. Then he saw movement.

A woman. Standing slightly behind the man, half-hidden beneath her cloak. When she lifted her gaze, he caught her eyes — golden, deep, almost hypnotic. She stood perfectly still, yet her look was deliberate, sure. Slowly, she stepped forward from behind her leader, as though it were only natural that she should speak.

— Surely we can come to an understanding — she said, her voice smooth and melodic. It slid softly over the skin, leaving a faint prickling in its wake. — There’s no need to stand on opposite sides.

Vilk didn’t answer at once. He studied her, unease still coiling inside. Her tone carried a quiet confidence — as if she already knew they would stay. As if it was only a matter of them realizing it too.

Sika glanced at him, waiting for a decision. The brothers held their ground, bodies tense, but it wasn’t theirs to make.

Vilk exhaled, listening to the silence between the patter of rain on stone. There was no malice in these people — no threat he could sense, only fatigue, the kind that settles deep after long roads. They wanted shelter, warmth, a place to breathe.

Sika arched an eyebrow but said nothing. She felt it too, though her eyes stayed wary. Vilk nodded at last, the decision quiet but firm.

— Leave your gear here. Horses to the stable — he said, gesturing toward the outbuildings. — Warm yourselves. I’ve no mind to argue over a roof in this weather.

The old man bowed slightly.
— We’re grateful, sir. We won’t trouble you.

He didn’t need to say more. The troupe moved with practiced ease — horses led to shelter, their nickers soon replaced by the soft sound of hay being chewed. Their packs were stacked neatly in the yard, the precision of habit showing in every motion. No chaos, no wasted effort — only rhythm.

Soon they gathered in the main hall. The air there was warmer now, though still raw — the house was slowly waking from its long sleep. Wet cloaks and fabrics hung near the hearth, where Sika had already kindled a fire.

Then the golden-eyed woman stepped closer to Vilk and, with natural grace, extended her hand. The gesture was confident but not forceful — deliberate, practiced. Vilk, almost instinctively, took her fingers and bowed slightly, brushing the back of her hand with his lips in a brief, courteous motion.

It lasted only a heartbeat, yet the tension in that moment was palpable to everyone in the room. She met his eyes again — those same deep, gleaming eyes he’d seen at the gate.

— Esther — she said softly, her smile disarming, as if she had already crossed the invisible line where others stopped.

Vilk nodded but didn’t speak. Sika watched the exchange with a raised brow, sighed, and reached for a bottle on the table.

— Well then, since introductions are done, we’ll drink — she said, pouring small portions into a few cups. — To seal the agreement. Pass it around, VILK.

Esther smiled faintly, stepping a little closer. There was warmth in her eyes — something more than gratitude — though Vilk didn’t let himself dwell on it. He sensed that every word, every move, was measured, just like the gesture before. Her presence carried weight — whether gift or warning, he couldn’t yet tell.

— We’ll talk tomorrow — said Vilk quietly, raising his cup.

— In good time — added the troupe leader, inclining his head.

They drank. The liquor was strong, burning pleasantly as it spread warmth through the body. Sika drained her cup, rubbing her neck and stretching lazily.

— Enough for tonight — she sighed. — Long day behind us, long night ahead. Rest now — we’ll talk in the morning. Welcome to our humble home. If you need anything, the boys are downstairs.

Vilk had no objections. He was tired, soaked, and heavy with the day. No reason to drag the night longer.

Jegor and Viktor stayed by the entry, motionless shadows at their posts. Sika tugged Vilk lightly toward the stairs. Their rooms above were still bare — spaces more than chambers — but rest was all that mattered now.

The troupe remained in the main hall, their shadows flickering along the walls in the fading firelight. No murmurs, no songs — only the quiet acceptance of night, wrapping the manor and its new guests in its cold, patient arms.

Vilk closed the door behind him, letting silence swallow the rest of his thoughts.

Share

Vilk woke early, before the first light of day broke through the clouds and the damp chill of morning crept into the manor’s halls.
For a while he lay still, listening. The building breathed differently now — the echo of soft steps downstairs, the crackle of wood in the hearth, the distant murmur of voices.
The troupe was already awake, though there was no careless bustle in their movements; they went about quietly, as if the place were not yet entirely theirs.

He rose slowly, stretching, feeling the strain in his muscles after a long night. The previous evening had been a strange blend of vigilance and calm. He knew the wanderers posed no threat, yet their presence shifted the air, changed the balance of the house.

Descending the stairs, he saw a few men moving their belongings into a more orderly heap in the courtyard while the rest spoke softly over their first meal.
The air smelled of damp wood, smoke, and the remnants of sleep.

Sika, already dressed and ready, was finishing her food, tightening the belt at her hips.
— I’m going to town — she said without looking up. — We weren’t prepared for guests, and the supplies will run out quick. I need to buy a few things.

Vilk nodded without comment. Sika was resourceful; he had no intention of getting in her way. Everyone here had their own role to play.

— I’ll be back later — she added, glancing at him sidelong. — Maybe with someone familiar.

He didn’t ask. If she wanted to explain, she would. He only nodded and went on toward the table where part of the troupe had gathered.
They were eating amid low conversation; the meal was simple — dry bread, strips of dried meat, a few vegetables drawn from their own stores.
Vilk joined them, listening as their talk flowed easily, without any particular purpose.

Esther sat opposite him. She smiled faintly but did not speak at once.
— Sleep well? — she asked at last, breaking the silence.
— Well enough — he said, breaking off a piece of bread. — And you?
— It’s not the first time we’ve slept under someone else’s roof — she replied with mild amusement. — But I’ll admit, this place... has a certain presence. As do its hosts.

Her eyes wandered about the room before settling back on him.
— Been through much, but still standing — he said, trying not to show how her nearness affected him.
— You’re not one for many words, are you, Mister Vilk? Never mind... we’ll fix that.

He shrugged and went on eating, yet he could feel her gaze linger on him. Around them, the rest of the company talked more animatedly — about art, purpose, the forces that moved people — until one word cut clean through the conversation.

— Sex!

For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then Vilk coughed sharply, choking on a crumb of bread.

— Sex drives us — Esther repeated, this time with firm conviction, as though the matter were beyond dispute. — We all know it. A man will ride to the world’s end, survive the worst storm, write the finest poem, cross every line he’s sworn never to cross, just to clear a path to that damp little seashell.

The air froze for a second — then one of the men burst into laughter.
— Esther! Angel of truth! You never miss the mark — like Cupid’s arrow itself!

Laughter rippled through the hall, and she only shrugged with charming indifference, casting a quick, sidelong glance at Vilk.
— Maybe it’s the house — she said playfully, still watching him. — Some places make you speak louder, feel more. As if the walls were listening.

The old leader of the troupe, silent until now, lifted his eyes from his plate.
— I remember this place when it stood empty — he said slowly. — We passed it a few times. It always seemed... dead.

Esther shook her head with a faint smile.
A hush followed, as though her words waited in the air for an answer.
— You can say many things about this house — she murmured, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup — but never that it was dead. It always had... something smouldering in it. A spark that refused to die out.

Vilk raised a brow and gave a quiet snort.
— You’ve no idea how right you are.

The old man looked at him curiously, but Vilk didn’t elaborate. The talk moved naturally toward the troupe’s plans.

— We were only meant to pass through — one of the men said, stretching his shoulders. — The road leads us to a larger town. But since we’re stopped already... we thought of staying a few days.
— And giving the people of Tarnów something they haven’t seen before — added Esther, her eyes gleaming. — Music, dance, tricks, stories. There’s never too much of that.

Vilk nodded slowly, finishing his drink.
— Hmm... I was planning to meet someone today — he said after a pause. — A friend. Maybe I’ll speak with him in town; we’ll see what can be arranged.

He realized only then how uncertain that word felt on his tongue. He hadn’t known Jan long, yet the weight of that friendship surprised him.

Esther smiled, as though she already knew the answer to a question he hadn’t asked.

The talk around the table flowed on easily. The troupe proved full not only of talent but of tales worth hearing. Esther, almost without him noticing, drew Vilk into the exchange, balancing jokes with subtle hints. He found himself listening to her despite himself. There was something magnetic about her that he couldn’t name — not merely her beauty, though that was near perfection — but a lightness, an effortless joy, a spark of life that seemed to brighten the very space around her.

Time passed faster than Vilk expected. Before he knew it, hours had gone, yet the rhythm of voices and laughter held steady. The fire burned high, and the rainy world outside the windows felt far away, irrelevant.

The door creaked open, and Sika stepped in.
She wasn’t alone.

The man beside her was one Vilk recognized instantly — the warrior he’d seen at Jan’s gathering. Now he had a clearer look at him. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like someone tempered by years of battle. His fair hair was cut high — sides and nape shaved close, the top left longer and combed back.
Pale blue eyes, sharp, set in a face marked by scars — one distinct, running from the right cheek down along the jawline. The rest of his features were hard, chiseled; his stance, that of someone long accustomed to carrying steel.

— Well, well, a proper meeting on the right ground — said the warrior with a faint smile, stepping closer.
Lech’s smile stayed subtle, yet his gaze was keen, weighing Vilk in silence.

Sika cast a quick, mischievous glance at Vilk, then winked.
— I thought that since we already have guests, it might be worth inviting another interesting one.
And besides, we were meant to meet today anyway. — Her tone was easy, almost casual. — After all, it’s worth celebrating that this house of ours is no longer just a haunt of ghosts and dust.
I figured we’d all sit down properly together.

Vilk studied her for a moment, but found no reason to object.
Over the past few days, the manor had indeed begun to breathe again. He nodded.

— Fine — he said at last. — But before we sit and talk, I need to ride to town. There are things to see to at the executioner’s house, and maybe I’ll catch Jan...

— I saw him earlier — said Lech with some enthusiasm. — Just before I met Sika. He should still be around, so you’ll likely cross paths.

Vilk gave a brief nod. — Then it’s settled.
— Whoever’s bound for the road shouldn’t waste daylight. Welcome to our humble hall, nonetheless. It still looks half like a battlefield, but for now we make up for it with good will.

After a few moments, he gathered what he needed and prepared to leave, leaving the manor in Sika’s and her guests’ hands.
Then the elder of the troupe — the silver-haired manager who had mostly stayed silent — finally spoke up, his voice calm and deliberate.

— If you’ll allow, Vilk — he began, steady and polite — I’ll ride with you. If we’re to perform in Tarnów, it’s better that someone see us firsthand. Easier to talk when people know whom they’re dealing with.

Vilk looked at him, considering. But before he could answer, Esther stepped forward.

— I’m coming too, — she said, her tone more statement than request.
Her golden eyes gleamed faintly in the muted light. — After all, if we’re to introduce ourselves, it’s best they like us from the start, don’t you think?

Vilk hesitated for a heartbeat.
He knew he should refuse — he didn’t need companions, least of all someone as distracting as Esther.
But when he met her eyes, saw that small smile and unshaken poise, he realized that, truly, the choice had already been made.

— Fine, — he muttered. — But we’re not stopping every mile. This is business, not a pleasure ride.

Esther laughed softly, as if his seriousness only amused her.
— Of course, Mister Vilk — she said lightly. — We’ll be on our best behavior.

He wasn’t so sure, but said nothing more.
A few minutes later, the three of them were on the road toward Tarnów, and Vilk had the uneasy feeling the day would hold more than he expected.

He was checking his horse’s tack when Esther came closer and looked down at Grym.
The dog, who had been watching everything in silence, lifted his head and tilted it slightly, studying the newcomer.

— Well, handsome sir, — Esther said softly, kneeling before him, — will you like me, or will we have to convince each other first?

Grym gave a low sound — not a growl, but a cautious hum.
Unbothered, Esther extended her hand for him to sniff. The dog snorted, then suddenly placed both massive paws on her knees and swept a heavy tongue across her cheek.

— Oh! — She laughed aloud, pushing at him gently, though her laughter betrayed more delight than annoyance. — So, that means we’re friends, yes?

Grym didn’t answer, of course, but wagged his tail and tugged playfully at her sleeve.
Vilk, watching the scene, raised an eyebrow.

— Strangely enough, he’s not growling — he remarked dryly.

Esther looked up through half-lidded eyes, smiling.
— Maybe I just know how to win over the most guarded hearts, — she teased, wiping the dog’s slobber from her hands.

Grym pawed at her again, playfully nipping at the edge of her cloak.
There was more mischief than menace in the gesture, and when Esther tugged the fabric back, he let out a deep, throaty sound that almost resembled a purr of satisfaction.

Vilk shook his head and mounted.
— Keep this up, and he might decide you’re his.
— He wouldn’t be the first, — Esther murmured with a sparkle in her eyes, patting Grym’s muzzle. — But don’t worry, Vilk. Not every bone’s meant for the dog.

The hound finally released her cloak, still watching her with what looked suspiciously like amusement.
Vilk only snorted and tugged on the reins.
— Mount up. We’re moving.

Tarnów was alive and restless.
By the time they arrived, the afternoon was in full swing — merchants calling from their stalls, craftsmen finishing morning orders, people bustling through the narrow streets.
The cobblestones still gleamed damp from the earlier rain, but the city pulsed with its usual rhythm.

Vilk rode through the gate, steering toward the executioner’s house, when a familiar voice called out from the side.

— Well, well! Turn your back for a moment, and here you are, playing host and taking in travelers for the night! —
Jan, smiling as always, emerged from the bakery with a loaf tucked under his arm. His eyes gleamed with amusement.
— And not just anyone — a whole troupe of performers! Who’d have thought?

Vilk reined in, pushed back his hood, and gave him a narrow look.
— Word travels fast, — he said simply.

— Fast indeed! — Jan laughed, waving the loaf. — People love a good story. And what’s better than the solitary executioner suddenly throwing open his doors to a band of colorful wanderers?

Vilk snorted softly, shaking his head, offering no comment.
Jan waited a beat for him to say more, then added:
— They’re planning to stay awhile, I hear?

— Maybe, — Vilk said. — They could put on a show. They were bound north anyway, but since they’re here, they might as well earn a few coins.

— That can be arranged. — Jan’s grin widened. — You’ll have to introduce me.

Vilk nodded and motioned for the others to come forward.
Esther approached with poised grace, bowing slightly, and the troupe’s elder inclined his head respectfully.

— Master Jan, — she said with a small smile, — we’ve heard of your hospitality.

Jan smiled in return, warmth in his tone.
— I hope you’ve heard only the good parts, fair lady, — he said lightly. — Else I’ll have to work twice as hard to change your mind.

He bent and brushed a courtly kiss across the back of her hand.
— Esther, — she introduced softly.
— How could it be otherwise, my lady Esther? —

Vilk cleared his throat, using the pause to speak.
— Since we’re on the topic — maybe you’ll come by the manor tonight? The troupe plans a small evening gathering. You should see for yourself what they can do.

Jan frowned, clearly calculating the weight of his duties.
— Vilk, my friend, I’ve my hands full today — permits to settle, traders to keep from killing one another... Your business might have to wait till tomorrow.

He studied Vilk’s face; before Vilk could answer, Esther leaned in, her tone laced with easy charm.

— Oh, Master Jan, — she sighed theatrically, running a finger along her cloak’s edge. — You can’t help us properly without knowing what we’re capable of, can you?

Jan looked at her, then at Vilk, caught somewhere between amusement and defeat.
Vilk didn’t bother to hide his smirk.
— Well, Jan? — he said. — Duty is duty, but surely you won’t turn down a lady’s request?

— Damnation... — Jan muttered, rubbing his face. — No promises, but I’ll come if I can.

Esther’s smile was triumphant; Vilk just nodded in quiet satisfaction.

He waited a moment longer, then leaned slightly toward Jan, lowering his voice.
— Listen... there’s something I need. Do you know anything about the manor’s past? Or could you find out? I’ve grown curious.

Jan raised an eyebrow, interest piqued by the change in tone. He studied Vilk’s expression, then shrugged lightly, smiling.
— You know how it is. Old houses lead to older tales. But I’ll see what I can dig up, — he said casually, though his eyes betrayed his own curiosity. — I’ll let you know what turns up.

— I can ask around, — he added. — Someone always knows something. But fair warning: once I start asking, half the town will start telling its own stories.

— I know, — Vilk replied. — Still, try.

Jan chuckled, then caught Esther’s gaze again — that lazy, amused look, the gleam of gold in her eyes that seemed to pull light toward her.
He cleared his throat quickly and looked away, as though remembering urgent business.

— Right, enough talk! — he exclaimed, clapping his hands. — Let’s get your troupe ready. If we’re to host a show, best we make it worth their while! People love tricks and dances — especially when they happen right under their noses. Come, I’ll take you to the officials straight away.

— Then we’ll see you tonight, — Esther said cheerfully, firm yet bright.

Vilk sighed quietly. Once Jan caught hold of an idea, there was no stopping him.
At least one thing was settled.

After the meeting, Vilk parted ways with Esther and the elder, who, under Jan’s guidance, went off to the city clerks to handle the performance permits.
The troupe planned to camp just outside Tarnów for a few days, and Jan — ever the enthusiast — had already taken it upon himself to make sure everything went smoothly.
Vilk had no doubt that by the time he returned, half the city would know that traveling performers were preparing a show.

He turned his horse toward the executioner’s house.
The building, dark and timeworn, looked unchanged, as if it had stood that way for centuries.
The guards at the gate greeted him with brief nods — no words needed.

Inside, the familiar scent of damp stone, iron, and old wood struck him immediately.
He moved down the corridor, checking cells, reviewing documents, setting up his workspace to his own method, yet in keeping with the council’s guidelines.
New papers had arrived — lists of duties, procedures, the formal statutes governing executions in Tarnów.
He already knew them, but he liked order. Order meant control.

There was a strange satisfaction in arranging things to his will — the quiet sense of becoming part of the machinery rather than merely its hand.

Work held him longer than he’d intended.
When everything was finally in place, he stepped back into the open air.

Esther and the elder were waiting near the wooden railing of a nearby building.
Jan had vanished, as always, chasing the next task, but Vilk could tell by their faces that things had gone exactly as expected.

— Well, that’s settled, — Eszher said as he approached. — We’ve got the permits; we can stay a few days. Jan was a marvel of help, but I’m sure he’s already off fixing the next dozen matters.

Vilk nodded, and they started walking together toward the city gate. Their boots struck the cobblestones in a steady rhythm until Esther turned to him with a sly smile.

— So... a hangman? — she teased.

Vilk glanced at her, faintly puzzled.
— You could say that, — he replied. — It’s just a job. Like any other.

— Like any other? — She laughed softly, though there was no mockery in it — only curiosity tinged with something deeper. — Do you truly think so?

He didn’t answer at once. He rarely felt the need to explain himself — yet there was something in her tone that made every word feel as though it mattered.

— People look at the executioner and see only the one who kills, — he said finally. — But it’s not that simple. There’s order in it. A sentence, a process, a kind of justice... or at least the pretense of it.

Esther nodded, as if she understood more than he meant to say.
— Interesting, — she murmured, her voice taking on a quiet, thoughtful timbre. — You know, I think only someone who’s looked death in the eye can truly appreciate life. Maybe that’s why... — she paused, smiling faintly — it stirs something in me.

Vilk raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, Esther waved a hand lightly.
— Oh, don’t look at me like that — she said, eyes sparkling. — I just mean that people like you see the world differently. You can’t afford illusions, and yet you keep going. You keep living — right in the middle of all that death. It’s fascinating.

Vilk said nothing. He let her words drift through his mind and settle where they would.
After a while, he gave a dry snort.
— Very poetic, — he muttered. — But poetry and executioners rarely mix.

— Oh, Vilk, — Esther chuckled, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. — Maybe it’s time that changed?

He didn’t answer — he didn’t have to. He knew the conversation wasn’t over, merely paused. Esther was only just beginning her game.

Vilk, Esther, and the troupe’s elder returned to the manor in the late afternoon.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, its last light spilling over the courtyard, mingling with the lingering scent of rain and faint wisps of smoke from the cooking fires.

The moment they crossed the threshold, they were met by the smell of food.
Sika, as if by instinct, was already bustling about the kitchen, tightening the final details of the supper.
Laughter and voices filled the background — the troupe had quickly made itself at home, and though Vilk wasn’t used to such liveliness within these walls, he didn’t mind it.

— So, how did it go? — Sika called over her shoulder, still stirring something in the pot. — Did you get everything settled?

Esther tossed her cloak onto a chair and stretched lazily.
— All taken care of — she announced, drawing out the words. — Tomorrow we start preparing, and the day after we perform. The people of Tarnów will have something to remember.

— Well then, look at that — Vilk muttered, lowering himself onto a bench. — You barely arrived and already you’re causing a stir.

— That’s the point, — said the troupe’s elder with a smile. — Traveling performers have to draw attention. Otherwise no one pays for their tricks.

Sika nodded approvingly, but her eyes soon drifted toward Lech.
The two were deep in talk, trading quips and remarks, their conversation easy and lively — as if they’d known each other far longer than a day.
Vilk noticed, though he kept his silence.

Esther took a seat beside him, quieter than usual.
For a moment she just watched him — not playfully, not with her typical teasing glint, but thoughtfully, as if searching for something.
Vilk turned toward her, one eyebrow raised.

— What? — he asked, sensing a thought forming behind her gaze.

— Nothing, — she said with a faint smile, yet her eyes held that same unreadable gleam. — I was just... wondering.

— About what?

She traced a finger across the grain of the table, as if choosing her words carefully.
— About you, — she admitted at last. — About who you are when you’re not the executioner.

Vilk looked at her a long moment, but before he could reply, Sika’s voice rang through the room, calling everyone to the table.

Before they sat, Lech threw a half-joking comment toward Sika, to which she shot back an equally bold retort, and laughter rippled through the company.
The mood was light, almost familial.

Dinner was in full swing.
Vilk allowed himself, for once, simply to watch — the food, the chatter, the easy laughter, the slow drift of pipe smoke curling beneath the ceiling with its warm, spicy scent.
For the first time in years, he thought, this was what a home might feel like.
Not just walls and silence, but something alive.

The doors suddenly burst open with a bang, letting in a gust of cool air and the muffled sounds of the night outside.
All eyes turned toward the entrance as Jan stepped through, shaking off his cloak and looking around with a grin.

— Well, here I am, damn it! — he declared loudly, bringing with him a rush of noise and cheer. — Vilk, you swore you wouldn’t talk me into this, and look at me now! Where the devil can’t go himself, he sends a woman instead!

Esther laughed, raising her cup in triumph.
— I knew a sensible man wouldn’t pass up such an evening! — she said, one brow arched.

Sika clapped Jan on the shoulder.
— Of course not! And now you’ve no excuse — you drink with us!

— That’s the spirit! — Jan roared, snatching the nearest cup of mead and lifting it high.

The hall echoed with a cheer, and the atmosphere swelled even warmer.
Jan took a seat, lounging comfortably, and shot Vilk a teasing look.

— Well, well, Vilk. I expected bare walls and silence, and instead I find merriment, music, and women. Did I stumble into a revolution?

Vilk shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
— Let’s just say things are changing, — he replied.

Jan chuckled but let it rest there, reaching for food.

A while later, when the chatter quieted a little, Lech came over to Vilk with a cup in hand.
He sat down beside him, silent for a moment, as if arranging his thoughts. Then he looked up.

— Vilk, I think we may have started on the wrong foot, — he said.

Vilk raised an eyebrow.
— You’re talking about Jan’s gathering? — he asked, sipping from his own cup.

Lech sighed and leaned back.
— Yes. If I came across as judging you... that wasn’t my intent. I know who you are and what you do. I’ve no quarrel with that.

Jan, mid-swig of mead, let out a short laugh.
— Ha! Hear that, Vilk? We’ve got ourselves a knight of honor! Tell me, Lech, since when do fighting men worry about first impressions?

Lech glanced at him, amused.
— Normally I don’t, — he said. — But I respect men who don’t waste their words. And from what I see, Vilk isn’t one for empty talk.

Vilk lifted his cup slightly — a silent toast.

Lech drank, then glanced toward Sika, who was chatting animatedly with Esther.
— I’ll admit, she intrigues me, — he said thoughtfully. — There’s a strength in her you don’t often find. She’s like a storm — pulls you in before you realize it.

Jan grinned.
— Ha! If I were younger, I’d be your rival for sure. — He raised his cup toward Lech. — But alas, years have their say, so I’ll leave that battle to you.

Vilk smiled faintly.
— A storm, you say? — he murmured, glancing toward Sika. — And yet you plan to walk right into it?

Lech chuckled, shaking his head.
— Maybe. Or maybe I just need to see where it leads.

— Let it lead where it will, — said Jan, tapping his cup against the table. — All I know is that a world without women would be nothing but cold rooms and empty battlefields.

Lech and Vilk exchanged a look, then raised their cups in unison.
— To women, — said Lech.
— To women, — echoed Vilk.

Jan lifted his higher still.
— And to those who’ve had the courage to love them, — he added with a spark in his eye. — Without them, the world would be nothing but wars and hollow houses.

They drank, and the talk flowed on — easy, unforced.
Sika and Esther laughed together at something; the troupe shouted louder toasts; the fire flared, wrapping the room in warmth and smoke and the soft hum of shared contentment.

**

Mead flowed freely, laughter filled the hall, and the smoke from the pipes only thickened the air, deepening the mood.
The atmosphere pulsed with warmth and cheer when suddenly one of the troupe slammed a fist on the table, drawing every gaze his way.

— Well now, we ought to repay our hosts for their kindness! — he shouted, looking around the room. — Esther, little bird, show them what you can do!

All eyes turned toward her.
Vilk, who had been quietly sipping his drink, lifted his gaze and fixed it on the Magyar woman.
She stretched languidly, a smile curling across her lips.

— Ah, so now you throw me to the wolves, as if I were always at your beck and call... But for hosts such as these... — she murmured playfully, bringing a pipe of eagle-weed to her lips and drawing in deeply. The firelight flickered in her eyes.

— Come on, Esther, don’t keep them waiting! — someone called, and the others cheered in agreement.

— Very well... since you insist so nicely — she said theatrically, rising to her feet. — But first... a falconcap, my dears. The strings won’t loosen themselves!

Several hands reached for a small pouch and tossed it to her.
She caught it deftly, shook it once, and a fine blue dust drifted out, floating lazily toward her mouth. She inhaled it and closed her eyes for a heartbeat, savoring the taste.

Then, with slow, graceful steps, she moved to the far end of the hall, leaving Sika perched at the center.

— Darling, if you feel like it, you can join me, — she called over her shoulder.
Sika only laughed softly, settling herself atop the table, her eyes gleaming with eager anticipation.

Esther turned to face the rest, spreading her arms wide and clapping twice.
— Boys, give me a rhythm! Where are the instruments?

No need to ask twice.
One man began drumming his palm against the tabletop, another struck a steady beat on an empty cask.
From the corner came the whirring hum of a hurdy-gurdy, and a third tapped the rim of his glass with a metal ring, marking time.
Out of the chaos something took shape — a pulse, a rhythm, building slow tension.

Esther closed her eyes, swaying gently, as if listening to the heartbeat of the earth itself.
Then she opened them and smiled wide.

— Now, my friends, you must give me something of your own! A word — a call! — she laughed.

— Fears! Fears! — burst out Sika, slapping her hand on the table. — That gentleman there — Vilk — he’s full of them!

The hall erupted in laughter.
Vilk, who had just reached for his cup, looked at her with mock offense, then waved it off with a half-smile.

— Then... — Esther arched an eyebrow, her gaze glinting with amusement as it met Vilk’s — Fears, is it?

The rhythm grew stronger, sharper.
Laughter dimmed.
One by one, voices fell silent, until all waited — expectant — for Esther to begin her song.

Esther
Fears of mine, and fears of thine,
Fears of mine, and fears of thine,
They cast their shadow on hearts in night.
They stare at me with sticky eyes,
They leave their marks, they plot, they rise.
You can’t just shed them like old clothes,
And watch them drift where daylight goes.
But I won’t yield, my love, I’ll guard you well,
I’ll stay beside you till the morning bell.

—

I walk ahead though my legs give way,
The shadow follows with each new day.
I hear their steps, though I won’t look back,
They whisper close — you’ll lose your track.
I long to run, but they’re still near,
Black thoughts that press, that bite, that sear.
The silence screams and coils around,
But we won’t fall, my dear — we stand our ground!

—

Fears of mine, and fears of thine,
Fears of mine, and fears of thine,
They cast their shadow on hearts in night.
They stare at me with sticky eyes,
They leave their marks, they plot, they rise.
You can’t just shed them like old clothes,
And watch them drift where daylight goes.
But I won’t yield, my love, I’ll guard you well,
I’ll stay beside you till the morning bell.

As Esther sang, her voice wove through the hall like smoke, thick and warm, hypnotic.
The rhythm deepened — the beat on the table, the pulse of boots on wood.
Then, with a sharp inhale, Sika sprang up, laughing wildly, pipe smoke curling around her face.
She downed another drink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and leapt onto the table beside Esther, to the delighted cheers of the crowd.

Sika
No way in hell I’ll let it win,
I tear through dark, through shadow’s skin.
The voices twist inside my head,
They lure, they tempt — but I burn instead.
The dark creeps close, I feel its breath,
It wants to break me — let it test.
I’ve seen this play, it’s only shade,
I won’t bow down — I’m unafraid!

—

Esther & Sika (together)
Fears of mine, and fears of thine,
They cast their shadow on hearts in night.
They stare at me with sticky eyes,
They leave their marks, they plot, they rise.
You can’t just shed them like old clothes,
And watch them drift where daylight goes.
But I won’t yield, my love, I’ll guard you well,
I’ll stay beside you till the morning bell.

When the last note dissolved into the air, every candle in the room suddenly flared to life, as if fed by a surge of unseen energy.
Flames leapt high, casting restless shadows across the walls and ceiling, making them seem alive, pulsing in rhythm with the fading echo of the song.
For a heartbeat the entire hall shimmered with gold — as though the house itself wished to honor the performance.

— Now that’s what I’m talking about! — cried a bright, feminine voice, ringing through the room with laughter.

All fell still, heads tilting upward. The shadows above began to twist and shift, weaving into patterns that flickered like breath. Someone gasped, another clutched their cup tighter.

Then Kiki — unseen, yet vividly present — stretched languidly, amusement rippling through the air. Her movement passed like a shimmer along the pillars and beams. For a moment, she was everywhere — in the tremor of candlelight, in the sigh of the rafters.

Esther turned slowly, curiosity lighting her eyes.
— So it’s true, then, — she murmured to herself, smiling faintly. — This house really isn’t empty.

— Of course it isn’t, — Kiki’s voice filled the space, smooth and resonant, though no body formed to shape the words. — Forgive me... I simply couldn’t resist. That was magnificent, and I had to express my admiration.

Esther and Sika exchanged a glance — then burst into laughter, falling into each other’s arms in sheer delight.
The troupe erupted with cheers. Cups clinked, voices rose again, and the room came alive with joy.

Lech, who had watched the entire scene half in disbelief, finally cleared his throat.
— By Christ... I’ve seen ghosts before, but never one so eager to join the revels, — he muttered, shaking his head. — I swear I could feel her laugh.

— Because I was laughing! — came Kiki’s cheerful reply, and the candle flames flickered as though dancing to her words.

Vilk leaned on his elbow, glancing toward the ceiling, searching for a trace of her amid the light and shadow.
— So it’s not just the living who enjoyed it, — he said with quiet amusement.

Jan, who had been sipping his drink in thoughtful silence, let out a long sigh, then smiled broadly — as if accepting one more absurdity into the night.
— Well, I never thought I’d drink to the health of a ghost... but since the opportunity presents itself — Kiki, my dear, your house, your rules — to the ether!

The troupe roared in laughter, raising their cups. Joy, glass, and voices collided in a merry din, and what moments ago had felt near-sacred now melted into the warmth of shared celebration.

— But let’s be honest, — Jan added, looking between Esther and Sika. — What happened here tonight isn’t just the spirit’s doing. Ladies, what you gave us was... — he paused, searching for words, then shook his head with a grin — beyond them. Beautiful. Music to stir even the dead!

Lech nodded, still dazed.
— I’ve seen much in my years... but a song like that... I never have.

Vilk watched it all with a faint smile, something quieter moving behind his eyes — a flicker of awe he didn’t voice. He wasn’t a man who yielded easily to wonder, yet even he knew what he had witnessed was something more than performance.

— Well, my friends! — Jan rose, raising his cup again. — If that’s what you call repayment, I’ll gladly be in your debt every night of the week!

Laughter burst anew. Cups met wood and metal. The air filled again with warmth, chatter, and the slow drift of smoke. The magic still hummed beneath it all — subtle, lingering, as if the house itself was still awake and listening.

Esther sat beside Vilk, her cheeks flushed — from the song or the drink, or something else entirely. She glanced at him sidelong, a playful spark in her eyes.
— So, Vilk, — she teased softly, — do you still think poetry and an executioner have nothing in common?

He didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of his mead, let the silence stretch, and finally murmured:
— Perhaps... not as far apart as I once thought.

Esther laughed quietly, and the rest of the evening drifted on in talk, in laughter, in the fading glow of candles.

Jan eventually pushed back his chair and stood, stretching the tension from his shoulders.
— I’ll say this, Vilk, — he began, stroking his beard — I’ve seen my share of strange gatherings, but this one... it outdid even my imagination.

Vilk looked at him over the rim of his cup.
— I hadn’t planned on the house spirit joining the performance, — he said dryly. — Seems nothing here follows plan.

— And good thing too! — Jan barked, setting his cup down with a thud. — This place... it’s always felt different. Like something inside it was waiting. Now I understand why it pulled me in.

Vilk tilted his head.
— Does it trouble you?

— God forbid, — Jan said, watching the trembling candlelight that still seemed to pulse with Kiki’s presence. — I just want to know more. About this house. About what lingers here. And now I see why you felt it too. A man can chase grand matters all his life, yet the strangest truths bloom right here, beneath our noses.

Vilk’s gaze followed the flicker on the wall — where moments before Kiki had spoken — then returned to Jan.
— If you find anything, I’ll be grateful.

— Count on it. — Jan waved a hand. — I’ll dig around the archives. You know how people are — they love to talk, especially about places that scare them.

A pause settled between them — not heavy, but thoughtful. The quiet of understanding, when something begins to take shape without yet having a name.

The room slowly dimmed, laughter fading to murmurs.
When Jan finally rose to leave, he slung his belt over his shoulder and smiled at the pair.
— My thanks for the night — truly unforgettable. There was something... more here than wine and song.

Sika clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
— You’ll come again, won’t you?

— Of course. — He grinned. — And next time I see your ghost, I’ll have a better toast prepared.

They laughed, and Jan mounted his horse, disappearing into the soft dark.

For a while, Vilk and Sika stood watching the fading silhouette, until she turned toward the stables.
— Did you see that, Vilk? — she burst out, half laughing, half amazed. — Saints, it was glorious! That’s exactly what we need — that girl, that fire...

Vilk smirked, watching her toss hay into the stalls.
— Hard to deny she knows how to hold attention.

— Attention? — Sika gave him a teasing look. — You should’ve seen yourself. Like Grym staring at a haunch of meat.

He didn’t answer, only gave a helpless smile.

— And I’m not the only one who caught someone’s eye tonight, — she added knowingly.

Vilk looked at her, curious.
— Lech?

Sika shrugged.
— I know what I’m doing, and so does he. It’s all clear between us. You could even call it... mutually beneficial.

Vilk said nothing, though there was something like concern in his glance.
— So he’s staying?

— He is. — She met his look evenly. — Don’t worry, you know how I handle my affairs.

Vilk only nodded, and she smiled, the tension melting.
— Relax, Vilk. Friends are useful. And this one’s worth the trouble.

He gave a faint snort but didn’t argue.

— Besides... — she added slyly, her eyes glinting — I doubt I’m the only one hoping for a little company tonight.

Vilk shot her a weary look; she burst out laughing.
— Oh, come on! You’d be mad to let a woman like Esther slip through your fingers.

He just shook his head, though the corner of his mouth curved upward.
— Let’s head back, — he said simply.

— As you wish, executioner, — she teased, and they walked together toward the hall still glowing with laughter.

The night lingered, slow and fragrant with smoke and wine.
Sika soon vanished upstairs with Lech, their laughter trailing briefly behind.
Esther remained — still radiant, still near. Every glance she gave Vilk carried a pulse, a question, an unspoken promise. They talked, soft and close, until words ran out.

When at last they slipped out beneath the moon, the air was cool and damp, the kind that tastes faintly of iron and rain.
For a while they walked without speech.

— What a night that was, — Esther said at last, glancing up through her lashes. — Though I have a feeling it wasn’t just Sika and I who were singing.

— Oh? Who else, then? — Vilk asked, smiling faintly.

— The house, — she whispered, eyes glinting. — The whole haunted thing sang with us. Don’t you feel it?

Vilk looked at her — and something in him eased.
— I won’t deny it, — he said quietly. — You, your voice... this night — beautiful.

Esther laughed softly, fanning herself with slow, teasing grace.
— Careful, Vilk, I’m terribly weak to such words. Perhaps we should check on the horses — it’s much too warm in there.

The courtyard lay hushed beneath the moon.
They entered the stable, the air thick with hay, leather, and the quiet breathing of animals. Esther brushed her hand along a horse’s flank; it shivered and snorted softly.

She turned toward him, her face half-lit by the moonlight spilling through the beams.
— I do love to ride, — she murmured, voice low and playful. — It’s when I feel most free.

Her hand came to rest on his chest. Her eyes searched his, and the words that followed were half a whisper, half a dare.
— Tonight, though... I’d rather not ride alone.

The rest unfolded in silence — in breath, in warmth, in the whisper of hay and the creak of wood. What passed between them needed no witness, and no words.

Vilk needed no more words. He seized her by the waist and pulled her to him; their mouths met in a fierce, hungry kiss, and a heartbeat later they fell back onto the soft hay. What followed between them was wild, charged with the tension they no longer bothered to restrain.

Esther straddled him, moving with abandon, giving herself over to him completely.

Vilk let himself feel everything—every surge, every release— as though, at last, he could forget the rest of the world.

Until finally, Esther collapsed onto him, breathless, a quiet laugh slipping from her lips.
— Alright… I think that’s enough — she murmured, sinking against his chest. — Because at this rate, you really might wear me out.

Later, when the world stilled again, Esther lay against him, smiling faintly, her laughter dissolving into a sigh.
The night outside was heavy with stars.

— You know... — she said softly — I’m growing tired of the endless road. Maybe it’s time I stayed somewhere longer. Maybe here. Sika hinted as much...

Vilk met her gaze but said nothing. He wasn’t used to someone wanting to stay — least of all for him.

Esther chuckled and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
— Don’t look so alarmed, executioner, — she teased. — Just thinking aloud.

They spoke quietly of smaller things until sleep took them both — the candles burning low, the house sighing around them.

Dawn crept slowly over the estate, drawing long shadows across damp earth.
The air still smelled of rain and smoke. From the yard came the stirrings of life — wheels creaking, voices calling, the steady rhythm of work returning.

Vilk awoke to the soft warmth beside him. Esther lay curled beneath the blanket, her breathing even, lips curved in a faint smile. For a moment he only watched her — remembering the way she had looked at him, the way she had drawn him near as though to anchor herself to something solid.

He rose quietly, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder, and stepped outside.

The courtyard was already alive with motion. The troupe bustled, shouting across wagons, tying ropes, harnessing horses. A woman scolded two children darting underfoot. The smell of damp straw and metal filled the air.

Off to one side, Jegor and Viktor worked in silence, steady and tireless.
Not far away, Sika tied her hair up, preparing for another day’s labor.

Vilk approached, leaning on a post.
— Looks like you had a good night.

Sika shot him a sly look.
— You could say that. I’d forgotten how well some men can keep pace. Maybe we should invite officers more often.

Vilk chuckled.
— I never heard you complain about a lack of challenges.

— I’m not complaining, — she said with a grin. — Just appreciating.

A voice, melodic and teasing, drifted toward them.
— And you two work while the day begs to be enjoyed?

Esther emerged from the stable, stretching like a cat. Her hair was tousled, her smile unbothered.

Sika arched an eyebrow.
— Someone slept very well — considering the stable’s accommodations. Is that how we host guests now, Vilk?

Esther laughed, stepping closer.
— Oh, darling, some nights deserve to be remembered. The place only adds to the charm. And your executioner was... an exceptional host.

Sika burst out laughing.
— I won’t deny it. The man has potential.

Vilk squinted at them both, half amused, half exasperated.
— The day’s begun. You’ve a performance to prepare.

— Relax, my dear, — Esther waved him off lightly. — Everything will be ready. It always is.

Vilk watched as the troupe moved with swift precision — years of practice in every motion.
The place hummed with purpose, alive with new energy.

He turned toward the road. Tomorrow was the fair — and this was only the beginning.

The damp walls of the executioner’s house greeted him with their familiar scent of iron, wood, and stone. He cleared the table, set the papers straight, and rubbed the fatigue from his face.

Moments later, a young messenger entered — thin, nervous, clutching a sealed parchment.
— Master Executioner, sir? — he asked, uncertain.

Vilk nodded.

— Lord Jan sent me, — the boy said quickly. — He’s sorry he couldn’t come himself, too many matters at hand. But he said this might help — something to begin with.

He handed over the parchment.

Jan’s handwriting sprawled in confident strokes:

“Vilk, forgive my absence. The days have been unkindly busy.
I managed to find what was close at hand in the city records — basic entries about your estate.
Enclosed are lists of former owners, changes in title, and a few notes that may interest you.
If I uncover more, I’ll send word.

• Jan.”

Vilk skimmed the pages — names, dates, transactions. Nothing remarkable at first glance: inheritances, debts, old claims. Yet something in the pattern unsettled him.

He set the documents down and tapped his fingers on the desk.

Jan had no reason to involve himself so deeply — and yet he had.

Vilk leaned back, eyes narrowing.
He’d look into it himself, of course. He preferred not to owe favors.

Still... he thought, with a faint smile — if ever a man could be called a friend, Jan might be closest to it.

Subscribe now

Tarnów was alive from the first light of dawn.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spices, and freshly baked bread. Along the main streets, stalls sagged beneath the weight of fruit, fabrics, and the handiwork of craftsmen, while merchants shouted over one another, praising their goods to the crowd.

Vilk passed by a woman selling herbs—dried sprigs of lavender and mint filled the air, mingling with the heavy aroma of spiced powders.
He stopped for a moment, letting the noise and pulse of the city swallow him whole, if only for a heartbeat.

The troupe of performers had arrived early that morning, taking over a square near the main market. Their wagons were already set, decorations hung, and the artists were tending to the last of the preparations. Vilk, Sika, and Esther walked together, watching the lively precision of the work.

Grym, evidently sensing the excitement that saturated the air, trotted close to Vilk, snorting at passersby now and then.

Vilk kept silent, observing everything from a distance.
Fairs were no mystery to him, yet he looked at this one differently now—through the eyes of someone meant to oversee it, someone who knew that beneath laughter and revelry lurked pickpockets, cheats, and, sometimes, worse things.
But in Esther’s eyes, he was a guest here.
This time, he was part of it.

Esther slipped her arm through his, a teasing smile playing at her lips.
— We’re standing here like statues while life happens around us — she said lightly, her tone almost challenging. — Don’t tell me you’re not tempted to enjoy it, even just a little.

Vilk looked down at her from beneath half-lidded eyes. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Sika roll her eyes, clearly amused by the Hungarian’s unrestrained ease.

— And you? — Vilk asked calmly. — Aren’t you afraid of getting lost in the crowd?

Esther laughed softly, her fingers brushing his arm.
— The crowd is a river to me — she said, shrugging. —I can dive in and surface wherever I please. And you, Vilk… I think something in me keeps being drawn to you.

— To me? — Vilk raised a brow. —Funny, I get the feeling it’s you pulling me into your current.

Esther tilted her head with a secretive smile.
— Maybe — she murmured, her fingers tracing idle lines on his forearm. — But you don’t look like someone who can’t swim—or someone afraid to get wet.

Before he could respond, she took his hand and tugged him gently toward the stalls.

Sika sighed and followed without a word.
Grym barked once, as if already eager to explore the storm of smells.

— Come on — Esther called over her shoulder. — If you never learn to take pleasure in things like this, you’ll end up like your dog—growling at people instead of living a little.

Vilk shook his head but let her lead him.

Sika snorted with laughter, stuffing her hands into her pockets.
— I’ll never believe it if she actually manages to get you to loosen up.

Vilk rolled his eyes.
— Not yet — he said dryly. — But give me time.

They moved through the dense crowd, letting themselves sink into the rhythm of the city.

After a while, Esther had to return to her troupe to oversee the preparations. Her presence stirred the group immediately, as if the performers had merely been waiting for her cue.

Vilk and Sika wandered on alone among the stalls.
Grym, sensing their more relaxed pace, stayed close but stopped often, his nose twitching at every new scent.

— So, it’s just us now — Sika said, resting her hands on her belt and looking around. — Feels strange, doesn’t it?

Vilk shrugged, his eyes moving across the rows of vendors.
— Maybe not so strange. Everyone has a role to play. And us? — He cast her a sideways glance. — We can simply enjoy the day.

Sika raised a brow, half-amused, half-surprised.
— Look at you — she laughed. —Are you actually relaxing, Vilk?

Vilk stroked his beard thoughtfully.
They walked on between the booths, while Grym trotted faithfully by their side, sniffing the air.

Between the troupe’s wagons, a makeshift stage of planks had been set up, and a crowd gathered around it. The smell of tar, fire, and horse sweat hung heavy.
From the wagons draped with colorful fabrics hung masks, dolls, and jester’s caps fluttering in the breeze. Amid the noise came the sounds of a lute and a hand drum; children squealed with delight as a juggler swallowed fire, or a trained bear danced to a piper’s tune.

A man walked the tightrope strung between two wagons; another spat fire, risking his beard for applause.
And when Esther stepped onto the stage in a gown that shimmered in the torchlight, silence fell over the crowd.
Her song—soft, foreign, enchanting—floated above the square like a spell, so much that even the horses in the stables ceased their restless snorts.

Vilk looked around, a faint smile tugging at his lips—the scent of adventure mingled with smoke, music, and laughter, pierced by the southern lilt of the performers’ voices.
This wasn’t an ordinary day in Tarnów, but a traveling dream that had stopped here just long enough to stir the city before vanishing at dawn.

Not every day allowed a man the luxury of such carelessness.

The day gradually tilted toward dusk, and the fair’s clamor began to fade. One by one, stalls closed, merchants counted their earnings, and weary townsfolk drifted toward inns and hearths, chasing warmth and ale.

The sky deepened into shades of violet, brushed with the last embers of the sun.

Vilk, Sika, and Grym still wandered through the square, their steps slower now, their voices softened—as if the city itself were calming them.

Esther and her troupe finished their final performances, gathering the remnants of those who hadn’t yet had their fill of wonder.
Music carried through the cooling air, mingling with laughter and the murmurs of satisfied, tired souls.

Sika stretched lazily.
— Well, I’ll admit, that was a good day — she said, her voice soft, almost dreamlike in the fading light. —Didn’t think I’d see so much.

Vilk glanced at her sideways.
— And yet you’re looking at it differently than usual.

Sika paused.
— Maybe. — A shadow of thought crossed her face. —Maybe it’s the atmosphere… or maybe...

She stopped, as if unsure what she had meant to say.

Grym gave a quiet bark, reminding them of his presence.

Vilk ran his fingers through the dog’s fur, watching him lift his head and sniff the air.
Something shifted inside him.

Sika looked toward the troupe, but Vilk was no longer watching them.

— Heading back? — she asked.

Vilk narrowed his eyes.
— There’s something I need to take care of first.

— Something wrong?

He sighed, shrugging lightly.
— Nothing important. Just forgot to grab something from the dungeon.

Sika rolled her eyes.
— Sure, sure. Just don’t vanish for the whole night.

Vilk didn’t answer—he was already walking toward the city.

The narrow streets of Tarnów were quiet now, lit only by the glow of lanterns and the pale spill of light from tavern windows.
Vilk knew the path well; he did not hurry. His steps were measured, his thoughts drifting freely. Passersby moved past him with the indifference of those wrapped in their own affairs, and he, in turn, was little more than a shadow gliding through the living pulse of the city.

He had left the documents at the dungeon.
In the day’s confusion, he had tucked them away instead of bringing them back to the manor. He wanted to study them more closely—and more than that, to see whether Kiki might recall anything about them. If anyone could remember something of that manor’s past, it would be her.

He quickened his pace, the questions already forming in his mind.

When he reached the dungeon, the familiar dampness of stone walls greeted him, together with the heavy scent of stale air. Inside, it was empty—the guards had long finished their rounds, and the only company Vilk had now was silence.

He crossed the main chamber and approached the table where he had left the papers brought earlier by Jan’s messenger.
Unrolling the parchment, he ran his eyes over the text—reports, ownership records, several notes. Nothing that stood out. He hadn’t expected clear answers, but perhaps Kiki might still recognize something—some name, some trace of what was once there.

He brushed his fingers along the edge of one scroll, frowning. In the day’s rush, he had barely glanced at them, though that was precisely why he wanted to take them along. Maybe something in those words would awaken old ghosts.

He slipped the documents into the inner pocket of his coat and turned toward the exit.

The night’s chill wrapped around him the instant he stepped outside. He paused, gazing at the dark alleys of Tarnów, ready to make his way back.

He had just taken a step when something in the air shifted.
A faint pulse—an invisible vibration rippling through the cold. A warmth dying out. A thread of light beginning to fade.

Jagna.

Vilk’s heart jolted. He broke into a run, guided not by sight but by instinct, by that strange current that tugged him toward her. The city’s darkness seemed to swallow him whole. The streets turned into a maze of shadows and fractured sounds.

He could feel time slipping away.

And then he saw her.

Against the night sky, at the top of one of the city’s towers, Jagna stood motionless—balanced between life and death, as if she had already chosen, yet some fragment of her still hesitated, waiting for the wind to make the decision.

Jagna.

Her long, tangled hair whipped in the wind, damp with mist, wrapping around her face like drifting veils of shadow. She stood utterly still, but there was something broken in that stillness—like a porcelain doll about to shatter.

Vilk stopped for only a heartbeat—long enough to see that there was no fear left in her face.
She had made peace with whatever was coming.

Her skin, pale and smooth, seemed translucent in the cold light of the moon, as though she were already slipping from this world.
She was beautiful in a way that hurt—beautiful like the girls who had never known warmth, who had learned that their bodies were a trade, and whose souls had long been sold for a beggar’s coin.

Something cracked inside him.

The air around him warped.
He stepped into the grey between buildings, slipping away from the ordinary world, moving through the shapes of shadow and shifting geometry.

He was there when she fell.

Her body broke from the tower and plummeted, and Vilk was already beneath her.
He caught her midair.

The impact hit him like a stone dropped into still water—violent, crushing—but what struck him most wasn’t the weight of her body.
It was her eyes.

Wide open.
And yet blind.

Tears traced down her cheeks—unconscious, mechanical, as though even her body could not contain the sorrow tearing her apart.
They were lifeless, hollow, staring into nothing.
Not at him.
Not at the earth.
At nothing at all.

Vilk held her tighter, feeling the trembling in her body—not just from cold, not just from the fever of the drug, but from the void she carried within.

His curse made him see people differently.
He could sense the threads that pulsed with life within them.

But hers…
Hers was barely there.

Fading.

Her nostrils were red, faint traces around them telling the rest of the story. She had been taking rowan powder far too often, far too strong. Her body was exhausted.

— Jagna.

His voice came out rough, low, vibrating through the night air.

Her lips twitched.
But no words followed.

— Jagna, can you hear me? — he tried again.

Her pupils were blown wide, unnaturally dark.
A hollow abyss.

She wasn’t looking at him.
She wasn’t looking anywhere.

Vilk pressed his fingers against her wrist—there was a pulse, faint, unsteady, but there. Life still clung to her, however weakly.

He lifted his gaze to the tower above, to the emptiness that had nearly claimed her.

Not tonight.

He would not let it.

He straightened slowly, gathering her in his arms.
He had to take her back. He had to protect her before she slipped away completely.
Or before he started wondering why no one else ever had.

He burst into the manor, Jagna’s limp body in his arms.
Eyes followed him, though he ignored them all.

Sika was the first to react—she was just leaving the main hall, stretching after the long day.
Her brows drew together when she saw him.

— What the hell..? — she muttered, stopping mid-step. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight. — Are you carrying a corpse?

Vilk exhaled heavily.
— Technically, yes — he said, stepping across the threshold. His arms ached from her weight. — But still warm.

Sika scoffed, but the joke died as soon as she saw Jagna’s condition.
— All right, let’s get to it — she said quickly, glancing toward the stairs. — Esther!

Before she finished the call, the Hungarian appeared from one of the rooms, rubbing her eyes in disbelief.
— And what have we here? — she began with a playful tone—but when her gaze fell on Jagna, it hardened instantly.

She sighed, shaking her head.
— Poor thing — she murmured, stepping closer to examine the girl. — We need to get her out of those clothes and into water before she fades completely.

— Then you handle it — Vilk said curtly, passing Jagna into Sika’s arms. — I won’t stand around watching.

Despite the tension, Sika raised a brow.
— Oh, how gallant — she teased. —Fine, turn around if you must—but don’t you dare sneak off.

Without waiting for a reply, she slung Jagna’s arm over her shoulder and helped Esther guide her toward the bath.

Vilk didn’t leave right away.
He leaned against the doorframe and listened.

The rustle of fabric. The splash of water.
Whispered voices—firm, yet warm, carrying that strange mix of care and iron will shared by two women who refused to let another one go.
They meant to anchor her to the living world.

— Well, she took a beating — Esther’s voice echoed off the stone. — Good thing he brought her here. In that state, she might not have come back.

Vilk clenched his jaw.
Deep down, he knew she was right.

He heard the water splash again, their efforts to wake her, their voices cutting through the sound.

— Hey, princess, time to wake up — Sika said, clapping her hands. —Vilk carried you all this way —you’re not dying on him like some oxygen-starved fish.

A faint moan.

Vilk pushed away from the frame and walked toward the main hall.

After a while, Sika and Esther emerged, supporting Jagna between them.
She was clean now, her hair damp and clinging to her cheeks.
The bitter scent of rowan was gone, replaced by herbs.
She still looked like a shadow of herself—but at least not like someone who had already crossed the threshold of death.

Without a word, they laid her down in one of the warm rooms and covered her with a fur.

Sika stretched and looked at Vilk.
— Now she just needs sleep.

Vilk nodded, though his eyes betrayed doubt.

— You should sleep too — Sika added.

He only shook his head and sat down at the table, resting his hands on the wood.

None of them had the strength for long talks after that.
Sika, Esther, and Vilk exchanged a few words—not to explain, but to close the matter for the night, to ease their minds.
Vilk said only what was necessary: that he had found Jagna in terrible shape, that he couldn’t leave her there.

Sika nodded, pushing back the questions that burned on her tongue.
This wasn’t the time or place to pry into the girl’s past.

Gradually, the tension eased, though not entirely.
People drifted off one by one; fatigue outweighed curiosity and worry.

Vilk watched as Sika cast one last glance toward the room where Jagna slept, then stretched and left.
Esther did the same, though there was something in her eyes he couldn’t quite name.

At last, he was alone.

He entered his chamber and closed the door behind him.
Silence.
He was used to it, though at times it felt too heavy.
He unbuckled his belt and tossed it onto the table, leaned against the chair, and ran both hands over his face.
His thoughts were dense, tangled—threads impossible to untie with a single pull.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when a soft knock came at the door.

— Vilk?

Esther’s voice—soft, but not hesitant.
He opened the door, and there she stood in the half-light, arms folded across her chest.

— May I come in?

She didn’t wait for his answer. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Vilk looked at her questioningly.
— Something wrong?

She raised a brow.
— I thought I should be asking you that.
Her gaze drifted over his face.
— You’ve been through a lot today. Maybe you’d like to talk—or just sit.

Vilk said nothing for a moment, studying her expression, then nodded and gestured to the seat across from him.
Esther sat, tucking one leg beneath her, as though she were in her own home.

For a while, silence reigned between them.

— I don’t know what you’re trying to solve right now — she said at last, tilting her head — but you look as though you’re trying to understand the whole world at once. That’s a hard way to live, you know?

Vilk rested his elbows on the table.
— I’m not in the habit of pitying myself.

— I didn’t say you should.
She shrugged.
— But I can see something stirring inside you—and I doubt you feel like sharing it with anyone.

He stayed silent. Neither denial nor agreement.

Esther rested her chin on her palm, studying him.
— She meant to do it — she said quietly. —She was completely gone.

Vilk gave no answer.

She leaned forward, eyes searching his.
— Do you want to save her, Vilk?

He sighed.
— I don’t know if she wants to be saved.

Esther tilted her head slightly.
— That doesn’t matter,—she said softly but firmly. —Sometimes people don’t know they still can be.

Silence settled again, thick with thoughts neither of them voiced.

Then Esther reached across the table and brushed her fingers against his hand.
— Don’t try to fix everything alone. It’s exhausting.

— I’m not tired.

Their eyes met.
For a moment, something unspoken passed between them—something fragile yet undeniable.

Finally, Esther stood, stretching slightly and sighing.
— I’ll stay if you want me to. But if not—go to sleep. Tomorrow you’ll think too much again anyway.

Vilk didn’t answer right away. Perhaps the silence lasted too long.
Esther took it for what it was and gave a small, resigned smile.
— I understand.

She turned toward the door—but Vilk caught her hand.
— Stay.

No more words were needed.
She didn’t need them either.

Esther sat beside him in silence for a long time, watching the slow dance of the candle flame.
There was no unease in her, no haste—she simply sat there, as if wishing only to share the quiet with him.

Vilk leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.
It had been a strange day—long, bright, and yet the evening too heavy.
He still didn’t know how to bring it to a close.
Perhaps Esther felt the same; otherwise, she wouldn’t still be there.

It was she who spoke first.

— Sometimes I wonder how far a person can lose themselves — she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. — And whether the road back always exists.

Vilk opened his eyes and looked at her.
— I wish I knew.

Her fingers traced the edge of the table, as though arranging thoughts into order.
— I keep thinking what must have happened to drive her that far

He watched the candle gutter in its pool of wax.
— I don’t think it’s ever one thing — he said quietly. —Most of the time, a person doesn’t even realize they’re already falling—until it’s too late.

Esther nodded slowly.
— And sometimes… they simply don’t want to see it.

Vilk didn’t reply, but he felt the weight of her words settle inside him.

For a while they said nothing. Then Esther reached for the cup on the table.

— And you? — she asked, glancing at him sideways.

Vilk lifted a brow.
— What about me?

— You fell once too. A different way than she did—but still, a road that wasn’t meant for you.

He thought before answering.
— Maybe... maybe i’m still falling.

Esther rested her cheek against her hand, studying him.
— But you don’t let yourself lose. Not like she does.

— Not everyone can afford to.

— True — she said with a faint, sad smile. —Some people just don’t have the strength to keep fighting.

Vilk sighed quietly, running a hand across his face.
— It’s not that she doesn’t want to fight. Maybe she just doesn’t see the point anymore.

For a moment, Esther gazed at him, then rose from her seat. She didn’t leave. Instead, she took a few slow steps toward him, stopping close enough that the warmth of her body brushed his.

She said nothing—only leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

He hadn’t expected it.
He wasn’t used to gestures that asked for nothing, that carried no demands.
He hesitated, motionless.
Then slowly, he lifted a hand and returned the embrace.

It was simple.
And perhaps that was why it meant more than anything else that night.

Vilk breathed deeply, feeling her warmth.
He didn’t know how long they remained that way—but it didn’t matter.

It was Esther who spoke first.

— Tomorrow the troupe starts packing.

The words lingered in the air.

Vilk didn’t move, but something shifted behind his eyes—a thought he had tried to ignore until now.

Esther raised her head and met his gaze.
— This might be our last night.

There was no question in her tone.
Only quiet truth.

They didn’t need more words.

Vilk leaned forward and kissed her—slowly, deliberately, as if wanting to memorize each heartbeat.
There was no haste, only consent.
A silent understanding that the night belonged to them,
and that by morning, the world might no longer hold them the same way.

Their bodies found each other as naturally as their souls had.
There was no urgency. No need.
Only the gentle certainty of presence.

He didn’t remember who moved first—perhaps her, perhaps him.
It didn’t matter.
When they came together, everything else ceased to exist.

Esther was warm, soft, and strong all at once.
There was no hesitation in her.
Her movements were fluid—each gesture deliberate and yet surrendered to the moment.
Vilk felt the line of her spine beneath his fingers, felt the faint tremor that passed through her when he drew her closer.
Their breaths mingled in the half-light—slow, heavy, full of tender wildness.

There was something in it he had never known before.
Not hunger.
Not the mere need of flesh—
but a quiet celebration of being alive together.

He felt her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth against his, her warmth enclosing him until they sank into silence, where nothing else existed.

They lay still afterward, breathing slowly, still entwined, as silence filled the room again.
Esther rested against his side, her hand on his chest, tracing idle shapes on his skin.

Vilk stared at the ceiling, not thinking, not hurrying back to the world outside.

After a long while, she spoke.

— You know… I could stay, if you wanted.

Her voice was calm, almost careless, as if she were tossing the thought into the air—but her fingers kept drawing small circles, and her breath stayed steady, attentive.

Vilk didn’t answer at once.
— Would you want to? — he murmured.

Esther sighed softly, her head still resting against him.
— It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ve grown used to the road, to always moving on.
Her voice was calm, yet beneath it lived a shade of weariness—an admission barely formed.

Vilk stayed quiet, so she went on.

— But it’s starting to tire me — she said, her palm gliding over his arm.
— It’s not that I don’t love freedom. But freedom isn’t only the road—it’s also choosing where you wish to remain.

Vilk turned his head toward her, but she was staring into the distance.

— I’d just want you to truly mean it — she said finally, lifting her eyes to his.
There was no question in them. No plea.
Only an offering.

Vilk didn’t answer immediately—
not because he didn’t know,
but because, for the first time, he had to ask himself whether he truly wanted someone to stay.

Esther’s hand moved across his chest as she rose slightly, leaning on one elbow.
Her hair spilled over his shoulder, her gaze soft, as though she wanted to memorize him.

— It’s obvious we won’t lie here forever — she said gently but with conviction.
—We’re not the kind to stop for good.

Vilk watched her closely.
— No?

She smiled faintly.
— We fit, you and I. Wonderfully, if I’m honest.
Her fingers traced his skin, sealing the words with touch.
— But you have something else—something you’re building.

Vilk stayed silent, listening.

— This place — she whispered —it isn’t just walls and land. It’s not an ordinary house.
Whatever it is you’re doing here, whatever you’re shaping—it has meaning.
It’s something I never had.

She let her hand rest on his shoulder and exhaled softly.
— I’ve always been on the road.
Her voice wavered, then steadied again beneath a small, weary smile.
— Not that I minded. It’s simply who I am.

Vilk tilted his head, eyes fixed on hers.
— But?

Esther met his gaze—and in her eyes, he saw something he had never seen before.

— But this place feels right — she said quietly.
Her fingers paused on his ribs.
— And I think… I could belong to it.
If you’d let me.

Vilk drew a deep breath.
She wasn’t asking.
She wasn’t demanding.
She was simply speaking truth, and that gave her words weight.

He slid his hand along her back and pulled her closer.
— Then stay.

Esther smiled faintly, as though she had expected it all along.
Then she leaned in and kissed him—slowly, softly—
as though they had just sealed a decision that needed no words at all.

****

Vilk came downstairs, shaking off the last remnants of sleep and letting the cool air of the hall clear his head completely.
Sika sat at the table with a cup in her hand, looking more thoughtful than usual.
When she glanced up at him, her gaze was sharp but not prying—no questions about the night, no teasing remarks.

— How’s Jagna? — he asked, taking the seat across from her.

Sika took a sip of her brew and sighed.
— Better. Stable, at least. But it’ll be a long while before she’s herself again. She should rest—though, knowing her, the moment she opens her eyes, she’ll try to get up.

Vilk nodded.
— That’s something, at least.

They exchanged a few more words about Jagna before the hall began to fill with movement and noise.
The travelers were gathering their belongings, organizing what they could—readying themselves to leave.
They were free spirits; packing was their way of life. There was no sentiment in it, only rhythm—a ritual repeated in countless towns. Everything they owned could be bundled in hours and vanish along with them.

— Yeah — Sika muttered, leaning on her elbow and eyeing him from under half-lidded eyes.
— But that’s not your only concern today.

Vilk arched a brow, but before he could ask, the creak of the stairs cut through the morning hum.
Esther appeared.

She walked slowly, though every step carried quiet certainty, as if a decision had already been made—one that hadn’t yet been spoken aloud.

The hall was half-full now: Jegor and Viktor were tending to their usual chores around the manor; two members of the troupe were checking their packs; and the troupe leader stood by the window, scanning the room.

No one lingered longer than they needed to.

The old man stretched his back, then clapped one of the jugglers on the shoulder.
— All right, my dears, time to move.

Someone called from across the room:
— Esther, what about your things?

She stopped on the threshold. The calm around her drew every gaze in the room.
She wasn’t out of breath, nor did she look rushed—quite the opposite. Her eyes swept slowly over the faces before her, finally finding Vilk’s.

Sika, in mid-sip, glanced at her, then at him. Something in her expression tightened—a flicker of intuition, as if she sensed what was about to happen.

Esther exhaled softly, almost to herself, and then spoke with a disarming simplicity that froze the room for a heartbeat.

— There might be a small problem with that packing.

Several heads turned toward her, puzzled. Vilk raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Esther met his eyes. The warmth and mischief were still there, but this time there was no game in it.

— I’m staying.
Her voice was calm, steady.
— My road leads elsewhere now.

Silence.

Sika choked on her drink—just enough to break the stillness. Words, once spoken, could not be recalled.

The troupe leader blinked, taken aback.
— You’re… staying? — he repeated, as though he needed time to process it.

Esther nodded.

Sika hadn’t expected it. She stared at her, then at Vilk, then back again—lost for words, and for the first time in a while, it showed on her face.

The silence cracked under Kiki’s laughter.
— A love-struck pair—the wolf and the Magyar! she sang out gleefully. The walls seemed to tremble with her mirth. — More dancing! More laughter! Vilk, you sly thing—you know what you’re doing!

The old man turned to Esther again, studied her for a moment, and sighed theatrically, shaking his head.
— Ah, what a shame — he said, though his tone carried no disappointment—only fondness. “But hey, we’ve had plenty of grand times together.

Esther smiled faintly.
— And I’m sure we’ll have more someday.

The old man tilted his head, looking her over once more before shrugging.
— A treasure like you should be shared, I suppose.

A few chuckles rippled through the room, soft and bittersweet. They understood her choice—but it didn’t make the parting any easier.

After a pause, the leader looked around at the rest of his people and waved a hand.
— All right then—forget the cleaning. Time for a proper farewell, eh, Vilk?

Vilk finally tore his eyes away from Esther and looked at the old man.
He didn’t protest. He didn’t speak.
He only nodded once.

There was nothing left to argue.

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Despite the morning stir and the quiet thrill following Esther’s decision, life did not stop for a moment.
The free folk knew how time moved—relentless, indifferent.
If they were to depart tomorrow, today every last task had to be done.

The wanderers went out for their final day at the market.
This was no longer a day for shows—it was for trade, for business, for one last chance to earn a few coins before the next road called.
People crowded the stalls, haggling, bartering, exchanging goods.
The wanderers were never attached to possessions—whatever could be sold, was sold. The rest they packed away with the practiced ease of those who’d done it dozens of times a year.

Jegor and Viktor, as always, kept to the manor. For them, little ever changed—they worked without fuss, as if the world beyond physical labor didn’t exist. They carried crates, mended boards, checked what still needed fixing.

Vilk, meanwhile, set off toward the city to take care of his own affairs.

The dungeon was quiet, but that never meant there was nothing to do.
After the night’s revelry, a few drunkards had landed in the cells—a common enough thing in Tarnów after loud celebrations.

The guard at the gate nodded to him.
— Quiet night. Just picked up a few who drank more than they could handle—and started thinking the town belonged to them.”

Vilk entered, the damp chill of the walls a familiar greeting.
The cell wasn’t full, though a handful of miserable souls sat slumped on the benches, clutching their heads.

He looked at them without expression. One, an older man with a red drinker’s nose, groaned:
— Mercy, sir, merciful master, it was only a bit o’ fun—

— Then why did it end in a cell?— Vilk leaned against the wall, folding his arms.

Silence.
One of the younger men, maybe twenty, dropped his gaze.

— I… don’t remember all of it…

—At least you admit it. — Vilk stepped closer and nodded to the guard.
— The ledger.

The guard handed him the leather-bound register of minor offenses and penalties.
As executioner, Vilk had the right to impose fines for lesser crimes—corporal punishment was reserved for the graver ones.

He scanned the entries and began assigning punishments.
— You — he said, pointing to the red-nosed man. — Ten coins for disturbing the peace.
— You — to the younger one. — Five.
And so on, until each man knew what he owed.

When the guard unlocked the cell, the prisoners shuffled out, heads bowed, subdued.

Vilk watched them go, then turned back to the guard.
— Everything else under control?

— So far, yes. — The guard shrugged.

The younger one smiled nervously, but Vilk was already walking away.
He still had tasks to see to before returning to the manor.

The day passed swiftly.
Everyone had something to occupy them.

By late afternoon, as the sun gilded the rooftops, Vilk returned.
The troupe was coming back from the market—pleased, with coin in their pockets, ready for the road.
Jegor and Viktor worked as though the outside world meant nothing to them.

Sika, still surprised by Esther’s decision—though in a good way—had taken everything in stride, organizing, planning, giving orders.
Vilk could see she hadn’t spoken about it openly, but she accepted reality as it came. And she was good at that.

Esther, for her part, behaved all day as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
She helped with the packing, joked with the others, laughed easily.
If she felt any weight from her choice, she hid it well.

On the courtyard, the fire burned high.
Tables had been set again—not extravagantly, but with care.
It wasn’t a feast, exactly—more a farewell gathering of wanderers who simply wanted to share one last warm evening together.

Vilk sat off to the side. He had checked on Jagna earlier—Sika had changed her compresses; she mumbled incoherently in her sleep but still rested.

Now he watched as laughter and stories filled the air—tales of other towns, other roads. There was no sorrow in it. These were people who lived with goodbyes as part of life.

The troupe’s leader raised his cup.
— My friends — he called out, voice ringing over the courtyard — this was one of those places a man doesn’t forget! We had good company, good drink—and somehow, we even lost one of our own to hospitality! And here I thought it was folk who joined us in search of fortune!

Laughter rippled. Esther lifted her cup and winked.
— Well, you had to get rid of me someday.

— Not get rid—share! — a juggler shouted.

Laughter again, bright and unforced.
The night settled into warmth and comfort.

Vilk glanced at Sika—she laughed too, though with her usual restraint. She kept her eye on Esther, still getting used to her presence here, but there was no resentment in it.

Cups clinked again.
The night deepened.

Vilk moved closer, letting himself breathe for the first time that day.
Everyone knew the troupe would leave come morning.
But tonight—they were still here.
Together.

Morning came abruptly.

Packing was done, horses stood ready, snorting in the cool dawn.
Vilk stood in the courtyard, watching as the wanderers mounted up, tightening saddles, securing packs.

In a few hours, they would be gone again—into new lands, new faces, never staying long enough to call any place home.

The old man approached last.
He stopped before Vilk, his gaze steady, seeing more than hero wanted to reveal.

— Don’t waste her.

The words were quiet, but heavy.
Vilk felt them strike something deep inside.

The old man smiled faintly, shaking his head, as though amused by a secret of his own.
— Or yourself.

He held a bundle wrapped in linen.
Vilk frowned, but before he could ask, the old man handed it to him.

The cloth was coarse, carrying the scent of dust and travel.
Vilk unwrapped it slowly—his fingers brushed smooth, aged wood.

A hurdy-gurdy.

Beautiful, though scarred by years of wandering.
Vilk stared at it, uncertain, almost disbelieving.

The old man shrugged.
— Sika talked.

Vilk looked up.

— Heard you like the instrument — the man continued.
He nodded toward it, assessing.
— Seemed wrong to let it sit idle.

For a long while, Vilk said nothing.
His hand traced the carved edge, the worn crank, the delicate strings.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him something.
He couldn’t remember how to respond.

So he only nodded, masking the pull in his chest.
— Thank you.

The old man waved a hand.
— Don’t thank me. Just play.

Vilk didn’t answer, but the words stayed with him.

When the troupe finally rode out, he watched their shapes fade into the dust—horse and rider blending with the treeline until there was nothing left but silence.

And then he turned back.
The day was just beginning.

The city was already alive when Vilk returned to the dungeon.
The executioner—an older man, hardened by years of his trade—was waiting for him at one of the tables, inspecting his tools.

He was the sort of man shaped by the weight of what he did: precise, unmoved, his movements quick and sure.
He didn’t need to prove anything.

The day began with sentences.
Those set to receive lashes or other corporal punishments had already been brought forward.

Vilk watched as the man worked—methodical, unhurried.
Each strike was measured. No hatred. No pity.
Only craft.

But something else stirred in Vilk.

A sharp pain, deep and familiar.
He’d been so caught up in duty, in change, in endless days—he had forgotten one thing.

To feed.

He felt it twist through him, that gnawing emptiness.
His muscles tightened, his stomach ached, and the primal hunger began to creep back through his mind, whispering its demands.

He tried to suppress it, but the executioner must have noticed something.

— Don’t worry — the man said quietly. — The first days are always like this. You’ll get used to it.

Vilk looked at him, still tense.

The executioner nodded toward the next prisoner—a fat man with a sagging chin, trembling with fear.
— They’re all the same — he said dryly. — Think of him like a pig. Helps with the nerves.

He actually tried not to.
That was the problem.
He was hungry.
And in the last months, this—people, flesh, life itself—had become his food.

The day passed, mercifully fast.
Punishments, interrogations, preparations for the next day’s executions.
There was blood. There was pain.
That was the work.

Vilk didn’t rush home.

At the edge of the city, Grym was already waiting—still as stone, eyes gleaming.

Vilk met his gaze, and both understood.
They couldn’t wait any longer.

The forest welcomed them like kin.
They moved in silence, side by side—two shadows born of the same night.

This was no hunt for sport.
It was ritual.

Vilk felt his body attune to the rhythm of the woods; instinct took over.
The night was his ally, the wet scent of moss and bark grounding him, calming him, calling him home.

They didn’t search long.

On a forgotten path, near the edge of an old road, they found them—bandits, loud and careless, too sure no one would ever hunt them.

They didn’t realize they had stumbled upon a true predator.

Vilk watched for a while, waiting for the perfect lapse in their guard.
When it came—he moved.

No sound. No warning.
The first man didn’t even turn.
Vilk was already behind him—a quick, brutal motion, the throat torn open, blood hot on his hand.

The second reached for his blade—but Grym was faster, slamming into him, dragging him down. The wolf’s jaws found his neck.

The third ran.
But Grym never allowed escape.
Three strides.
Then silence.

No screams.
No pleas.
The dark swallowed them whole, and the forest closed again around its secret.

Vilk and Grym stood over the dead, breathing evenly.
It was routine now—the same as always.

Vilk and the blood.
Grym and the flesh.
Bones scattered like stones in a sacred circle.

Vilk never thought too long about it.
It wasn’t vengeance.
It wasn’t purpose.
It was life—their life.

When they finished, Vilk lifted his head to the night sky.
The bloodlust eased.
The hunger quieted.

Without a word, they turned homeward.

By the time they returned, it was late.

Vilk stepped through the gate, shaking off the cold.
Esther wasn’t worried—not exactly—but this was new for her, this rhythm of his disappearances into the dark and silent returns at dawn.

Sika was already waiting, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.
— Back already?

Vilk met her gaze, seeing in it no curiosity, just understanding.

— Jagna woke up.

He stopped.
— How is she?

— Tired. But talking.
Sika straightened.
— Will you go see her?

Vilk hesitated only a moment, then nodded.
— Yes.

Now was the time to talk.

******

Vilk stepped into the room where Jagna lay.
The air was thick with the scent of damp herbs—Sika must have left them to cleanse the air.
The room was dim, shadows pooling in the corners.
Jagna rested on a narrow cot, pale as ash, but this time her eyes were not empty. They looked back at him. They lived.

She didn’t move when she saw him, but something in her gaze shifted—there was life there, fragile, flickering, but alive all the same.

Vilk sat on a stool beside her.
— You couldn’t have gone on like that.

Jagna didn’t answer right away. She stared at the ceiling as if searching for something she’d lost there long ago.
— I don’t even know how I ever did — she murmured, her voice hoarse and thin. — But I had no choice.

Vilk raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

— My parents threw me out.
She turned her head toward him, eyes hard and tired.
— They called me a disgrace.

— For what?

She laughed softly, bitterly.
— For love.

He stayed silent, waiting.

— I had a foolish heart. Naive. —She exhaled. —I fell in love—like an idiot girl.
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy.
— A nobleman — she said flatly, almost reciting her own tragedy. — Pretty words. Pretty gestures. And then…— she swallowed, — then he made a joke of me. Thought I’d given him something sacred. Instead—
Her voice cracked, thin as paper.
— He sold it like a tavern story.

Silence again.

Vilk didn’t look surprised. He’d heard such stories too many times to count.

— So everyone treated you like a whore? — he asked plainly.

Jagna didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to.
— So I became one. —Her voice was flat, drained of emotion. — And after that, it didn’t matter anymore.

She turned away.
— But this— her fingers gripped the blanket faintly, trembling — this life, these people… the endless nights…

Vilk saw the tremor in her hand.
— I can’t live like that anymore.

She wasn’t built for it.
Too much softness in her. Too much melancholy.
She wasn’t Esther.
She wasn’t Sika.
And there was nothing wrong with that.

Vilk rested his elbows on his knees.
— Do you still have the dagger I gave you?

Jagna blinked.
— What?

— The dagger — he repeated calmly. — Where is it?

He looked at her hands—lying still on the blanket, though her fingers clenched unconsciously at the fabric. As if even in sleep she held on to something.

He didn’t know what made him ask again.
— Do you still have it?

Jagna looked toward her belongings—small, pitifully few. She looked like someone who’d forgotten what it meant to own anything.

Slowly, she lifted a hand and began to search through her things.
Each movement heavy, reluctant, as though she was unsure she wanted to find it at all.

Her trembling fingers brushed cloth, leather, small trinkets—until at last she found it.

The dagger slid free, landing with a dull thud on the floorboards.

Jagna picked it up, stared at it as if it were something distant, foreign.
No relief in her eyes—only understanding.
As though she had just realized she’d never truly let it go.

Vilk said nothing.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked.
He wasn’t sure the words he wanted to speak would make any sense.

Because the truth was—what he meant to say wasn’t a simple offer.

He had saved her life.
And now—

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and looked at her again.
— You can’t give up.

Jagna laughed softly, bitter and short.
— Can’t I?

Vilk leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
— No.

She was silent, studying him as though dissecting every word.

It was a moment when he should have stopped talking.
But he didn’t.

— Maybe it’s not the kind of offer you expected — he said finally, exhaling.
He wasn’t backing away.
— Maybe you’d like to stay.

Jagna lifted her eyes to his.

He didn’t look away.
— You’d have to talk to the others, but this place—this house—it’s for that. For people like us.

Silence.

— Outcasts. Whores. Those who just want to carve out a corner of this rotten world and live on their own terms. To face themselves… at their own pace.
His tone was calm, merciless, but true.
— If that’s something you’d even consider… our lives won’t change much. But yours doesn’t have to end the way it almost did last night.

Jagna didn’t answer right away.
But something moved behind her eyes.
Something new. Something not quite hope—but close.

Vilk sighed and rose from the stool.
— You don’t have to say anything now — he said quietly. — Just rest. When you’re stronger, we’ll talk.

Jagna nodded faintly.

He gave her one last look before closing the door behind him.

Vilk entered the main room.
Sika and Esther were already waiting.

— Well? — Sika asked, drumming her fingers impatiently against the table.
Esther stayed silent, but her gaze said enough.

Instead of answering, Vilk dropped onto the bench, rubbed his face, and sighed.
— I think I just offered her a job in a brothel.

Silence.
Then—

— WHAT?! — Sika nearly leapt to her feet, eyes wide. — Do you even hear yourself?!

— Gods above…— Esther groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. — Give me strength.

Vilk lifted a calming hand.
— That’s not how it sounded.

— Oh really? — Sika’s voice sharpened. — She’s lying there, broken, after trying to kill herself, and you what—‘Hey, I know just the job for someone like you’?

Vilk sighed.
— It wasn’t that blunt.

— Oh, I bet — Sika muttered. —How do you even talk to people?

— I don’t,— Vilk said flatly. — That’s why I have you two.

Esther burst out laughing first, and after a moment even Sika cracked, shaking her head as laughter took over.

— Vilk, you’re a marvel — Sika said, wiping her eyes. — A professional executioner, and yet your social skills should be a punishable offense.

Vilk smirked faintly.
— That’s why I stick to my trade.

Esther shook her head, amusement fading into mild concern.
— We’ll need to fix that.

Vilk glanced at her.
— Meaning?

— Meaning I’ll talk to her — Esther said, standing. Her gaze was steady. — Because that’s the last thing she should be thinking about tonight.

Vilk arched a brow.
— You’re overreacting.

Esther’s eyes narrowed.
— Would you want to go to bed thinking the man who saved you just suggested you start earning a living on your back?

Vilk didn’t reply.

— Exactly — she said, turning toward the door. — I’ll handle it.

She left, leaving Vilk and Sika alone.

Vilk took a drink of water, feeling the silence stretch.
Sika was still staring at him—not angry now, just baffled.

After a moment, Vilk sighed.
— She already does.

Sika frowned.
— What?

Vilk leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table.
— She’s a prostitute.

Sika exhaled slowly, as if restraining herself from hitting him with the nearest object.
— Saints preserve me, you’re hopeless.

Vilk chuckled softly.
— What? It sounds worse when you say it out loud?

She gave him a look halfway between disbelief and pity, then just shook her head.
— All right, let’s back up. She does that—but does she want to keep doing it? Because what I saw was a girl who’s completely lost.

Vilk exhaled through his nose, running a hand along the table.
— That’s something she’ll have to decide herself.

Sika propped her chin on her hand.
— And if she decides it’s not for her?

Vilk shrugged.
— If she stays, I’ll handle it.

—Seriously?

— We’ve still got coin — he said. —And I’ll be heading to training soon—judgments, proper pay. The money will come.

Sika leaned back, grinning faintly.
— Go on, I’m actually starting to like this version of you.

Vilk smiled.
— You focus on getting the place in order. Maybe start serving beer—it’ll bring in some coin. You and Esther can handle it.

Sika eyed him sideways.
— And Kiki?

The wall shimmered faintly as if answering for itself.

Vilk sighed.
— She doesn’t like being bored. She’ll find something.

A pause. Then Sika shook her head, smiling faintly.
— For a blood-soaked executioner, you’re a surprisingly soft-hearted bastard.

Vilk raised a brow.
— That a problem?

Sika smirked.
— Maybe that’s why I trust you.

He didn’t reply, but something flickered behind his eyes that made her laugh.

— All right, enough talk — she said, stretching. — Let’s get back to work before you start brooding again. Though really, Vilk… women seem to fall right into your lap. You’re like a damned hound for them.

Vilk shook his head, standing with her. She had no idea how true—or how false—that might be.

They still had too much to do.

That night, Vilk lay down, meaning only to close his eyes for a moment.
Before sleep claimed him, he felt the bed shift—a warm body curling against him without asking.

Esther.

She slid into his arm as if she’d always belonged there, murmuring softly, lazily, like a cat settling into a favorite spot.
— I like sleeping in your bed — she whispered, voice drowsy, half to herself.

Vilk sighed but didn’t move.
— Because it’s comfortable?

She smiled, her fingers tracing slow patterns across his chest.
— Because you’re in it.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Vilk woke before dawn.
Esther lay beside him, breathing softly, her bare body wrapped in a thin blanket.
He watched her for a while, wanting to remember the sight.
For once, he didn’t want to leave.
But he had to.

He dressed quietly, buckled his belt, pulled on his cloak—
not quietly enough.

— Isn’t it a bit early for running off? — Her voice, muffled by sleep, brushed against the wooden walls.

He didn’t answer right away, fussing with the belt buckle as if it required perfect alignment.

Esther stretched lazily, showing no intention of rising.
Her gaze was soft, still half-asleep, but sharp underneath.
— First time you’re leaving this place— she murmured.

Vilk looked back over his shoulder.
— Yes.

— And?

She didn’t have to finish; she already knew.

Vilk reached for his cloak.
— You get used to things faster than you think.

A faint smile curved her lips.
— Especially the things you never had before.

He didn’t argue.

She propped herself on one elbow, studying him.
Then sighed and lay back down.
— All right then — she murmured. — Go, my wolf. Try not to get eaten.

Vilk opened the door.
— Until soon.

— Always — she whispered without opening her eyes.

Outside, Grym was waiting.
His eyes gleamed in the half-light, steady and knowing.

Vilk crouched, running his fingers through the coarse fur.
— Stay.

It felt strange to say it.

— You have to be here — Vilk said quietly but firmly. Just in case.

Grym nudged his shoulder, not in obedience, but in understanding.
That was enough.

For the first time since they’d met—
since blood and night had bound them together—
Vilk was leaving him behind.

Grym licked his muzzle once, then stood still.

Vilk patted his neck and rose.

He looked back at the manor.
At the people he was leaving there.
At Jagna, still uncertain of her own path.
At Esther, who claimed she never stayed anywhere—and yet had chosen to remain.
At Sika, who held everything together, even if she pretended it was only for the money.

This place was still becoming something.
But it already meant something.

Vilk turned and walked on.

The horse moved steadily beneath him, hooves clopping against damp earth.
The city was waking, but he felt apart from it, like a ghost slipping through another man’s world.

Tarnów lived by its rhythm—traders opening stalls, craftsmen lighting fires, townsfolk hurrying by without ever noticing those who were leaving.

At the edge of the square, another horse waited.
The executioner sat astride it, as if he’d been there forever—his black cloak hanging heavy, sword gleaming at his side like another limb.

No greeting was needed. They were men of action, not words.

Vilk reined in beside him.

— Ready? — the executioner asked, glancing at him.

— Not my first road.

The man smirked.
— Not your first... but the first in this direction.

Vilk said nothing. No need.
He felt neither fear nor excitement—only the quiet awareness that another line had been crossed.

The executioner tugged the reins.
— I don’t like being late.

Vilk cast one last look back at the city—at Tarnów, once just a point on a map.
Now, he was leaving something behind.

He didn’t look again.
He nudged the horse forward and rode out.

Biecz awaited.
And with it—the next chapter of his life.

Vilk rose early.
The night had been long, his sleep shallow and restless.
He had spent the last hours lying in silence, listening to the distant sounds of the house — noises too easy to mistake for something more than mere drafts.

He ate a simple meal, pulled on his cloak, and stepped into the courtyard, where Jan was already waiting. The nobleman, as always neat and composed, wore a kuntush befitting his station — richly embroidered but not ostentatious, formal yet functional. At his side hung a karabela, a fine piece of craftsmanship, a quiet reminder of his standing in the city.

— Time to see what your new role looks like, — Jan said, handing Vilk the reins of one of the horses. — Ready?
Vilk nodded and mounted. They rode toward the city, through morning mists rising above the fields and groves. The air carried the scent of moisture and smoke — as though the city itself was already greeting him.

After a while, Jan spoke again, his voice stripped of its usual confidence.
— This is your last chance.

Vilk looked at him sharply, but said nothing.
Jan sighed, adjusting his grip on the reins.

— Once you take this office, there’s no turning back. The city will need you — but you’ll never truly belong to it. — His gaze grew steady, almost grave. — I know it’s your decision, but you must understand what it means. You can still walk away. There are other paths. I could help you.

— There’s nothing to walk away from, — Vilk said flatly. — Besides… sometimes a shitty script is all you get. It’s decided.

Jan fell silent, then nodded, as though accepting it — though not without regret.

They reached the city gates without trouble. The guards recognized Jan immediately and let them through without question.
Still, Vilk noticed how a few of them glanced his way — not with fear, but with the wary understanding of what he was becoming.

The city was alive.
Market stalls, shouting vendors, smiths and craftsmen boasting of their wares — all in a kind of chaotic harmony that reminded Vilk how the world kept moving forward, indifferent to his struggles.

They rode through the main streets. People stepped aside. Jan led him toward the town hall, where the councilmen were waiting. Vilk could feel eyes on him — some curious, some cautious, as though his very presence might bring misfortune.

— These are your first steps in your new position, — Jan said, glancing sideways. — People won’t know how to treat you. You’ll be on the edge — some will respect you, others will avoid you. But all of them will need you.

Vilk didn’t reply. He knew what he was, and what he was becoming — he just didn’t yet know what to do with it.

Before entering the town hall, they paused.
Jan adjusted the sleeve of his kuntush and gave him a faint, amused look.
— You don’t look much like an executioner yet.
— That’s just a matter of clothes, — Vilk said dryly. — The rest is already in me.

Jan arched a brow but let it pass. They stepped inside.

The council chamber was grand — a vast hall with heavy wooden tables and great chandeliers dripping wax. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting battles and the crests of the city’s noble houses. The polished floor gleamed darkly, the air thick with wax and smoke.

At the main table sat the councilmen, wrapped in long robes and ornate sashes. Their eyes fixed on Vilk with the same distance one gives a man who no longer belongs to the world of the living.

Jan spoke for him, introducing Vilk as the future executioner of Tarnów. The greetings that followed were cold, perfunctory. He was someone they needed — not someone they wanted.

— You’ll have access to the dungeons, — one of the councilmen said at last. — It’s best you familiarize yourself with your place of work.
— You’ll be bound to the orders of the magistrate, but also to your own judgment. We expect discretion and professionalism, — added another, his voice polite but icy.
— Procedure also requires your attendance at council sessions when summoned. All documentation must be kept in proper order.

Vilk didn’t answer right away. Their words sounded mechanical — pure formality.
There was no humanity in this room; the hangman was not meant to think.

— I understand, — he said at last.

— Then let’s show you your workplace.

They descended the stairs. The air changed immediately — damp, heavy, saturated with sweat and something darker.

A guard opened the door to the dungeons.
Vilk took his first step into what would become his new reality.

The place reeked of rot and suffering.
The air was thick, and the darkness felt almost solid — soaked for years in the echoes of screams. Vilk walked slowly along the corridor, examining the space that would soon be his domain.

Behind him, Jan moved with measured steps; ahead, the guard led them — a hollow-cheeked man with the look of someone who’d seen too much.
Vilk felt the eyes on him — from behind the bars, from the shadows. Fear. He could smell it; it clung to his skin like smoke.

— Of course, everything is under the magistrate’s strict control, — one of the councilmen said, his voice echoing against the stone. It was dry, mechanical. — Your duties follow established legal procedure. Every execution must be approved by the council beforehand. Every corporal punishment recorded and signed. Nothing beyond that.

Vilk nodded, though irritation simmered beneath the surface.
Men who would never dirty their own hands were always eager to lecture him on how to use his.

— There can be no room for discretion, — added another — an old man with parchment skin. — No one wants unnecessary complaints or accusations. The executioner acts as a tool, not a man guided by his own judgment.

Interesting, Vilk thought. So my hands are your instruments — yet you still don’t trust what they’ll do.

— Of course, — he said aloud.

Silence.
Jan sighed quietly but said nothing.

— It’s not a matter of trust, but of order, — the councilman continued, adjusting his cuff as if discussing blood and death were no more than paperwork. — Tarnów, as you know, is a private city. Still, we must maintain standards. Royal law doesn’t demand an executioner’s certification here, but we believe it prudent that you undergo… let’s say, accelerated training.

Vilk frowned.
— Training?
— Yes, — the man replied, flipping through several parchments as if ticking items off a list. — In a week, the hangman from Biecz will arrive to perform a series of scheduled sentences. When his work is done, he’ll take you with him. You’ll spend a few days there — learning technique, mastering the craft.

Biecz. Of course. Vilk had heard of its house of executions — one of the most reputable place for butchers in the land. If one were to learn the trade, that was the place.

— We don’t want anyone questioning your competence, — the official went on. — From what we know, you’re already familiar with… matters of pain. But you’ll need to learn how to handle the tools, understand the formalities. This is, after all, an official post.

Vilk almost laughed. The irony of it all was grotesque.
They had no problem with who he was, or what he did — but for the sake of procedure, they had to send him for “training,” a neat little formality to ease their consciences. They didn’t want a hangman, but they needed one. They didn’t want blood on their hands, but they wanted it done properly.

Jan, who had remained silent, finally spoke.
— You should be grateful. Without my word, you’d spend months there.
— Grateful, — Vilk repeated, tasting the word. — Of course.

The councilman folded the parchment and looked at him solemnly.
— This week you’ll observe the city — how the courts operate, how sentences are carried out. You’ll start with simple matters.

Vilk raised an eyebrow.
— Simple?
— Dogs, — the man said with a shrug. — There are too many strays. People complain. You can start with that. Later, we’ll move on to more serious cases.

Vilk nearly laughed aloud.
Men unwilling to soil their hands — already planning his first kills.
Pure hypocrisy.

Well, fuck. Grym’s not going to like this.

He stepped toward the dungeon doors as they creaked open.
The stench of damp, blood, and rotting straw hit him full in the face.

In a week, he would travel to Biecz.
But today…
Today he’d be killing stray dogs.

A fitting task for Vilk.

*

Vilk stepped over the threshold of the dungeon, and the air thickened around him at once.
The stench of damp, rotting straw, and human despair was almost tangible. Torchlight cast long, shifting shadows along the stone walls, making them seem to pulse like living flesh.

The guard leading them down the corridor didn’t bother to hide his weariness. His heavy boots struck the stones in a rhythm that Vilk, without thinking, matched to the slow drip of water echoing somewhere deep within.
The darkness here was dense — waiting for people the same way as the moisture did, the same way as the rats that slid lazily along the walls, barely acknowledging their presence.

In the cells they passed sat people — some crouched, others sprawled motionless, suspended between sleep, faint, or something worse. A few pairs of eyes lifted toward them, only to shrink back into the shadows, as if no one wanted to be noticed.
But Vilk sensed something else beneath it — not just fear, but tension, fury, resignation.

This was a place that devoured a man long before judgment was ever pronounced.

— You’ll be working here. — The guard unlocked a massive iron door leading deeper into the dungeon. — The interrogation room’s at the end of the corridor.

Vilk stepped inside. The stone walls were stained — some with damp, some with what clearly wasn’t. On the right stood a heavy wooden table, scattered with tools: hand-forged, weighty, worn smooth by long use.

A strange kind of silence filled the room — the kind that existed only where hope had died long ago.
Vilk brushed his fingers across one of the tools. The iron was cold. Everything here was cold.

The councilmen stood behind him, watching closely.

— You’ll have full access to the dungeons, but every execution and every interrogation must be reported and recorded, — one of them said, emphasizing the words as though they were a commandment.

— I’ve always been a supporter of transparency, — Vilk replied, a faint edge of irony in his tone.

— Good. — The man didn’t react to the sarcasm. — During your first week, you’ll learn procedure. Review the verdicts, get to know the city. Then you’ll have the chance to observe your predecessor at work.

Vilk raised a brow.
— Predecessor?
— The hangman from Biecz. You’ll finish your training there, remember? Or shall I repeat it once more?

Vilk grimaced. It didn’t sound like something open to discussion.

One of the councilmen sighed, the way one does when dealing with a stubborn child.
— Until you understand that this profession is part of a larger structure—

— Profession? — Vilk repeated quietly.

No one answered.

It isn’t a profession, he thought. It’s a sentence — just turned the other way around.

The guard cleared his throat, glancing uncertainly at the councilmen, unsure if he should speak.

— You can start by familiarizing yourself with the prisoners, — one of them said at last. — Some await judgment, others interrogation. The magistrate will send you their records. Of course, no action without the council’s consent.

Vilk’s mouth twisted into a thin smile.
— Of course. Procedures above all.

He looked around again. He wasn’t afraid of the work. But something stirred within him now — something different.
This place would change him.
The only question was how.

He stood still, no longer listening to the councilmen. Their voices faded, turning to dull noise, a monotonous hum without meaning.

The dungeons had their own language. The air itself vibrated — faintly, almost imperceptibly.
The people trapped here were broken, but each in a different way. Some were already dead inside, burned out, their souls clinging to the air like the residue of spent wax on an old candle. Others still fought — though their bodies decayed, their minds pulsed with aggression, with hope, with blind defiance to survive.

Vilk’s eyes moved slowly across the barred cells. In one corner, a man sat hunched on a cot, hands clenched around his knees, emanating silence. Another, a few steps away, watched from under half-closed lids. His face hid in shadow, but something in him still resisted.
Maybe he didn’t yet know he was already finished.

Vilk closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. The air was thick, heavy, sticky. Cold.
Soaked with sweat, blood, pain.
The stench of fear was physical — it hung in the air like the echo of old executions, of confessions torn from throats that still had something left to say before meaning itself was stripped away.

And that feeling…
He sensed it rising again. Unexpected, awakening deep within him — pulsing, familiar, dangerous.

Here, HE had power.
Here, no one could command him, no one could judge him.
This place belonged neither to justice nor to morality. It was bare reality — the place where words lost their worth.

Everyone here was under his dominion.
They just didn’t know it yet.

A faint tingling crept into his fingertips — disturbingly familiar. He ran his hand along the wooden table, brushing a finger over the cold edge of a tool. The iron had a certain allure — the raw promise of effectiveness, of truth that didn’t lie, truth spoken only through consequence.

He could lose himself in it.

And then — a voice pulled him out.

— Executioner? — one of the councilmen cleared his throat, his tone dry and uneasy.

Vilk blinked, returning to the present.
He looked up, meeting the man’s face — strained, expectant.

— Let’s return to formalities, — said another. — You have business in the city.

Vilk slowly withdrew his hand from the table and turned toward them. He could see it clearly now — the slight tension in their shoulders, the subtle step backward one of them took without realizing. Even here, they were cautious, as if executioners were contagious.

One of them reached out a folded sheet of paper. He hesitated before handing it over, as though weighing whether it was worth the risk of proximity. Finally, he sighed and laid it on the table.

— You’ll find the blacksmith here, the carpenter there, and bread from the baker. They’ll supply what you need. — He spoke in the practiced tone of a bureaucrat reading another formality, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

Vilk unfolded the paper — a list of names and places. Nothing else. No ceremony, no empty phrases. Just practicality. Yet behind that simplicity, something deeper lurked.

— Only them? — he asked quietly, looking up.

The councilman cleared his throat and looked away.
— The city’s never had an executioner before. It’s new for them.

It wasn’t an answer. It was evasion.

Vilk folded the paper and slipped it into his coat. The fact that someone had bothered to write it at all said enough.
He was needed, but not wanted.
A necessity, not a man.
That truth lingered in the air, the quiet promise of what was yet to come.

When he left the magistrate’s hall, Jan was waiting outside, leaning against the wall.
He studied Vilk for a moment, reading his face.

— Well? — he asked.

— I got a list, — Vilk said, pulling out the crumpled sheet. — Like the city wants to make sure I only deal with certain people.

Jan raised a brow, unsurprised.
— It’s new to them. They probably don’t even know how to act. Come on, I’ll show you the places. Better you know where things are before you need them.

They walked deeper into the city, passing alleys, stalls, and narrow streets. Jan led him with confidence, pointing things out.

— The blacksmith’s there, next to the tanner. The carpenter’s closer to the market. And the baker— — he gestured toward a building with a wide window, where loaves of bread sat in neat rows. — If there’s any trouble, mention the magistrate’s writ. That should be enough.

Vilk nodded, memorizing the spots.
No one had shunned him yet, but he could feel it starting — the sidelong glances, the whispered comments, the subtle distance forming like mist.

— They don’t see you as a hangman yet, — Jan said. — But they will.

Vilk didn’t answer. He knew it better than anyone.

They moved through the streets unhurriedly, as though there were no urgency — yet both men knew this was no casual stroll. It was a test. The city’s first look at its new executioner.

People stared. Some furtively, others openly.
The glances varied — curious, judging, cautious.
Vilk felt them clinging to his back like shifting shadows on the cobblestones.

— They look at me strangely, — he murmured. It wasn’t complaint — just fact.

Jan snorted, adjusting the sleeve of his kuntush— Of course they do. People fear what they don’t understand. And no one understands a hangman — no one wants to. What’s more frightening than what we’d rather never know?

Vilk smirked faintly.
— You’re not afraid.

Jan looked at him sideways, then laughed quietly.
— Because I met you before you became one. We’ve not known each other long, but the right moments reveal what a man’s made of — here. — He tapped his chest. — It’s all in the heart.

Vilk watched him, searching for something beneath the words. Jan smiled and added, lightly:
— Besides, you’re a decent man. A bit grim, maybe. A bit closed off. But still a man. And let’s not forget — you saved my life. That counts for something.

Vilk rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. They walked on. The city around them moved in its steady rhythm, swallowing them into its ordinary pulse.
Except Vilk wasn’t part of that rhythm anymore.
He belonged to its edges now.

— One day, that might change, — he muttered.

— Let the future decide, — Jan shrugged, smiling faintly. — People get used to anything — even fear. But until then, expect to be looked at the way they look at you today.

Soon they reached their horses. Jan mounted with practiced ease; Vilk followed, feeling the familiar weight and tension of the animal beneath him. They rode slowly toward the western districts, where the road began to split.

— You know what? — Jan said suddenly. — You should come to my place tomorrow evening.

Vilk shot him a questioning glance.
— Why?

— So you spend at least one evening in proper company — not in your dungeon or under the stares of townsfolk. — Jan smiled. — I’ll invite a few people. Nothing grand, just wine, mead, food, a few conversations. Come. Bring Sika.

Vilk shook his head.
— Doesn’t sound like a good idea.

Jan’s tone sharpened; his smile faded.
— Oh? Then perhaps I should ask whether I’m still allowed to invite whom I please into my own house? Because, my friend, I’d say that choice is still mine.

Vilk raised a brow but stayed silent.

— You know what annoys me most? — Jan went on. — Everyone talks about freedom — about equality, about every man being what he chooses. Nonsense. We’re not equal and never will be. But at least here, in this Republic of ours, a man can live according to his own will — if he’s strong enough to keep it.
Freedom isn’t given. It’s taken.
And I intend to take mine — and to welcome at my table those I choose.
And to hell with what anyone thinks of it.

They rode on in silence for a while. Finally Vilk exhaled softly and nodded.
— If that’s how you put it…

Jan grinned.
— That’s exactly how I put it. Along with wine and supper, too.

Vilk didn’t answer, but he could tell Jan wouldn’t let him slip away. The invitation was settled.

They rode on as the city exhaled its evening breath around them — smoke, bread, and fading light. The day was cooling, and the scent of hearthfire drifted through the streets.

At last they reached the stable yard where their horses waited, tended by a few boys cleaning tack and harness.

Jan stretched lazily.
— I’ve still some errands to run, — he said, glancing at Vilk. — You, on the other hand, go home. Rest properly. Tomorrow your real work begins.

Vilk smirked faintly.
— Rest? You mean sleeping in a haunted manor? Best sleep I’ve had in years.

Jan shot him a dry look.
— I didn’t drag you there. Quite the opposite. We’re all adults here, aren’t we?

Vilk chuckled quietly, taking up his reins.

— And remember — tomorrow evening, you’ll be at my house, — Jan said with a half-smile. — The road’s straight; I trust you still know the way.

— I remember. — Vilk’s reply was brief.

— Good. — Jan patted his shoulder, then turned his horse to go. — Until then, Vilk.

Vilk mounted and set off without another word.
He let the horse find its pace, the rhythm of hooves steadying his thoughts.

The day was nearly done, but what lay ahead was only beginning.

He rode back toward the manor at an easy pace, letting the animal choose the rhythm. The day slid slowly into late afternoon; the shadows stretched long and languid across the road. The air was cool but not yet night. It smelled of earth, wood, and faint chimney smoke.

When he reached the estate, he saw movement in the courtyard. Jegor and Viktor were working — one carrying planks, the other sawing, the hammer’s ring echoing off the stone walls.
Vilk paused, watching the scene take shape.

Sika spotted him first. She stood with her hands on her hips, her gaze sharp but softer than usual.
— So, you’re back, — she said, coming closer. — How did the city treat you?

Vilk dismounted, patting the horse’s neck.
— I’m not sure it treated me at all, — he said dryly. — More like it’s still deciding what to do with me. People stare. They don’t avoid me yet, but they’re thinking about how they should.

Sika narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
— That’s how it goes, when a man suddenly becomes someone better unseen, — she said, glancing toward Jegor and Viktor still at work. — But you’ve got other things to worry about. Come — see what they’ve managed so far.

Vilk sighed and led the horse toward the stable, then followed her inside.
— Everything quiet today? — he asked.

— More or less, — she replied with a shrug. — Jegor said something seemed moved, but maybe it’s just his memory. Viktor swears a door was left open that he’s sure he closed. And me — I can’t get used to them. It’s… strange, what’s happened to them. Are they even still themselves?

Vilk gave her a sidelong glance.
— Don’t worry. They’re no threat. And the strange feelings?

— Nothing, — Sika chuckled softly. — Probably just fatigue. If you hear something creak at night, it’s only the wood settling. Nothing more.

Vilk shook his head and stopped before the manor door.

Sika studied him, weighing something in her mind. Then she exhaled and spread her hands.
— All right. Since everything’s coming together… you’ve got your post, they’re fixing the place up, the plan’s holding — I say it’s time for a little celebration.

Vilk raised an eyebrow.
— We’re celebrating?

— Damn right we are, — she grinned. — It’s not every day there’s something real to celebrate. And today there is. A new beginning, isn’t it?

He said nothing at first, but the thought slowly appealed to him. He felt the weight of the day on his shoulders — but also a faint warmth beneath it, the idea of an evening spent in quiet company, with wine and laughter.

— Then I won’t argue, — he said, half-smiling.

— Good. — Sika clapped her hands once. — Now go wash up. You look like you’ve marched across half the kingdom.

Vilk didn’t protest. He stepped inside, ready for a moment’s rest before the evening came.
There was still much ahead to think through — but for now, he could allow himself something simpler.
An evening without the burden of tomorrow.

Share

Vilk washed his face with cold water, letting the chill strip away the last remnants of fatigue. He stared into the mirror, at the reflection settling after the water’s ripple — tired eyes, a shadow of stubble, tension in the jaw he hadn’t noticed before.
He sighed, setting aside the weight of the day. This wasn’t the time to dwell on things beyond his control — especially after the strain of the past few days. They all deserved a moment of calm.

When he stepped into the main room, Sika was already waiting, leaning against the heavy table. A bottle of liquor stood on it, along with a few clay cups and simple food — bread, dried meat, a bit of cheese. Nothing fancy, but enough to honor the evening.

— Now this — she said with a grin, tapping the bottle against the table — is living. So? Shall we celebrate?
Vilk rolled his eyes but came closer, reaching for a cup.
— Since you insist.
— As if I’ve ever backed down — she muttered, amused, and poured for them both.

They drank the first sip in silence, letting the heat spread inside them. The moment felt almost weightless — the first time in a long while Vilk wasn’t analyzing every glance, every decision, every move. Just him, Sika, and the quiet.

— Funny — he said suddenly, setting down his cup — it’s the first evening since I came here that I’m not thinking about tomorrow.
Sika shot him a sidelong look.
— See? Maybe listening to me now and then wouldn’t kill you.

He smiled faintly but said nothing, taking another sip. The tension in his shoulders began to ease.

— And now — she said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in her eye — the question is, how long before you start talking about work again?
Vilk chuckled, shaking his head.
— I’ll do my best to set a new record.

The evening unfolded slowly — laughter, quiet talk, another round of drink. For a while, reality could wait.

Vilk drained another cup, feeling warmth spread through his body. Sika turned hers absently in her hand, the firelight flickering in her eyes. The air smelled faintly of burning wood and candle wax — she must’ve lit a few earlier. The flames trembled softly, their glow painting slow, breathing shadows across the walls.

— It’s strange — she said after a moment, tilting her head — how quickly a person gets used to a place. A few days ago this was a ruin, and now? I’m starting to like it.

Vilk looked around. She was right. The manor no longer felt empty. The walls didn’t seem so cold, and the corners no longer hid the weight of silence. Even in its simplicity, the room had changed — warmth had crept into it somehow. Perhaps from the fire. Perhaps from the candles. Or perhaps from the rare luxury of being able to simply sit still.

— Don’t exaggerate — he murmured, leaning back in his chair — there’s still plenty to be done.
— But it’s better — Sika said, smiling faintly — and finally, you’ve got yourself a home. You can breathe. You can relax.

Relax. The word lingered in his mind — so simple, and yet so far removed from anything he remembered. Since coming to this place, his days had been filled with duties, plans, and the constant demand to stay alert. Even now, he could feel a quiet pressure behind his ribs, as if something refused to let go.

Sika rose and reached for the bottle again, refilling both cups with deliberate slowness, stretching the moment. When she sat back down, she leaned forward slightly, her gaze soft, searching.

— You know — she said, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup — these past days have really taken it out of you. You look like you’re still waiting for the next fight.

Vilk gave a faint smile but didn’t answer. She was right. The haunted manor, the duties, the uncertainty — and the Red Queen, whose name he hadn’t spoken aloud — all of it had worn him thin.

Sika pushed her cup aside and rubbed her palms together, as if preparing for something.
— Give me your hands — she said suddenly, in a tone that left little room for discussion.

He looked at her, half amused, half suspicious.
— What for?
— Let me take care of you for once.

He hesitated, then extended his hands across the table. Her fingers met his — warm, sure, deliberate. She began to work her thumbs into the tight sinews of his palms, finding the small, stubborn knots that pain leaves behind.

It felt strange at first — almost too intimate — but after a moment, he let it happen. Her touch was firm but not rough, slow but precise, tracing a rhythm that drew the tension out of him one careful motion at a time.

— See? — she murmured — you don’t always have to fight. You can just let someone do something for you.

Her hands moved to his forearms, pressing, circling, coaxing the stiffness to fade. The warmth of her touch reached deeper with every breath. Vilk closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, his body remembered what it meant to rest.

— Come — she said softly after a while — you’ll be more comfortable by the hearth.

She rose and tugged him gently by the hand. He followed, wordless. They crossed to the raised platform by the wall, where soft pelts lay scattered. She sat first and patted the space in front of her.

— Sit here — she said — I won’t have to lean over you.

He obeyed. Her hands found his shoulders immediately — sure, steady, practiced. She worked the muscle beneath her fingers as though reading it. The pressure was just enough; the movement calm, patient, unhurried.

— You’re as tense as a fortress wall — she whispered, still focused on his neck — you really need to learn how to let go, honey.

He exhaled slowly. For once, he didn’t argue. Her hands pressed deeper, rolling through the hardness in his shoulders until the tightness began to melt. There was a quiet care in her touch — not demand, not dominance, just… release.

— That shirt’s only in the way — she murmured after a while, her tone light but carrying something else beneath — take it off, let me do this properly.

He looked at her, searching for irony, but found only calm intention. Without a word, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide off his shoulders. The air felt cool against his skin — and then her hands returned, warmer now, firmer, tracing the long line of his back.

— That’s better — she said softly, her voice close, low.

Vilk felt the warmth of her hand spreading across his back—soft, yet assured. With each stroke of her fingers, another wave of relief washed over him, as though every lingering tension melted beneath her touch. He stopped analyzing, simply allowing himself a moment of rest he hadn’t known in weeks. Sika knew exactly what she was doing—her hands glided slowly over his skin, from the nape of his neck down his spine, pausing at his shoulders to knead the tightened muscles.

— You could have everything here, you know — she murmured — the best food, the best drink, the best women… — Her voice was soft, trembling ever so slightly with the warmth radiating from the fireplace. — the best nights.

Her tone wrapped around him like smoke — tender, coaxing, persuasive. The warmth of her hands grew softer, more deliberate, as if each movement spoke a word she didn’t say aloud. Vilk felt himself drifting — not lost, but suspended, carried somewhere between exhaustion and surrender.

Sika’s voice softened to a whisper.
— I’ll make sure you have everything you desire,— she whispered into his ear, leaning in even closer so that her breath brushed his skin. —The most beautiful women, willing to do anything you wish. Everything you’ve never even dreamed of. And they will always be at your disposal… just like I am.

Vilk let out a quiet breath, feeling something slowly rising within him — a warmth that had nothing to do with alcohol or the fire in the hearth. Sika’s hands slid lower, her fingertips gliding along his ribs, barely brushing his skin. There was something provocative in the gesture, something almost predatory, as if she were testing the limits—how far she could push them.
— Because in the end… whichever way you look at it… — she whispered, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice thick with soft provocation.—I’m a little bit yours, aren’t I? —

Vilk didn’t have time to react before he felt her firm grasp. Not rough, not hesitant—certain, intentional. He drew in a sharp breath as the tension that had only just begun to leave him now gathered in a single point, spreading through his body in a wave of heat.
—I’ll take care of you, Vilk— she purred, tightening her grip.

Vilk felt Sika lean in closer, her body almost pressing against his back. The softness of her breasts brushed his tense shoulders, and the warmth radiating from her seemed even more soothing than the alcohol. Her breath was warm and damp, teasing his skin as she spoke softly, almost melodically, her hands gliding across his chest.
‘You see, Vilk…’ she whispered, drawing out the words with intent. ‘You’ll have everything here. Every pleasure you desire. Just say the word… and it will all be yours.’

He could feel his blood quickening, a shiver running down his spine.
—Mmm…— she purred quietly, slowly sliding her hand along his length. — Well now… how could one not be impressed?—

Vilk tightened his grip on his thighs, as if trying to anchor himself to something — anything — in the midst of what was happening. But there was no anchor left. There was only her. Her touch, her breath, her closeness. She began to move her hand with slow deliberation, at first carefully, testing his reactions, then with growing confidence — precise, assured — as though she instinctively knew exactly how to reach him.

— Don’t worry… I’ll take good care of you — she murmured.

Her fingers moved in a steady rhythm, and he felt the tension inside him gathering, focusing, pulling tighter and tighter, his body responding to her without hesitation, without thought. This wasn’t a game. It was real — overwhelming, consuming — slipping beyond his control.

Sika smiled softly and leaned over him, her lips grazing the edge of his ear.
— Just let me do my work, Vilk… — she purred, her movements growing more certain.

Sika tightened her grip, her movements growing more insistent. Vilk felt the heat of her hand spreading through his body, felt the quickening rhythm, the way she seemed to control each of his breaths, each tightening of muscle. Her hand moved with certainty, steady and deliberate, from the base to the very peak, where her fingertips traced him with almost predatory precision.

— Come on… — she purred into his ear, her voice soft yet laced with something deeper—something that set him burning from within. — Show me what you’re hiding… —

She held him more firmly, her motions quickening. Vilk clutched at her thigh, his breath turning heavier, his body tightening to the edge. Every touch, every brush of her fingers stoked the heat rising inside him, until there was no turning back. The fire built, surging higher and higher, beyond what he could contain. Sika smiled in quiet triumph as she felt his body tremble under the force of the moment. All he managed was a strained groan, surrendering to the moment completely, losing control in a way he had never allowed himself before.
Sika continued for a moment longer — slow, gentle, almost tender — letting him fully ride out the fading wave. Then she lifted her hand, brushing her fingers across his skin before raising them to her lips, licking them thoughtfully. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light.
— You even taste good… — she purred with satisfied warmth, watching him closely.

But Vilk didn’t answer. Something stirred inside him — deeper than pleasure, deeper than the moment. A desire that wasn’t merely a response to her touch, but something that had been building for far longer.

In a single motion he seized her, turning her body and pressing her down to the floor. Sika gave a low, eager laugh, not surprised in the slightest. If anything, she had been waiting for this.
— Oh, Vilk…— she sighed, looking up at him, her eyes alight. — Finally. Finally I can be all yours.—
He gripped her hips, his breath rough and uneven. His hand slid along her thigh, upward, pausing at the curve of her hip. He could feel she is ready — her warmth, the tension rising in her as fiercely as in himself.

He was about to dive in immersing himself with her in this ecstatic moment. He felt her body gives in under his pressure.

And then—

— Oh? And what are you two doing?

Voice came from nowhere. They froze. A cold shiver cut down the Vilk’s spine. It wasn’t Sika’s doing; it wasn’t any sudden shift in emotion. It was something else. Something that should not be here. Sika drew in a sharp breath, suddenly sober. Her gaze lifted over his shoulder, her eyes widening slightly, as though she had seen something she very much wished she hadn’t. Vilk felt it too — the air in the room thickening, tightening, as if something had seeped out of the darkness itself and was watching them from the very heart of the shadows.

— Am I interrupting? — the voice continued — calm, lilting, almost playful, but carrying a hollow echo that didn’t belong to any living throat.

Vilk turned his head slowly. At first, he saw nothing — only candlelight trembling across the walls. Then, from the pattern of vines on the wallpaper, something began to move. Lines twisted, shapes forming from the ornament — a silhouette, slender and distinctly feminine, stepping out of the wall like shadow turned solid.

The figure smiled, head tilted, eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t light.
— You were having such fun — she said with mock delight — I do hope I’m not interrupting anything… essential.

Vilk rose sharply, fury flooding the void where moments ago there had been calm.
— What the fucking hell—?
Sika pushed herself up, pale and shaking.
— What is that shit? — she hissed.

— Oh, don’t mind me — the figure purred — you just make yourselves at home, start your little games without even introducing yourselves. Such manners.

The lines of the wallpaper rippled faintly, as though the entire room moved with her voice.

— Who are you? — Vilk barked.

The apparition’s lips curved in amusement.
— So formal, now. Moments ago you were much more… expressive.

His jaw tightened. The mockery in her tone cut deep.
— Answer — he said, voice low and dangerous — who are you?

She smiled wider. The vines on the wall seemed to pulse with the motion.
— Well, since you ask… I’m not entirely sure. Who I am. Or what. But my darlings — her voice dropped into a purr — I have the feeling this is just the beginning of our acquaintance. Isn’t that wonderful?

Sika’s face flushed red — part anger, part humiliation. She grabbed the nearest thing, a wooden cup, and hurled it straight at the figure.

It struck the wall — but the pattern blurred, and the ghost melted into the wood, reappearing on the opposite side of the room.
— That — she hissed coldly — was unwise.

The room erupted.

Chairs flew into the air. Bottles and cups whirled like storm debris. The wind of invisible rage tore through the space, scattering pelts and ashes. Vilk ducked as a chair splintered against the beam. Sika cried out — a bottle struck her temple, shattering. A streak of red ran down her cheek.

From outside came the furious barking of Grym. Doors burst open; Jegor and Viktor stormed in, their faces blank but alert.

— Što tu se děju? — Jegor rasped, his voice rough.

The table rose and lunged toward them —

— STOP! — Vilk roared.

Everything froze. Objects dropped to the floor with heavy thuds. Even the air seemed to still, emptied of motion.

— Dom… obsědnuty — Viktor murmured, eyes sweeping the chaos.

The spirit drifted once more, sliding along the ceiling like smoke. When she appeared again, her gaze met Vilk’s with an amused lift of her brow.

— Shall we start over? — he said, his voice steady but edged with iron — we didn’t know what we were dealing with. We didn’t mean to disturb your peace.

— Oh, but I gave you signs — she said sweetly — you simply ignored them, too busy indulging yourselves.

Vilk clenched his jaw. She was right — the missing things, the whispers, the sense of being watched — all of it had been there.

Sika spoke up, her voice trembling but defiant.
— We hope you can understand… you just appeared at a rather… unfortunate—
— Moment — Vilk finished dryly.

The ghost laughed, a crystalline sound that rippled through the room.
— Oh, I’m in no hurry — she said, stretching the words like silk — take your time. Enjoy yourselves as you please.

With that, she dissolved back into the patterns of the wall, leaving only the echo of her laughter — and a cold trace in the air where warmth had been moments before.

***

The room still smelled of dust and spilled liquor, though the tension that had filled the air moments ago was slowly beginning to fade. Vilk lifted a fallen chair from the floor and sank into it heavily, breathing deep to quiet the frustration building inside him.
Sika remained on the platform, pressing a cloth to her temple where the broken glass had left a thin trace of blood. Jegor and Viktor stood motionless, staring blankly ahead as if waiting for orders.
But they weren’t what mattered now.

Vilk raised his head and looked at the opposite wall. The shadows on the wallpaper seemed to move, to breathe faintly, as though still pulsing with the anger that had filled the room. And then she appeared again — not as clearly as before, not fully formed, but as an echo of a shape, a blurred silhouette of a woman woven into the floral patterns of wood and plaster.

— Well, well — she purred, amused — such concentration. Have my new tenants finally begun to understand that they’re not alone here?

Vilk narrowed his eyes, not looking away.
— That much became clear when the chairs started flying — he said evenly — and I can’t say I’m fond of your way of making introductions.

The figure in the wall laughed softly.
— Ah yes, people never like when someone disturbs their earthly pleasures. Especially the… carnal ones — she drawled, her form rippling within the wood like a shadow cast by candlelight. — But this is my home. Your arrival was neither announced nor agreed upon. What you’re doing here is as unexpected for me as I am for you. Did it not occur to you to ask whether you might stay?

Sika snorted, pulling the cloth from her temple.
— Didn’t know we needed the wall’s permission to move in — she said dryly.

The shape in the walls dissolved, her shadow sweeping across the room until she reappeared on a ceiling beam, watching them from above.
— And that’s exactly the problem with people — she said, her tone sharpening — you never stop to think whether something might already belong to someone else. You come, you settle, you take, reshape, claim — without restraint. And then you’re surprised when something pushes back.

Vilk clenched his jaw but held back the retort. This called for more than anger — it required thought.
— You’re bound to this place — he said slowly. — That much is clear. But we’re here now too, and I don’t think you mean to drive us out. So what do you want? To coexist?

The specter hesitated, as if considering. Then a slender hand emerged from the dark, tracing the wooden beam with faint curiosity.
— I don’t mind that you’re here — she said at last. — Not in the way you think. What offends me is your blindness. You thought the house was empty, that you could simply claim it. But I was here. I am part of it — its structure, its history. And your presence changes it. I’m not sure I like that.

Sika rolled her eyes.
— All right, let’s at least settle one thing — she said — you’re not planning to kill us in our sleep, right? Because if that’s the case, I’d prefer to know before you start smothering me with a pillow.

The ghost laughed, bright and musical.
— Oh, my dear, if I wanted you dead, it would’ve happened already. — She leaned against the doorway’s frame, her outline growing clearer within the grain of the wood. — But that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? Where’s the entertainment in that?

Vilk exchanged a glance with Sika. It wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but at least the ghost seemed more mischievous than malicious.
— In that case — Vilk sighed — maybe you could tell us who you are?

Silence stretched. The shape flickered, her edges softening as if she herself wasn’t certain.
— Who? — she repeated, tasting the word. — I don’t know. I don’t remember. Maybe I never had a name. Maybe I had many. But if you must call me something...

She drifted toward the window where the candlelight shimmered across her faint form.
— Call me what you will — she murmured — but make it something pretty. Something that suits me.

Vilk sighed and rubbed his face.
— Women… I guess this is just the beginning, isn’t it? — he muttered.

The ghost smiled, her silhouette dancing faintly in the light.
— Just the beginning — she whispered, before fading once more into the wall.

Silence followed.

Vilk sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the wall as though he could see through it — into the place where the shadow had moved. The air still smelled of liquor, blood, and the heavy residue of tension that refused to lift.
Sika leaned back, drawing a slow breath. She held the cloth to her temple, wiping away the drying blood. Her eyes still burned with anger, but beneath it flickered something rarer — unease.

— So what the hell was that? — she growled at last, her voice raw.

Vilk ran a hand over his face, considering how to answer.
— Something I haven’t met before — he said slowly.

Jegor and Viktor remained still as statues, their gazes sweeping the room without expression, but Vilk knew their silence wasn’t indifference. From the corridor came Grym’s distant barking, echoing off the stone walls.

Sika scoffed, tossing the cloth aside.
— I’ve heard stories about ghosts — she said, tracing her finger through a puddle of spilled wine — but that... — She looked up at Vilk. — That’s something else, isn’t it?

He narrowed his eyes.
— She’s not an ordinary ghost. — He rubbed his chin. — She’s tied to the house itself. Not just a memory — something woven into it. Either she couldn’t leave… or didn’t want to.

Sika raised a brow.
— You sound like you know what she is.

Vilk inhaled slowly, gaze still fixed on the walls.
— My people believed in many things — he said carefully. — There were souls that couldn’t rest — those who died violently or unjustly. They were called Nawkas. But there were others… beings who stayed in homes, merging with them. Not just haunting — becoming part of them. Some said they were spirits of the dead. Others, that they were demons feeding on human presence.

His eyes moved along the carved beams, searching the wallpaper for movement.
— In some tales, they were called Kikimoras.

Sika frowned, repeating the word under her breath.
— Kiki...mora?

Vilk nodded.
— House spirits. Some helped. Others tormented the living — tangling threads, breaking things, tugging people from sleep. Sometimes they whispered in the walls until you couldn’t tell whether it was your thoughts or theirs.

Sika was quiet for a moment, then tilted her head.
— Kiki... maybe just Kiki?

Vilk shot her a glance, but before he could reply, the air shifted.
The wallpaper patterns stirred; shadows rippled across the beams. The slender silhouette began to form again, drawn out of the wood itself.

Then came a low, lingering laugh.
— Kiki... — the spirit purred, stretching the name — it doesn’t sound too bad.

Vilk rolled his eyes, though a flicker of relief passed through him.
— It fits — the ghost said, her shadow curling lazily — it’ll do.

Sika smirked, clearly pleased with herself.
— Perfect then, Kiki. — She leaned back, relaxing a little. — Maybe now you can tell us who you really are?

The ghost moved along the wall, blurring into the wallpaper patterns as if unsure how to answer.
— Who? — she repeated softly.

The light dimmed. The air grew heavier.
— I don’t know — she said. — I don’t remember.

Sika raised her brows.
— Nothing?

— Nothing. — Her voice was thin, trembling slightly. — I’m here. I’ve been here. But I don’t know who I was… before I became this.

Vilk narrowed his eyes.
— But you remember something.

— Blood — her tone sharpened, colder. — So much blood.

Silence filled the room.

— Death — her shadow quivered. — And… — she hesitated.

Vilk felt the back of his neck prickle.

— And sex.

The stillness was absolute. Even Grym went quiet in the corridor.

Sika frowned, uncertain.
— Sex? — she echoed slowly.

The shadow shifted.
— Something that clung to me — her voice trembled, not with fear but something harder to name. — Something that doesn’t fade.

Vilk didn’t look away.
— Something that defined you — he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. But he knew they had brushed against something vital — something that shouldn’t have been forgotten.

The shadows on the wall stilled, soaked with her presence. The room seemed to listen.

— Blood, death, and sex — Kiki murmured at last, stretching the words like a cat in sunlight. — I don’t know which came first. Maybe they were all the same. Maybe they’ve always been here. Wait, maybe thats why I got atraccted to you.

Sika grimaced, resting her head on her hand.
— Not exactly a comforting history for a place we’re supposed to live in — she muttered. — Don’t think we’re staying here for your amusement.

Kiki’s outline stirred faintly, as if weighing her words.
— Did I invite you? — she said calmly. — You came on your own. And you plan to stay. Without asking. Without offering. You just took.

Vilk’s hand tightened on the armrest. Something in her voice struck deeper than he wanted to admit.
— We thought the house was empty — he said finally.

Kiki laughed softly.
— That old mistake — she said, shifting across the wall to the carved frame of the door. — An empty place isn’t the same as an abandoned one. Silence doesn’t mean absence.

Vilk’s gaze darkened. Her words unsettled him — they carried more weight than mockery.

— People always believe the world revolves around them — he said slowly. — That only what they see or name matters. But what if reality is layered — if what we claim as ours is just a fragment of something larger? How can we be sure we’re the important ones here?

Kiki paused, her shadow rippling across the wooden surface before smiling faintly.
— That’s the trouble with humans — she said with quiet amusement — so quick to assume you’re the measure of all things. You think if you don’t understand something, it doesn’t exist. How very... arrogant.

Sika crossed her arms.
— Fine... Let’s say we understand now. What next? Do we sleep with one eye open, or are you going to let us live here?

Kiki’s shape wavered among the carvings.
— Live? — she repeated. — Perhaps. But not without terms.

Vilk narrowed his eyes.
— You have conditions?

— Oh, Vilk — she purred — isn’t it funny? You came into my home, made yourselves comfortable, and now you ask if I have conditions?

Sika snorted.
— Sounds like a bargain to me — she said, her tone cautious but sharp. — So what do you want in exchange for your… tolerance?

The ghost didn’t answer right away. Her shadow drifted across the walls, absorbing their presence, testing their silence. Then she stopped, hovering above the fireplace.

— Nothing grand — she said softly. — Just don’t forget I’m here. That this place isn’t only yours. It’s mine too.

Vilk studied her carefully. There was more behind those words.
— That’s all? — he asked.

Kiki laughed again, but there was a faint sadness beneath it.
— Maybe. — Her form trembled, uncertain. — Maybe I just don’t want to be alone again.

Vilk leaned forward, running his fingers along the rough edge of the table.
— You don’t remember who you were, do you? — he asked quietly.

The shadow shifted uneasily.
— No — she admitted. — I remember fragments, scraps. But not who I was before this. And I hope you’re not asking because you plan to get rid of me.

Vilk’s eyes softened with something new — resolve.
— Maybe it can be found — he said. — I won’t promise, but if I’m here now, I’ll try to find out what happened to you. Not to banish you. To understand you.

The silence stretched. Even the candles seemed to flicker more quietly. Then the faint curve of her lips formed in the wood — a fragile, wistful smile.
— You want to know my story, Vilk? — she whispered. — I like that idea.

Sika sighed, rubbing her temple.
— Great. A pact with a ghost and a mystery to solve. Another day and I’ll start wondering what we’re even doing here.

Kiki chuckled softly.
— Doing? — she teased — well… first you entertained yourselves in my walls, now you’re negotiating my presence. Quite a productive evening, I’d say.

Vilk shook his head, unable to hide a smile.
— Let’s get some sleep — he said at last. — Tomorrow I start work. And you — he glanced at Kiki — no surprises tonight, all right?

Kiki blinked innocently.
— Ah, Vilk, if only I could promise you that…

He rubbed his face, fatigue finally seeping in. The past days had been long, and this evening — though far from ordinary — had brought a strange sort of calm. Even if it involved negotiating with a spirit who claimed ownership of the house.

Sika looked calmer too, though her eyes still carried that mischievous gleam that made him wary. She leaned against the edge of the table, stretching like a cat preparing to sleep.
— Well, for a first night in a new home, I’d say it went… surprisingly well — she murmured, glancing at him.

Vilk snorted, raising a brow.
— Really? Because I’d say it got interesting the moment bottles started flying.

Sika waved a hand dismissively.
— Minor details. We’re alive. Plus, we’ve got a new roommate. Honestly, I’m honored. Not sure yet how to describe her skill set though... perhaps Kiki the Light-hearted, who drains souls to the last drop?

Vilk laughed, but his gaze turned thoughtful. He glanced toward the wall as if expecting the ghost to respond, then said, casually:
— About earlier…

Sika looked at him, amused.
— Hmm?

He cleared his throat.
— It just... didn’t exactly go as planned — he said, half-smiling — if it hadn’t been for all that chaos, you know... — He paused, awkwardly. — I didn’t get the chance to return the favor.

Sika arched an eyebrow, then smirked.
— Vilk, if I held grudges against every man who didn’t quite deliver, I’d never get any rest. — Her smile deepened. — But given the circumstances… I’m sure you’d have done just fine.

Vilk sighed theatrically.
— How kind of you to have such faith in me.

She chuckled softly.
— Let’s just say I’m extending you credit for the future — she said, leaning closer, voice low and teasing — after all, forbidden fruit tastes better when you have to wait for it.

For a moment, something wild flashed in his eyes — sharp and instinctive.

Then a low, drawn-out laugh echoed through the room.
— Oh, how sweet — Kiki’s voice slid along the walls, tinged with mockery — shall I expect an invitation next time?

Vilk rolled his eyes. Sika laughed, shaking her head.
— At least you’re consistent.

— Naturally — Kiki purred — if we’re to be friends, I must be clear about my priorities. You’re not the only ones entitled to a little fun… not that I can drain souls anyway.

Sika waved her off.
— Fine, fine, celebrate in your walls if you like, but we’re going to bed.

Vilk rubbed the back of his neck.
— We’ve been up long enough.

— As you wish — Kiki replied, fading into the wood — but don’t forget, I’m always right here...

Vilk shook his head, giving Sika a look that said: what the hell are we doing with our lives?
Sika shrugged.
— At least it’s not boring.

Vilk snorted.
— Far from it. Oh, by the way — Jan invited us for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll have to go.

— Gladly — said Sika — a pleasant guest, isn’t he?

— Yeah… let’s just hope he sees us as pleasant too.

And with that, they finally retired for the night, closing the door on a chaotic — but undeniably unforgettable — evening.

****

Vilk woke with the strange feeling that something was… different.
It wasn’t fatigue — he was used to little sleep, and even more to the need for constant alertness. This time, though, it was a scent that roused him.

Warm, rich, unmistakably real — the smell of food.

He frowned and ran a hand over his face, still half-asleep. After a night full of chaos — and unexpectedly diplomatic negotiations with a household spirit — he’d expected a morning filled with confusion, not… comfort. Not this calm, homely smell.

He rose carefully from his cot, listening.
No shattering glass.
No levitating objects.
No Kiki whispering taunts from the walls.
Not even the suspicious silence that usually hinted at trouble.

Instead, there was something far more unsettling.
Peace.

He pulled on his shirt and stepped into the main room — and there he saw Sika, standing with her arms crossed, staring at the table with a mix of suspicion and disbelief.

Vilk followed her gaze.

On the table stood food — bread, dried meat, eggs, even a pot of something that looked like warm porridge. Everything neatly arranged, as if set out by an invisible hostess.

— Well, would you look at that — murmured Sika, glancing sideways at Vilk — you seeing what I’m seeing?

— If you’re seeing breakfast that neither of us made, then yes — he said slowly, still not moving.

— Wonderful, isn’t it? — came the familiar voice.

Vilk turned toward the wall, where among the carved patterns a faint silhouette began to take shape. Kiki’s outline shimmered, her smile bright and wicked, her head tilted in that familiar, teasing way.

— I decided to be a good girl — she said, her tone dripping with feigned innocence — I thought, since we got off to such a… turbulent start, I might as well make it up to you.

Sika raised an eyebrow, folding her arms tighter.
— Uh-huh — she said, narrowing her eyes — and what, we’re supposed to eat it and wait to see if it’s some kind of infernal trick?

Kiki sighed dramatically, her shadow gliding lazily across the wooden panels.
— Honestly, you’re such an ungrateful pair — she said with mock offense — I could have left you to fend for yourselves, but I thought, no, let’s start the day with something pleasant instead of mutual suspicion.

Vilk studied her for a moment, then stepped closer to the table. He picked up a piece of bread, turning it over in his hands as if expecting a trap. Then he took a bite — chewed, swallowed.

No poison. No spell. Just bread.

— All right then — he said, nodding — at least you know how to make a good impression when you try.

— Oh, Vilk — Kiki blinked at him, her grin sly — you really don’t understand what making a good impression means.

Sika snorted, but sat down and reached for a cup of water.
— Can’t lie, I was expecting something a little more dramatic — she muttered — maybe a morning possession. But porridge? Really?

— I wanted you to feel welcome — Kiki drawled, her shadow twirling across the wall like a dancer — besides, I thought that since we’ve come to an understanding, this house deserves a little life again. You’re not planning to sit here in silence, are you?

Vilk’s eyes narrowed with curiosity.
— You have something in mind?

Kiki spun playfully, her silhouette swirling as though she were turning in a slow pirouette.
— Liveliness — she said brightly — people, laughter, warmth… and most of all… music.

Sika arched a brow.
— Music?

— Oh, yes — Kiki sighed, her voice soft, wistful — this place used to be full of sound. You’ve no idea how terrible silence becomes when it lasts too long.

Vilk watched her closely, sensing that her words carried something deeper than whimsy — maybe even something she herself didn’t fully understand.

— So you wouldn’t mind if we brought a bit of life back in here? — he asked slowly.

— Quite the opposite — said Kiki, her shadow slipping along the wall like silk — I want that.

Vilk nodded slightly, not taking his eyes off her.
— Then that works out well — he murmured — because we were planning something big anyway.

Kiki’s smile widened.
— Well now… this is getting interesting.

Sika rolled her eyes.
— As long as you don’t start throwing things again — she said, reaching for a strip of meat — that’d really help the cooperation part.

— We’ll see — Kiki laughed softly — depends on how well-behaved you are.

Vilk shook his head and took another bite. For the first time since arriving at the manor, he felt something almost foreign — the quiet sense that maybe, just maybe, they were beginning to build something here.

Maybe even something that would last.

Subscribe now

Vilk stood in the courtyard, watching Grym lying stretched out across the stones, his heavy, calm gaze fixed on him. The dog’s dark eyes seemed to pierce through him — as though they saw more than Vilk himself could ever understand.

He wasn’t sure if he had ever truly asked himself what Grym actually was. A dog? Perhaps. But not like other dogs. Too perceptive, too attuned to things no human eye could see. He never barked without reason. Never lost a trail. There were times Vilk felt Grym understood more than he should — not just following his master, but observing him, judging him, as though waiting for something Vilk had yet to comprehend.

Today Grym looked at him differently. There was no anger in that gaze — only something that might have been disappointment. Vilk clenched his jaw, crouched beside the animal, and ran a hand over the coarse fur of his neck.

— Don’t look at me like that — he muttered, knowing full well Grym wouldn’t look away.

He rose and walked toward the cart. No point delaying. The day’s work awaited — the kind no one ever wanted to do.

Tarnów greeted him with the chill of morning, though there was nothing comforting in it. Vilk dismounted and led his horse toward the place of execution. As he walked, people stepped aside, suddenly finding urgent things to do, their avoidance too rehearsed to be natural. It wasn’t new — their disgust hung in the air like stale smoke, constant and wordless.

He paused by a bakery and bought a loaf of bread. The baker didn’t look at him — just grabbed the loaf upside down, placed it on the edge of the counter so Vilk would have to take it himself.

A gesture that said more than words ever could.

Vilk said nothing. He took the bread, dropped a few coins on the counter. The baker didn’t touch them until Vilk’s hand was gone. It was the way of things.

He wasn’t one of them.
He was the hangman — necessary, but never welcome.

When he reached the execution grounds, his first task was waiting — to get rid of the stray dogs that wandered the streets, tearing through waste and spreading disease. Vilk rolled up his sleeves and reached for his weapon.

At the back of his mind lingered the silent reproach of Grym’s eyes.

But it was work someone had to do.
Someone always had to.

He descended the damp stone steps, the smell of mold and rot pressing into his nostrils. The dungeons beneath the gallows had their own microcosm — thick air, saturated with moisture, whispers, coughs, and the dragging of feet against filthy floors. A place where time slowed and meaning thinned into waiting.

The guard at the entrance didn’t even glance at him. He didn’t need to. Vilk was new, but his presence required no explanation. The hangman needed no introduction.

As he stepped between the cells, silence fell — taut, alive. In the dimness behind the bars, eyes flickered: some empty, some wary, some trembling with quiet tension. The prisoners stared at him — not in fear, but in recognition. Those who were doomed knew there would be no warning.

Vilk stopped by one of the cells, leaning against the beam.
— What are you in for? — he asked into the dark.

A raspy laugh came back.
— For being innocent, good sir.

A snort echoed from somewhere deeper in the corridor, followed by a chuckle. The old, worn joke — the bread and salt of every dungeon.

Vilk narrowed his eyes.
— Must be crowded in here, then.

The man stepped forward, into the light — young, thin, his eyes ringed, his grin crooked.
— If they locked up the truly guilty, half the nobility would’ve rotted down here long ago.

Vilk lifted an eyebrow. He wasn’t surprised. Justice was a bellows — flexible, depending on who held it.

He moved to the next cell. Inside sat an older man, hunched, his hands clasped over his knees.
— And you? — Vilk asked.

The man sighed, looking up with tired but sharp eyes.
— I used to be a butcher.

— That’s not much of a crime.

— No, not really — the man shrugged. — Until you chop up your own wife. Couldn’t keep her damned mouth shut.

Vilk studied him but didn’t press. Every story was messier than it seemed.
And that, more than anything, was what weighed on him.

With a sigh, he pushed off the bars, adjusted his coat, and turned toward the exit.

He wasn’t a judge.
He wasn’t a savior.
He was the hand that ended stories once others had written their verdicts.

Enough talking. Time for work.

The city had its silence — not the peaceful kind, but the heavy kind that smothers. The streets of Tarnów were nearly empty that morning, as if no one wished to witness what was about to happen.

Vilk felt the cold creeping beneath his clothes, but it didn’t matter. In his right hand, he held a wooden club — plain, unadorned, built for one purpose only.

He headed into the alleys where the strays roamed — scavengers living on scraps of what men left behind. They were thin, dull-coated, scarred from too many fights over refuse. Primitive creatures, wild, yet in their eyes still burned that faint spark of loyalty — the trace of once having belonged to someone.

The first one he saw was large, its color blending almost perfectly with the mud beneath his boots. It stood by a barrel, rooting through garbage. One ear torn, one eye clouded — a survivor, but barely.

Vilk’s grip tightened on the club.

He shouldn’t think about it. This was work, like any other. The townsfolk didn’t want to see strays on the streets, didn’t want to hear their whining in the night. They wanted clean streets. Order.

But dogs weren’t people. They couldn’t be blamed for what they’d become.

He crouched, pulled a piece of bread from his pouch, and held it out.

The dog watched him — wary, uncertain, the way creatures do when they’ve learned that a kind hand can hurt just as easily as it feeds.

Vilk’s throat felt dry.

The dog stepped closer, cautiously, its nose twitching over the bread, sniffing.

Vilk struck.

The club hit the temple — not too hard, but enough to bring it down. The dog yelped, gurgled, twitched — the second blow ended it.

Silence.

For a moment, he stood still, his hand frozen around the weapon. He didn’t look at the body. Looking made it worse.

It was only a job.

He moved on.

The others came, one by one — cautious, hungry, doomed. Some hesitated, sensing what was coming; others rushed in, desperate for a morsel. The pattern repeated — approach, trust, betrayal.

There was a moment — a young dog this time, still bright-eyed, not yet broken. When Vilk raised the club, the animal looked up at him. Its eyes caught the morning light. There was no fear in them — only a quiet question, voiceless and sharp: Why?

Vilk’s hand faltered.

Just a heartbeat of hesitation — but long enough for the creature to feel it.
It didn’t run.
Didn’t fight.
It simply waited.

Vilk inhaled through his teeth.

He wasn’t allowed to feel.

The blow fell faster than thought.

Afterward, he stood there for a while, staring at the bodies. Four, maybe five. He didn’t count.

He built the fire.

At the back of the yard, he leaned over the well, washing the blood and grime from his hands. The water was icy, biting into his skin, as though trying to strip away what had soaked too deep. He splashed his face, the cold cutting through him, but it didn’t cleanse enough.

The taste of ash still clung to his tongue.

The stench still filled his lungs — that acrid, greasy smoke of burning hair and fat crackling in the flames. Black curls of smoke rose into the sky, twisting like the restless souls of the animals he’d thrown to the fire.

He smelled of smoke.

He wiped the back of his wet hand along his neck and looked up. Twilight was settling over the city, the light dim but enough for him to see his reflection in the water’s surface — tired face, shadows under his eyes, a faint trace of blood he’d missed beneath a nail.

He wasn’t hungry.

He’d done what needed doing.
That didn’t mean it felt right.

He dragged a hand through his damp hair, the tension still locked in his fingers, as though the weapon were still there. He knew it would fade. He knew that one day it would all become routine.

But not today.

He turned and walked back toward the horse. Time to go home.

Vilk shut the door behind him. The cold outside vanished, replaced by the warmth of firelight and the faint scent of something slightly burned — probably one of Kiki’s or Sika’s experiments.

Sika sat at the table, her legs propped against the beam beneath it, a cup of wine turning slowly in her hand. She looked up at him, raising a brow.
— So, how was your first day on the job?

Vilk sighed, hanging his cloak on the hook by the door. He crossed to the basin and plunged his hands into the water, splashing his face. He could feel her eyes on him.
— Honestly? — he said, brushing wet hair back from his forehead — I think I’d rather deal with people than dogs.

Sika’s brows rose.
— That bad, huh?

— It was… — he paused, searching for the words — it was wrong. Somehow.

Sika shook her head, amused.
— You say that like you’re not about to start breaking people’s bones.

— That’s different — Vilk said quietly, bracing his hands on the basin’s rim. — Dogs are just dogs. People are bastards. They can choose to be cruel. They can deserve it. The dogs… they were just where they weren’t supposed to be. That was their only crime.

Sika nodded slowly, then gave a crooked smile.
— You sound like a man who hasn’t yet made peace with what he’s become.

— Maybe — he admitted, drying his face with a cloth.

Sika leaned back, taking a sip of wine.
— As for us — she said, shifting the topic — the brothers did fine work today.

Vilk looked up.
— Jegor and Viktor?

— Mm. — Sika rested her chin on her hand. — Fast, efficient, no questions. And I swear, Kiki kept an eye on them too. Maybe she’s a ghost, but she likes things done her way.

Vilk didn’t comment, just sat across from her.
— And besides that?

Sika’s grin widened.
— Besides that, your new friend gave me a full makeover. And I have to admit, it suits what we’re planning.

Only now did Vilk truly take her in. From the moment he’d entered, he’d sensed something different — but now, in the flicker of the fire, he saw it clearly.

Her dress — deep burgundy, nearly black where shadow softened the fabric — caught the gold of her skin. The lace along the sleeves and neckline was subtle, yet rich enough to lend her an almost regal bearing. She’d never been one for tight or ornamental clothing, but the cut fit her astonishingly well.

And her hair…

He had no idea how Kiki had done it, but the short, coarse curls had become an intricate arrangement — half cascading along her neck, half hidden beneath a lace cap.

Sika caught his look and smiled under her breath.
— Well? How does your Polish-African lady look?

Vilk rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
— Jan won’t know whether to greet you or kneel before you.

Sika laughed throatily, raising her cup.
— Oh, Vilk… if Jan had even half as much vigor as he has refinement and noble restraint, I’d gladly kneel before him myself.

Vilk snorted, shaking his head.
— Stop.

— What? — she said innocently, spreading her hands — I’m just saying it’d be an interesting arrangement.

From the ceiling came Kiki’s drawn-out, teasing voice:
— Well, well, little wolf… you do have taste after all.

Vilk looked up, but the spirit was gone — only shadows moved along the beams.

— So, shall we go? — Sika asked, pulling on her coat.

Vilk exhaled through his nose and nodded.
— Give me a moment. I’ll change out of the hangman’s clothes and we’ll ride.

******

The carriage rolled into the courtyard of Jan Białoszewski’s estate, its wheels lifting a faint haze of dust. The air smelled of damp wood, hearth smoke, and that stale, sealed-in scent that clings to rooms closed all day. The sound of hooves and wheels echoed dully through the space, and the guards at the gate exchanged brief looks before one of them bowed slightly and stepped aside, allowing them through.

Vilk was the first to climb down. For a moment he stood still, taking in the familiar yard, before instinctively lowering his hand to help Sika. He didn’t even manage to touch her fingers — she snorted softly and leapt down on her own. The movement was smooth, almost dancer-like, a faint smile flickering at the corner of her lips.

— What was that supposed to mean? — asked Vilk, raising a brow.

— That I can handle myself — she replied easily, a playful challenge in her tone — though I appreciate the gesture, good sir.

Vilk shook his head, exhaling through his nose, but said nothing. They crossed the courtyard, passing the carriages lined along the edge. Voices and laughter spilled faintly from the manor’s interior, while the glow of candles and lanterns cast long, wavering shadows on the cobblestones. Vilk could feel the guards’ eyes on him but ignored them. He was here by Jan’s invitation, and that meant he had every right to enter.

As they neared the entrance, Vilk looked up toward the windows. In one of them stood Jarosław. The blind youth’s eyes were fixed directly on them. For a fleeting second Vilk could have sworn the boy saw him. Then the figure withdrew into shadow.

They stepped inside. The air within was warmer, thick with the scents of wine, roasted meat, and melted wax. The murmur of conversation undulated like a river current. Tables gleamed beneath silverware and glass, and in one corner a lutenist played softly — not to dominate the room, but to thread the melody through its heartbeat. The atmosphere was relaxed, but vigilant.

This was no ordinary feast. These were Jan’s chosen guests — people who understood that gatherings in his house followed their own laws.

Jan rose from his place at the long table and came toward them with a smile both sincere and measured.
— My friends, here they are — he said lightly, not loud enough to interrupt the room’s rhythm — I promised you intriguing company, and I do not disappoint.

A few heads turned. A few glances exchanged.
A ruddy-faced nobleman in a richly embroidered kuntush raised an eyebrow and slowly set his cup down. He didn’t need words — his expression was enough. Beside him sat another man, taller, sharper-featured, whose restraint only emphasized his distance.

— Vilk, Sika — Jan’s voice remained calm, disarming — I’m glad you came. Make yourselves at home.

Vilk inclined his head. Before he could reach for a cup, the ruddy noble finally spoke:
— Jan — he said with courteous coldness — tell me, is it by accident or design that you bring an executioner into your home?

The murmur in the room thinned, though it didn’t vanish.

Jan took a sip of mead, his gaze sliding across the guests.
— Tell me, Hieronim — he began slowly — if there were game on your table, would you refuse it because the butcher stained his hands with blood?

He drank again.

Hieronim’s lips tightened; irritation glinted in his eyes. A few others looked away, unwilling to be caught between them. Vilk said nothing. He stood back, aware that his presence alone fed the tension like a hidden flame.

— The butcher sustains life, the executioner takes it — Hieronim said at last, with the resolve of one who does not bend.

Jan’s mouth curved faintly, but he waited, letting the silence weigh down before answering. Then, with quiet certainty, he said:
— And yet here we sit, surrounded by walls bound with the sweat and blood of those who fought so that we might feast. We all live by the hangman’s hand, even if we pretend not to see it.

Beside Hieronim sat an older noble, stern-faced but without that same zeal. At first he’d nodded in agreement; now he merely sighed and straightened his cuff.
— I can’t say I share your philosophy, Jan — he said slowly — but I have never been one to abandon my host’s table, especially yours.

Hieronim snorted, pushing his chair back.
— Have your evening, Jan — he said, rising — but I don’t dine beside men whose hands smell of blood so uncleanly earned.

Jan lifted a brow, tilting his head slightly, amused.
— Ah, Hieronim — he said lightly — how dull the world would be if we all believed the same things.

He raised his cup in a mock salute, still smiling.

Hieronim met his gaze coldly but said nothing. He turned on his heel and left, the doors closing sharply behind him.

Vilk didn’t move. Jan looked his way, lifting his cup.
— Seems you’ve stirred a bit of excitement — he said with a hint of laughter.

Vilk shrugged.
— Wasn’t me — he replied evenly — just the truth.

Jan’s smile widened. He raised his glass.
— Then let us drink to truth.

A few voices echoed the toast — even those who moments ago had eyed Vilk with unease.

He raised the cup to his lips — but never drank.
Something had caught his attention.

Across the hall stood a woman with fair hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, a golden cross resting upon her chest. Her blue gown accentuated her slender figure, but it was her eyes that held him still.

For a brief moment their gazes locked — fleeting, yet enough.
There was more than curiosity there: a spark of challenge, of intrigue, of something deeper.

He didn’t look away.

She noticed. A faint smile played at her lips as she tilted her head, assessing him. Her posture shifted — just slightly forward, as if waiting for an invitation. Then, with measured grace, she began to move toward him. Stopping once at a table, feigning a polite exchange with a nobleman, though Vilk saw through it — a small act to mask intent.

She drew nearer — light, unhurried steps, a dance rather than a walk. Then suddenly she was there, close enough for him to catch the faint glint of irony in her gaze.

— You strike me, madam, as deeply devout — said Vilk, one eyebrow arched.

— How could I be otherwise, sweet sir — she replied, leaning closer with feline ease — but shall I tell you a secret?

Vilk didn’t move back, though his gaze stayed guarded. Her perfume was light, floral, with a hidden warmth beneath — honey and smoke.

— Come nearer — she murmured, her voice smooth, almost sung.

He didn’t. Nor did he speak.

Klara tilted her head, her smile delicate, deceptively innocent.
— I am like a holy book myself — she whispered, letting the words linger in the air between them.

Vilk’s head inclined a fraction, the corner of his mouth barely twitching.
— Oh?

She leaned slightly, though her eyes slid toward another man — one with a dark moustache across the hall. Her tone dropped to a hush, the softness charged with something uncomfortably intimate.
— Open to anyone who wishes to study me… thoroughly.

The silence that followed was thin as glass, and just as sharp.
Then, almost playfully, she lifted her hand and let her fingers trace the golden cross nestled between her breasts. Her fingertips brushed its surface as she added softly:
— As this cross itself, you’d agree.

A teasing smile curved her lips, and for an instant her eyes darkened — the light around her seeming to dim. For that heartbeat, Vilk felt something familiar, an echo of a presence he’d already met.

Then it was gone.

— Klara! — came a warm, booming voice from across the room — Come here, my dear, my little treasure!

— Coming, Master! — she called back, straightening at once.

The tension vanished as if cut away. Her posture softened; her expression, moments ago edged with temptation, turned meek — almost girlish. As though the other version of her had never existed.

She turned, but glanced back over her shoulder.
— I must go — she said playfully — but we’ll see each other again.

She lifted a brow with a hint of mischief.
— We have much to discuss, my good hangman.

Her smile was both invitation and challenge.

And then, with uncanny ease, she became someone else entirely — the modest, pleasant woman crossing the hall toward the man who awaited her.

Vilk could still feel the ghost of her breath at his ear. The faint warmth of it, the trace of moisture in the air.

Wet as she is herself, he thought.

He raised his cup and finally drank, his eyes scanning the room. He caught a glimpse of Klara disappearing among the guests.

All so pious, he thought, let’s hope their halos don’t slip off… and I’m the one called unclean.

The corner of his mouth twitched — the faintest, defiant smile.

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Vilk moved slowly through the hall, feeling the weight of eyes upon him. Some were fleeting, indifferent; others cool, distant; and a few — curious.
Sika, as always, had no trouble finding her place among people. Wherever she stood, conversation seemed to flow freer, laughter a little louder — as if her very presence loosened the air, lent it warmth and movement.

Vilk paused beside a small table where a noblewoman in a crimson gown leaned lightly over her cup of wine, watching him with open interest. She was beautiful — not in the fragile way of porcelain, but with that poised elegance that comes from being both desired and bored by the world. In her gaze lingered a spark of intrigue, fascination, perhaps even ennui — the hunger for something to break the monotony.

— An executioner at the table of nobility — she said, raising an eyebrow — truly a rare sight. I must admit, sir, you have stirred my curiosity.

Vilk met her glance sidelong, bringing his cup to his lips.
— And are you one of those who seek their thrill where they shouldn’t?

She smiled lazily, tracing the rim of her goblet with her fingertip.
— Or perhaps I simply seek truth. You know, hangman, they say those who touch death also touch mystery — that you stand closer to what lies beyond. — She tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting. — Tell me, is it true that a hangman’s blood heals illness? That a hanged man’s rope brings luck, and a sinner’s bone wards off spirits?

Vilk smirked faintly.
— Maybe people say so. Maybe they just need to make death sound bearable.

She laughed softly, but the fire in her eyes didn’t fade.
— You’re not afraid of what you do?

— No more than a soldier fears the battlefield — he said evenly. — Death is the same, no matter who wields the blade.

— Oh, but a soldier kills in glory — for cause, for king — she propped her chin on her hand — and a hangman?

— Kills without illusions — said Vilk. — That’s the difference.

A male voice cut through their conversation.
— Interesting words, hangman. But tell me — how many of us truly live without illusions?

Vilk turned toward him. The man’s face was hard, weathered — the face of someone long acquainted with battle. A thin scar ran from cheek to jaw, pale against tanned skin — the mark of a duel. His eyes, light and keen, belonged to one who’d seen more deaths than he cared to remember. His fair hair, tied back in a short braid, gave him a martial austerity. The fur-lined delia draped over his shoulders was richly woven but worn at the edges — a man familiar with both war camps and noble halls.

— You’re a soldier — Vilk observed. — Fought in battles?

— More than I can count — the man replied. — I fought for kings, for the Commonwealth, for honor. And you?

He studied Vilk anew, his tone neither hostile nor mocking, but probing.
— You’ve the look of a fighter. So why this? Why the gallows instead of the field? Where’s the honor in that?

Vilk lifted his cup but didn’t drink. He turned it in his fingers, as though searching for the right words at the bottom.
— Maybe honor lies where the fight for righteousness ends — and the fight for one’s own soul begins.

The man frowned slightly, raising his chin.
— You speak in riddles, hangman. Do you mean to say that a warrior who fights for his cause cannot keep clean hands?

Vilk’s gaze held his.
— I believe one can serve king and country by more than the sword. I believe not every bloodshed is war — and not every war is just.

The soldier — Lech, as Vilk would soon learn — fell silent for a moment. His brow furrowed; his eyes flicked with restrained thought.
— There are battles that must be fought, wars that must be won. Even God commands that we defend our people.

— True — said Vilk — but He never said that death must become our path to salvation. I once thought what I did was right. Then I began to wonder — is killing for a cause any different from killing on command? And if it isn’t, where does that leave a man’s conscience?

Lech’s jaw tightened. He was not a man easily swayed, but the words hit deeper than he would admit.
— So instead of war, you chose the scaffold? — he asked quietly.

— I chose truth — Vilk said. — A soldier can still pretend he kills for something greater. I don’t have that comfort. Every life I take is one God will count against me. That is my penance.

Lech leaned back in his chair, drawing a long breath.
— I doubt I’ll ever understand your choice, hangman — he said at last — but I see it wasn’t made without honor.

After a pause, he extended his hand.

Vilk looked at it, then took it firmly. It was a gesture between equals — one seldom offered to men like him.

— Now I see why Jan invited you — said Lech. — You’re not a man without honor. You’ve just chosen to bear its weight all the way to the end.

Vilk nodded slightly, though said nothing. What was there to add? The world was full of illusions — he simply no longer needed them.

The hall around them pulsed with renewed laughter, toasts, and talk. Sika still shone amid the crowd, a burst of vitality amid the smoke and candlelight. Vilk remained apart, though not entirely estranged.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him — the eccentric man who had earlier called for Klara.

He stood taller than most guests, yet his presence commanded attention not by strength, but by that effortless confidence of one who never doubts his own place in the world. Slender, though not frail, dressed in a deep navy kuntush clasped over a crimson żupan, a richly patterned belt at his waist. High black boots gleamed in the light; several ornate rings caught the candle’s flame, their symbols shifting with the angle of reflection.

In one hand he held a carved pipe, which he gestured with languid precision as he spoke — his words laced with intellect and flourish. His thick moustache twitched with each phrase, but it was his eyes that drew attention most — deep, oceanic, and piercing, as though seeing far beyond the room.

He wasn’t looking at Vilk.
And yet Vilk knew — the man was perfectly aware of him.

The stranger stood across the hall, mid-conversation, but for the briefest instant, his gaze flicked toward Vilk. Just a fraction of a moment — enough to say that something, quietly and inevitably, had begun.

********



Vilk moved slowly through the hall, attuned to the rhythm of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the distant hum of a lute lazily strumming in the corner. The air was warm with wine and candlelight, heavy with a mingled scent of perfume, pipe smoke, and the faint resinous sweetness of polished wood.

He wove between clusters of guests; their laughter and murmurs brushed past him like shifting shadows. Yet it wasn’t the people that caught his attention, but something else.

Against one wall, half veiled in candlelit shadow, stood a table — hexagonal, intricately crafted yet solid, the kind that had survived many matches and the hands of those who’d studied it with focused silence. Its surface gleamed with the deep warmth of polished wood, the grain alive beneath the light. Along its edges ran delicate carvings — interlacing lines that forked and twined like branches of a young oak, occasionally broken by sharp, cutting strokes, as if the chisel itself had remembered the violence of a blade or the flash of lightning.

One could wonder whether it was mere ornamentation — or a cipher, a hidden rhythm of war and order, chaos and design.

But it was the board itself that held the heart of the table: a mosaic of four woods — amber, honey, chestnut, and near-black walnut — their tones forming a hexagonal pattern, more fluid than the rigid grid of chess. Each tile was unique, the natural grain giving every field a slightly different shape, like a battlefield where no two paths are ever the same.

The pieces were carved with masterful precision. The Knyaz, though central, was not grand. His modest crown was no decoration, but a symbol of burden — this was not a game about his might, but about how he led his people. Around him stood shield-bearers, their round bucklers gleaming like sunrise. Beyond them, warriors — faces cut sharp from the wood, taut with readiness. Archers stood farther out, small bows drawn, as if the first, decisive arrow were forever on the verge of flight.

Among them perched a falcon — the watchful scout — and an hound, a beast between hound and wolf, its back arched, its head lowered as though scenting something unseen.

They were the same figures Vilk had been carving since boyhood, by habit more than need, ever since waiting for the next campaign. He ran his fingers lightly along the table’s edge, tracing without touching, as if searching in its order for some forgotten path.

He hadn’t played in years. And yet once... Knyaz had been his companion more often than most commanders. One played to sharpen the mind, to train patience — or to keep from thinking about what awaited after the next order. And sometimes, even before a weapon was drawn, the battle was already lost — decided only by who foresaw the enemy’s move first.

— You play?

Vilk blinked, drawn from thought, and turned to see Jan standing beside him, a cup in hand and amusement in his smile.

— I used to — Vilk replied.

— Then we must remedy that soon — said Jan. — One game, or eight.

He laughed and set a hand on the table.

— But not tonight. Tonight, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.

Jan didn’t wait for an answer. He simply took Vilk by the arm and led him through the hall, exchanging polite nods and murmured greetings as they passed.

Meanwhile, across the room, Sika seemed perfectly in her element. The noblewoman in the crimson gown — the same who’d earlier grilled Vilk with morbid fascination — now leaned toward Sika, her eyes bright with genuine interest.

— Your presence is extraordinary — she said with admiration. — Tell me, my lady, where do you come from?

Sika smiled — short, regal, effortless — and cast a sideways glance at the warrior seated nearby, who watched with equal curiosity, though more reserve.

— From a place where men are brave — and women don’t need permission to be themselves — she said, reaching for her cup.

The woman blinked, then laughed, snapping her fan against her hand.
— Oh, I do like that! Sounds like my country.

The warrior inclined his head, intrigued.
— Rarely do I meet a woman with such confidence. In our world, it’s a virtue reserved for men of arms.

— Perhaps that’s why — Sika narrowed her eyes — so many of you seem unsure what to do with it when you find it in a woman.

The warrior’s smile was quiet, but sincere.
— Indeed, this evening proves… refreshingly unpredictable.

Jan, glancing that way, raised an eyebrow.
— I see your companion doesn’t waste time.

— She never does — Vilk murmured.

They continued until Jan stopped, tightening his grip lightly on Vilk’s shoulder.
— Here we are. Vilk, there’s someone you really should meet.

Vilk looked ahead — and there he was.

The eccentric gentleman he’d noticed before. Up close, he looked even more… unpredictable.

Before Vilk could speak, Jan leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a private joke.
— A sorcerer — he whispered, amused. — And not just any. Meet Master Twardowski.

Vilk studied him.

— The royal magician. Scholar, advisor, and guest of half the courts in this hemisphere. There’s nothing he hasn’t looked straight in the eye — nor any secret he hasn’t pried open if he wished. — Jan paused, milking the moment. — Some say he’s shaken hands with the devil himself — and yet, as you see, still walks among us. That must mean something, doesn’t it?

Vilk gave him a sidelong glance.
— It means either the devil wasn’t clever enough — or Master Twardowski was very careful indeed.

Jan grinned.
— I’d wager the truth sits somewhere in between.

Twardowski, who had been quietly observing their exchange, inclined his head in acknowledgment, his smile widening.
— Ah, so this is our bloodthirsty Wolf — he said easily.

His voice was pleasant, deep — but beneath it, Vilk sensed another tone, a second meaning threaded through every word.

— Indeed — Jan replied, clearly pleased. — I thought the two of you might find the acquaintance… enriching.

— Oh, Jan — Twardowski sighed theatrically, though his eyes gleamed with real delight — you always do have the right words.

Vilk stayed silent, letting the current of talk carry itself, studying the man in front of him.

Twardowski extended his hand; Vilk took it. The grip was firm but not forceful — as if the magician was feeling something through the touch, not testing strength but… something deeper, beyond the senses Vilk understood.

— I’ve been looking forward to this meeting — said Twardowski softly. — Though I’m not sure which of us should be more curious.

Vilk’s mouth curved slightly.
— It’s always good to know who’s curious about you. And why.

— A wise approach — said Twardowski. — In my case, let’s call it… intellectual hunger.

— Hunger? — Vilk echoed.

— Oh, yes. I have a taste for the unusual. The rare. And you, my dear sir — are precisely that.

Jan chuckled.
— Hear that, Vilk? You’ve been declared a curiosity.

— Not the first time.

— But perhaps the first time by someone who actually knows what he’s talking about — added Twardowski, still watching him intently.

For a moment, his gaze drifted toward Klara, who stood a little apart, her laughter bright and effortless. Yet Vilk caught something in the magician’s look — a flicker of indulgent fondness, maybe even quiet amusement. It wasn’t disapproval, nor simple affection, but the gaze of someone who knew her far too well.

And in that instant, Vilk was certain it wasn’t accidental.

— I see you’ve found something interesting to look at, Mister Vilk — said Twardowski lightly, turning back to him.

— I analyze people — Vilk replied after a pause.

— Ah, a wonderful habit — said Twardowski, spreading his hands. — Without proper observation, the world would be unbearable.

Jan laughed softly.
— The two of you are more alike than either will admit.

— Not quite that much — muttered Vilk, though without conviction.

Twardowski smiled faintly.
— We’ll see.

And Vilk, though he couldn’t name it yet, felt that a game had begun between them — not Knyaz, not chess, but something far subtler.

The evening unfolded in a warm, easy current. After the introductions, conversation flowed with wit and precision — barbed jokes, layered stories, and clever turns of phrase that Twardowski wielded like a seasoned conjurer.

Vilk, at first cautious, soon saw that the man wasted no words. There was something magnetic in him — not vanity, but a hunger for understanding, as though each new mind was a book to be read. He studied people without cruelty, dissected them without breaking them.

Before long, Sika joined them, a cup of wine in hand. Her presence changed the air immediately.

— Ah, there you are — she said brightly, glancing between Jan, Vilk, and Twardowski. — I hope you’re not discussing anything tedious.

— Tedious talk isn’t my field — said Twardowski, arching a brow. — Only the kind most people can’t follow.

— Perfect — Sika smirked. — Vilk, are they recruiting you into some secret order?

— Not yet — muttered Vilk.

— Give me time — said Twardowski, finishing his wine.

Sika laughed softly, slipping into the circle of conversation. The rest of the night passed in a rhythm Vilk found — surprisingly — pleasant. There was no forced courtesy, no veiled contempt. For the first time in a long while, he felt no need to justify his presence.

Perhaps that was what united them all at this table.

Guests began to drift away. The chatter dimmed, wine flowed slower, laughter thinned into quiet farewells.

Lech, who’d been bidding goodbye to his comrades, turned and approached Sika. She was setting her cup down, her gestures loose, but her gaze sharp.

— Perhaps we’ll meet again — he said, his tone polite but colored by a subtle smile.

Sika raised an eyebrow, studying him briefly.
— Perhaps. But don’t make a habit of it.

Lech’s smile deepened. He didn’t argue. He simply took her hand and brushed his lips across her skin — light, deliberate, respectful.

Sika gave him a sidelong look and murmured something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Lech didn’t answer at once. He only met her eyes for a heartbeat longer, then smiled — not in triumph, but in understanding.

Without another word, he stepped away — walking toward the exit with the calm assurance of a man who knew he would return.

Vilk stood with a cup in hand, watching the last of the guests depart, when Twardowski appeared beside him.

— I must admit — said the magician, stretching slightly — that company this tolerable can still be unbearably tiring.

Vilk glanced at him.
— And yet you come.

— Ah, Jan likes me — said Twardowski. — And sometimes one must appear in order to disappear again later. — He smiled faintly. — Besides, had I not come tonight, I’d never have met you — and that would have been tragic.

Vilk snorted softly.
— I doubt you’d lose sleep over it.

Twardowski smiled, though his eyes held something more than jest.
— I think there’s more that connects us than you realize — he said quietly. — Though I’m still piecing together how.

Vilk said nothing, watching him in silence.

— Which is why I want you to visit me — Twardowski continued, his tone shifting — in Kraków.

— That’s a bit of a ride — Vilk said, not as refusal but simple fact.

— I know. And I know you’ve work here — your trade, your… initiation. Jan mentioned it. — Twardowski’s voice was calm, measured. — But when the time comes, when you can step away — come. It matters.

Vilk studied him.
— Why?

Twardowski shrugged.
— Because I have the sense that something is moving around you, leading you somewhere you don’t yet see. And I’d like to help you understand what it is — before it decides for you. For the sake of us all...

Vilk said nothing for a while.

Twardowski didn’t press. There was no demand in his tone — only quiet certainty, the kind that came from knowing a path had already been set.

— I’ll think about it — said Vilk finally.

— Of course you will — Twardowski smiled, as though the decision were already made.

Klara drifted nearby like candlelight — warm, graceful, radiant — yet Vilk still felt that there was something hidden in her every gesture, something just beyond reach.

Then she appeared beside Twardowski, placing a light hand on his arm.
— Shall we?

— Of course, my dear — he said with a weary sigh.

He looked once more at Vilk, as though about to add something — but didn’t.
He simply smiled, turned, and walked away.

Vilk remained standing in the center of the hall.

He drained the last of his wine and set the cup down on the table.

And already, the questions were beginning to form.

Vilk felt the hunger strike him with a force he had never known before.
He knew its rhythm, had learned to sense it ahead of time — like a hunter reading the wind before a storm. Usually, he had warning enough to prepare, to keep the tension in check. But this time was different. Deeper. Stronger. Crueler.

He needed more.

The longer he waited, the more something inside him began to twist. The Hunger didn’t only call for blood — it seeped through his body, gnawed at his thoughts. It became something primal, blind, something that sowed within him a raw, rising fury. Pure hatred for everything weak, fragile, defenseless. A craving to tear, to annihilate, to dominate. It was darkness spreading inside him, slow and certain, like roots weaving through the earth.
He left Jan’s estate without a sound, waking no one. Grym moved beside him like a shadow swallowed by the night. It was late, and the moonlight slid across the rooftops, laying long ribbons of silver over the cobblestones. Vilk crossed the courtyard, passed the guards — alert, yet blind to his presence. His steps were weightless, almost unreal, as if he didn’t walk the ground, but glided above it.
The city greeted him with the rustle of night — narrow streets, damp courtyards, muffled echoes of voices behind shutters. The air was thick with smoke, moisture, and rot, but Vilk searched for something else: the scent of fear, corruption, human filth. He moved slowly, unhurried. Drifted through blind alleys, inhaling the sleeping city, feeling the pulse of sin beneath its skin.
He could sense people even when unseen — knew where they slept, where they woke in sudden dread, where someone trembled alone in the dark. But they were not the ones he sought.
He clenched his fists. Blood thundered in his temples. Each second of restraint felt like carrion rotting inside him, a foul weight he needed to cast out. The Hunger no longer whispered — it screamed, growled within him like a beast too long chained.

And then he stopped. The corner of his mouth twitched as he caught the right scent.

A narrow alley, leading to a forgotten square stinking of damp and decay. The shadows were thick; moonlight couldn’t reach past the walls slick with moisture. In the air — three heartbeats. Two heavy with drink and malice. One light, trembling — a woman’s.

They moved. Vilk saw them before they saw him.
Two men — drunk, filthy, smug — cornered a woman. One laughed quietly; the other’s knife gleamed faintly in the dark.

Vilk followed them soundlessly, watching.

Two men—drunk, filthy, brimming with swagger—were tormenting a small, slight woman. One of them laughed under his breath; in the other’s hand the edge of a knife caught the light. Vilk followed them soundlessly, watching.

— Don’t pretend you don’t know why we’re dragging you in her e— one of them snarled, shoving her hard into the alley so that she struck the cold, damp wall with her back. — Everyone in Tarnów knows what you are—filthy whore, shameless, dishonorable.

The second man let out a mocking laugh and stepped closer.

— They say your pussy gets wet after a couple of nice words, — he taunted. — Should I be nice, or would you rather prefer it rough?

The woman tried to pull away, but she was too weak. The second man grabbed her by the shoulders, pinning her in place. The first reached under her skirt and dragged the underwear, stuffing panties into her mouth to smother her cry. She began to sob, choking on the cloth.

— Not so wet yet, but we’ll fix that soon enough — he spat, forcing his fingers upon her. The woman froze in terror, unable even to move. After a moment he yanked her to the ground, and the other man pinned her wrists to the dirt.

— Maybe whores don’t deserve pleasure at all — the first man sneered, kneeling over her. — Maybe they should just serve—be used whenever anyone wants…

He was about to get inside her when something hot and thick suddenly splattered across her face. For a moment she couldn’t understand what was happening—only when she realized it was blood did she fall into silent, breathless panic. Her eyes widened as she watched the attacker’s head being brutally pierced, spraying his brain across the wall.

Vilk landed beside her like a shadow given form. He looked at the second man — who stumbled back, only to meet Grym’s bared teeth.

— I see only one filthy whore left in here, — Vilk said coldly.

The man tried to speak, to plead, but Vilk was already moving. One strike — swift, merciless — and it was done. Blood poured freely. Vilk pulled him close, then sank his teeth into the man’s neck, drinking deeply until the body went still.

When it was over, silence cloaked the alley like a shroud. Grym fed quietly, methodically, erasing the traces.

Vilk turned. The woman still lay on the ground, trembling — but not from fear. Her eyes were dry, emptied of life, filled instead with something far heavier: resignation. As if death and life were the same to her now.

He looked into her eyes — and hesitated.

— You’re not afraid, — he said softly, almost surprised.

Her voice came faintly, hollow, stripped of emotion.
— I’m only afraid it will never end. That it will always be the same.

Vilk froze. The words struck him like an echo — of himself, long ago.

— What’s your name? — he asked.

— Jagna, — she whispered, tears finally breaking free.

He crouched beside her, meeting her gaze.
Something inside him stirred — words he had never spoken, coming unbidden, as if whispered by Sika herself:

— You’re worth more than all of them, — he said quietly. — Walk with your head high. Most people in this world aren’t worth the dirt they stand on. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re less.

They sat in silence for a moment. The woman slowly found her breath again. Vilk drew a dagger from his belt and held it out to her — cool, solid.

— Keep it. Never let anyone hurt you again. Remember tonight — not for what they did, but because someone saw more in you than just flesh.

He rose, signaled to Grym. Together they gathered the remains — bones no one would miss — and carried them into the woods. Vilk spat on the ground, stacking stones above what was left. Only then did the calm return.

Dawn was heavy.
The air was thick with damp and chill that crept beneath the skin, leaving behind a faint, unpleasant tingling. The city was waking — the ring of a hammer on anvil somewhere far off, the muffled hum from taverns, the last shadows retreating down narrow streets.

Vilk neared Jan’s estate, the weight of the night still pressing on his shoulders. Grym padded beside him, silent, alert, muscles still tense from the hunt. The blood in Vilk’s veins had cooled, but unease lingered. The Hunger was quiet — for now — but its echo remained.

He stopped by the high wall, breathing slowly. Memories pulsed behind his eyes: warm blood down his throat, the crunch of bone in Grym’s jaws, the wide, terrified eyes of the dying. He should have felt satisfaction — but instead, a remnant of rage still clung to him like a second skin.

That was new. The hunger usually slept after a kill. This time it had left an aftertaste.

He crossed the gate and stepped inside. Morning light spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Sika was already awake. She sat at the table with a cup in her hands, watching him enter. There was something in her gaze - more than curiosity. A quiet, knowing weight, as if she already guessed what he had done.

She didn’t ask immediately, but he felt her eyes on him as he pulled off his cloak and ran a hand along his neck, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders.

— You’re back, — she said at last, too calmly.

Vilk didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted across the room, searching for something to feign interest in.
— I couldn’t sleep, — he said flatly.

Sika raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She took a slow sip, then set the cup down.
— You’re different, — she said softly but firmly.

He flinched, didn’t look at her. His hand tightened on his belt.
— You’re wrong.
— I only say what I see, — she replied, leaning back in her chair. — And what I feel.

The silence stretched — thick, heavy. Then Vilk moved toward the hearth, pretending not to hear.
— By the way, — he said, striving for a neutral tone, — I met that girl we talked about in town.

Sika tilted her head, intrigued.
— The quiet one? — she asked with a faint smirk. — You didn’t—
— Jagna, — he interrupted sharply. — Her name’s Jagna. And no. I saved her.

Sika stared at him for a moment, then smiled faintly.
— So you’re a hero now, — she murmured with quiet irony. — Never thought I’d see the day.

Vilk shrugged, turning back to the fire. He had the strange feeling that it was Sika who was changing him — more than he cared to admit.

— We leave today, — he said, changing the subject. — Jan will want to see us off.

Sika nodded but kept her eyes on him. She knew he was hiding something — and knew he’d tell her only when he was ready.
— Fine, — she said simply. — I’ll pack.

Vilk inclined his head and climbed the stairs to wash and prepare. The tension didn’t fade. The Hunger was gone, but another emptiness remained — one he couldn’t name. Maybe it wasn’t about the hunt. Maybe it was about what he was becoming.

He could feel time slipping away. The air itself carried the weight of parting, though he refused to dwell on it.

Sika busied herself with her pack — few belongings, all practical. They were travelers, long used to owning little. The horses waited in the courtyard, ready.

Vilk stood at the window, watching Jan below — speaking softly with a servant, overseeing the preparations. The morning was crisp and clear, perfect for travel.

He didn’t move until he heard Jan’s steps on the stairs. The old man appeared in the doorway, leaning on his cane, his face calm, his eyes watchful.

— Everything ready? — he asked.
— Yes, — Vilk replied, still looking out. — We’re leaving soon.

Jan nodded, then glanced at Sika tightening the straps on her bag. For a moment he said nothing, gathering his thoughts.
— I don’t know if you two truly know what you’re doing, — he said at last. — But I hope you find what you’re meant to.

Vilk didn’t answer. His hand tightened on his belt, feeling something still holding him here — though he couldn’t name what. He was ready to go, but unsure if he was leaving as someone changed, or merely someone moving on.

— We’re not looking for anything, — he said dryly. — We’re going where we belong.

Sika glanced at him briefly but stayed silent. Jan sighed softly, straightening.
— The road won’t be kind, — he said. — But you know that. We’ll stay in touch. I’m not a man of big words. Just… take care of yourselves.

Vilk finally turned to him, nodded once. Enough.

Jan’s eyes softened — with understanding, perhaps, or fatigue.

Then came footsteps — another presence.

Jaroslav.

The young man appeared quietly, almost ghostlike, and stopped a few steps away. There was no uncertainty in his face — none of the hesitation others showed around Vilk. There was something in his gaze that made Vilk pause for a fraction longer than he meant to.

— Thank you for your time, — Jaroslav said softly. — I have a feeling we’ll meet again.

A strange silence followed. Vilk studied him, remembering how the boy fought, how he moved. People said he was blind.

Jarosław smiled faintly, as if hearing the thought.
— Yes, — he said again, quieter now. — I can see you. Clearly.

Vilk frowned, but before he could speak, the boy added,
— Remember: the light always finds us. Sometimes where we least expect it.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left.

Vilk watched him go, then stepped toward the door. Sika lifted her pack and passed Jan in silence, stepping into the courtyard. Vilk followed, Grym padding behind.

The gates opened wide for them. The small cart creaked, the horses started forward at an easy pace.

Vilk didn’t look back.

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The road wound gently through wide fields and groves where young leaves shimmered in the sunlight like dew on grass. Spring had gathered colour — trees in bloom scattered their sweet scent, and the warm wind brushed through the meadows, carrying with it the promise of summer. The sky was a deep, translucent blue, streaked with only a few pale threads of cloud.
Vilk rode beside Sika in silence, allowing himself a rare pause — a moment’s distance from the thoughts that usually filled his head.

The journey passed quietly. Their horses moved with sure rhythm, accustomed to long roads, while the leather saddlebags swayed softly with every step. They carried little — only what was necessary. Vilk had never liked useless weight, and Sika shared his view. Everything they truly needed fit in their hands and in their minds.

The unease creeping through their thoughts was almost invisible. It wasn’t fear — rather a quiet reserve, a subtle tension bound to what awaited them in that cursed place. Both had lived through things most people couldn’t imagine. They had seen death, touched it, breathed it. They did not expect this place to be worse than what they had already survived.

— It can’t be that bad, — Sika said, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, almost amused, though beneath the lightness lingered caution.

Vilk glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She rode easily, confidently — but he saw that even she didn’t fully believe her own words.

— We’ve seen worse, — he said after a moment, shrugging. — Houses aren’t monsters.

Sika gave a short, soft laugh.
— And yet people curse them. Not without reason.
— People curse many things they don’t understand.

For a while she rode in silence, eyes fixed on the faint hills ahead. The road grew narrower, the trees thicker. Vilk could feel the change in the air — the land, though still beautiful, carried a muted, secret weight. Through the branches, the outlines of the estate emerged in the distance.

Sika saw it too.
— You think it’s just legend? — she asked, nodding toward the shape of the buildings.

Vilk didn’t answer right away. He narrowed his eyes, as though trying to glimpse something hidden beyond the distance.
— We’ll find out soon enough, — he murmured.

As they drew nearer, the silence became palpable. The usual spring chatter of birds was gone. The wind stilled, and though the sun still bathed the courtyard in light, it felt duller, muted. The horses stopped at the edge of the yard, snorting softly, ears twitching. Vilk looked at Sika, but she had already dismounted, studying the manor.

The building stood as it had — tall stone walls, veiled in ivy, wooden balconies, a steep roof casting long shadows across the cobbles. The front door hung slightly open, as if someone had been waiting, as if the house knew they had returned.

Vilk dismounted, a faint shiver running across his back. It wasn’t fear — he had nothing left to fear, not after everything — but there was a subtle unease, the kind that came from standing over a body still warm from life.

— We’ve had worse shelters, — Sika murmured, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.

Grym was first to step onto the stone stair. The dog was tense, fur bristling, though silent — only watching the doorway with sharp stillness. Vilk laid a hand on the latch and pressed down slowly. The wood gave without resistance; the door opened with a quiet creak, revealing a half-lit interior.

The air inside was cool, holding the echo of old days. Damp mixed with something harder to name — the scent of aged wood, dust, and something else besides. Something faintly familiar, like mold but deeper, a note that settled uneasily in the gut.

Sika stepped closer, her movements light but steady. She ran her hand along the frame, then looked at Vilk.
— Well, — she said with a faint smile, — looks like we live here now.

Vilk entered first. The house gave no answer — but he thought he heard something stir in the dark, just beyond the reach of sight.

The gloom wasn’t complete. Morning sun pierced through the shutters, falling in narrow beams that caught the dust. They took a few steps into the hall. The wood creaked beneath his boots — not the tired groan of rot, but something else, almost responsive.

Sika followed, her hand trailing the rail of the staircase. The wood was cold beneath her fingers, the carved patterns rough and worn.
— It’s strangely quiet, — she said.

Vilk nodded but didn’t speak. There was no sound from outside, no wind, no whisper of the house itself. It wasn’t ordinary silence — it was silence that listened.

He touched one of the frames. It was cool, faintly damp — as though the wood itself drew in the air.
— Something’s here, — he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

Sika turned toward him, but before she could answer, she caught something from the corner of her eye. On the wall where the light streamed in, the carvings seemed to waver — shifting ever so slightly. She frowned, stepped closer, and the illusion vanished.

— Did that— — she began, but stopped.

Vilk followed her gaze but saw nothing but still wooden patterns, dulled by dust.
— Imagination, — he said softly, though without conviction.

Grym moved in slow circles, sniffing. His fur was still raised, yet he made no sound, only gliding across the floor, alert to something they could not yet perceive.

Sika shrugged and moved on, peering into the side rooms. The interior was spacious — high ceilings, the remnants of old grandeur: carved mouldings, cracked mirrors, worn furniture still bearing traces of past splendour.

But there was something else.

On a table thick with dust, a single handprint. Fresh, clear.

Vilk approached, frowning. A splinter of wood stirred in a draft — though no window was open.

Sika stepped back.
— Maybe it wasn’t as empty as we thought, — she whispered.

Vilk’s hand closed around the hilt of his knife.

The house wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

Sika leaned against the doorframe of the main hall, her eyes travelling over the flaking plaster, the cracked beams, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of rot and forgotten wood.

She ran her fingers along a dresser, leaving a clean trace in the dust.
— You know this will be hell, right? — she called toward Vilk, who was just returning from a side room.

He looked at her and shrugged.
— I know. That’s why I called for Jegor and Viktor. They should arrive tomorrow or the next day.

Sika raised an eyebrow.
— You’re serious?
— Dead serious. You’ll be the mind, they’ll be the hands. We’ll find them a place to sleep, and they’ll start clearing this up. At least enough so we don’t choke on the stench.

Sika ran a hand through her hair, assessing the chaos around her. She knew he was right, yet the task still seemed impossible — taming this ruin would take weeks, maybe months.

— We need beds, linens, something. We can’t sleep on the floor till this place is tamed, — she said finally.

Vilk looked around.
— We’ll find something that can be repaired, or at least aired out. If not… we’ll get what we need in town.

Sika sighed and moved on to the next room. Pale light seeped through torn curtains, glinting off broken furniture. Much of it was beyond saving — chairs splintered, tables barely holding together — but some things might yet survive.

— Let’s start with cleaning, — she said. — We’ll see after that.

They worked in silence for a time. Vilk watched her carefully.
— We need a plan.
— And time, — she replied. — It’ll take weeks just to make it livable.
— Then let’s focus, — he said, opening a wardrobe. Inside, beneath a layer of dust, he found old blankets and bedding.

Sika grimaced.
— This will be a long week.
— Maybe two or three, — he said, tossing aside what was useless. — But at least we’ve got a start.

The first hours passed in silence broken only by footsteps, the scrape of broom bristles, the thud of discarded junk. Dust rose around them like smoke, settling on their skin, catching in their throats.

Vilk lifted a crate of rotted books and carried it aside. Sika was sorting through a chest of moldy papers, throwing them away one by one — until something caught her eye.

— Vilk, look at this, — she said, holding up a small notebook. It was covered in dust, but the pages inside had endured. Leather-bound, the edges worn, the faded title nearly unreadable.

Vilk took it, flipping a few pages. The handwriting was elegant and deliberate, though much of it blurred with time. Between fragments, words remained: “preparations,” “marriage,” “fear,” “he was here.”

— Maybe we’ll find more, — he muttered, tucking the book into his belt.

They kept working — but the atmosphere was changing.

Sika carried a bundle of clothes into another room. When she returned, she stopped short, frowning.
— Vilk… didn’t I just move that crate?

Vilk looked to the box by the door — the same one he had moved earlier. He was certain of it.

He said nothing, only walked closer, studying it. The dust around it was undisturbed — as though it had never been moved at all.

Grym growled softly.

Sika looked at Vilk, uneasy.
— A draft? — she asked, though her tone betrayed doubt.
— Not a draft, — Vilk said.

The air grew heavier, thicker. Somewhere deep within the house, a quiet crack echoed — wood shifting after too long in stillness.

Sika tightened the strap at her waist.
— This house is toying with us, — she murmured.

Vilk turned the notebook in his hands, opening it at random. Most of the ink had faded, but one line remained clear, untouched by time:

“No one should enter where memories sleep.”

For a long moment they both stared at the words before Vilk closed the book.
— Maybe there was something here worse than what we’ve seen, — he said quietly.

The day dragged on, fatigue settling deep into their muscles. They worked through the afternoon, and though the house began to look almost livable, something within it remained foreign — something that refused to yield.

They worked in quiet, broken only by short exchanges and the occasional shared drink. The bottle passed between them, its warmth softening the weight of the day.

— Tell me, Vilk, — Sika said, leaning against the doorway, a faint smile curling her lips. — Where exactly do you see future splendor in this wreck?

Vilk looked up, one brow raised, then took a slow drink.
— Somewhere here, — he said, glancing around. — Between the cobwebs and the rot. Imagination helps, doesn’t it? I thought you’d already planned it all.

Sika rolled her eyes but didn’t hide her grin. There was something new in her look — not annoyance, but a flicker of excitement.

On the walls, faint shifts appeared — textures seemed to ripple, as though the shadows moved out of rhythm with the light. Vilk didn’t notice, but Sika paused, sensing the change. She said nothing, letting the unease fade with the warmth of the drink.

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When the sun finally yielded to dusk, washing the sky in fading streaks of crimson, Vilk drew a long breath.
For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself a moment of relief.

The manor no longer looked like mere ruin and dust — he could almost see a shadow of the future they might build here: clean rooms, voices echoing through the halls, light in the windows. For once, he didn’t feel only emptiness. Maybe — just maybe — this could work.

He wanted to breathe. Just sit, feel the cool air on his skin, leave behind the suffocating weight of the house that had pressed on him all day. He took an old chair and a half-broken chest, then made his way to the courtyard.

He sat at the edge of the fountain, near the entrance to the estate. Above him, the sky sank into darkness, still wearing the dim scar of day — a fading red wound that refused to close. The air was still and warm, carrying the scent of stone and damp. Vilk closed his eyes, listening to the silence.
This was what life after everything was supposed to feel like: peace, ordinariness, a moment without struggle.

And then the air changed.

It came suddenly — like a string pulled taut and snapped.
A chill that didn’t belong to this world.
A gust of wind that wasn’t there.
Gooseflesh rose on his neck; his muscles tensed instinctively.

That feeling. He knew it.
Though years had passed, it returned — unstoppable, inevitable.

Thoughts scattered like ashes in a gust. The tension in the air thickened; the world sharpened, as if reality itself had been split in two.

Vilk opened his eyes.

Red.

It tore open above him like a wound in the sky. The colours twisted in an unnatural rhythm — pulsing scarlet bands rippling through darkening clouds. The fountain water, clear only moments ago, had turned the shade of thick blood. The stained glass on the manor’s façade glowed like a burning eye, its light clinging to his skin. The air smelled of ash and damp — heavy, oppressive — as though the place itself breathed his fear.

Vilk didn’t move. His heart pounded so hard it drowned the world.
Not fear — terror.
That old, hated terror that crept back into his mind, spreading like poison.

And then she spoke.

— I see you’ve been… settling in.

Her voice was velvet, but cold — the kind of cold that commands. It didn’t need to shout; its existence alone was enough.

Vilk’s body locked, every nerve tightening. The primal dread — the one he knew too well — slithered into him like venom. He tried to draw breath, but it wasn’t his own. It was the cold air of fear itself.

He looked up.

She stood there — in her fire-red attire, her hair moving though there was no wind, as if it belonged to something greater than her.
And in her hands… she held a shield.

Black and crimson, reflecting light in ways that shouldn’t exist in this world. She turned it idly in her fingers, as if it were nothing more than glass.

— So much time… — she sighed, her eyes filled with disdainful amusement. — Such power… and this is what you make of it? A decaying brothel and some broken little whore?

Vilk’s jaw tightened, but no words came. Something inside him boiled — fear and burning rage tangled together.

The Queen narrowed her eyes, tilting her head like someone studying spoiled meat.

She never rushed. He had never been the one in control — not with her.

She waited, letting the fear ripen.

— So much time, — she whispered again, disappointment curling through her tone. — So much power, and you’ve learned nothing.

Her gaze sliced through him like a blade. Vilk felt the fear pierce his chest, his throat tightening around it.

— A crumbling brothel and a slave-girl? — her voice cut the air like a knife.

His hands trembled, her presence wrapping around him like chains.

— Is this all you’re capable of? — she smiled faintly. — How goes your search for redemption? Because I believe you’ve lost your way.

It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a verdict.

— I expected more.

Vilk’s breath caught. Hatred — deep, animal, chained by terror — stirred awake. But fear held stronger.

— You’ve been a very bad dog, she purred, drawing out the word. — You shouldn’t anchor your soul so carelessly… least of all in two bodies.

Vilk shuddered.

Her gaze flayed him alive. She knew. She knew everything.

Something snapped inside his head.

— I’m no damned dog! — he snarled, trying to seize control.

But he didn’t have the chance.

— SILENCE.

The world shattered.

Her voice wasn’t sound — it was a cataclysm. A shockwave tearing through existence.
Vilk’s skull screamed; his thoughts split apart; his body felt crushed beneath an unseen weight.

Then — a flash.

The shield she had idly toyed with was suddenly firm in her grip, held with a grace that betrayed the violence it promised.

She threw it — lightly, effortlessly, as though it weighed nothing.

The blow came faster than sight.
He realized what had happened only when his body was torn open.

Pain exploded through him — raw, unbearable.
His leg.

A scream burst from his throat, wild and broken.
He collapsed against the fountain, gasping, his blood splattering across the stones, mixing with the red water.

The Queen stood motionless, her eyes gleaming in the half-light.

— You are nothing, — she said, calm as death. — Nothing, to speak to me in that tone, mongrel.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she continued,
— Fragmenting a soul is costly work. But I suppose you’ve noticed.

Something cracked again inside him. Vilk trembled. Every word she spoke was truth carved into his bones.

— By the way, — her lips curved in a smile, — I brought you a gift. Your new sigil.

He struggled to focus through the haze of pain.
— What are you talking about… this soul—?

The Queen looked at him one last time.

— You must understand what you are… before you scatter into too many pieces.

And she was gone.

Vilk was alone. Then the pain came back.

His scream echoed through the courtyard.
Sika burst out of the building, her face pale with shock.

— Vilk! What happened?!

He glanced at her — then at himself.

His leg was knitting back together.

— Are you all right? — she asked, horrified by the sound she’d heard moments earlier.

Black threads — like shadows — were weaving the wound closed, stitching flesh as if his body had never known death, never been torn apart.

— It’s nothing. I tripped, — he said sharply, though his voice still trembled, his body shaking beneath the strain. He tried to hide it.

Sika didn’t look convinced. She pointed toward the ground.
— What is that?

Vilk followed her gaze — to the shield.

On its surface, the image of two beasts: one red, one black, locked in eternal combat, divided only by what they sought to devour — one the moon, the other the sun. Their bodies were flame and shadow, light and night, circling each other in endless, merciless balance.

— A shield, — he said flatly. — Found it in the junk.

— Are you sure you’re all right?
— Yes… — he replied unconvincingly. — Let’s go inside. It’s getting dark.

He looked once more at the spot where the Queen had stood.

Only a faint trace of her remained — a shimmer of something unreal, slowly dissolving into the air.

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The manor grew quiet as night settled, but there was still work to be done.
Sika refused to give in, though her eyelids were growing heavy. Vilk could see she was exhausted, but he also knew that if he let her, she’d keep going until she dropped. So they kept working.

Vilk helped her carry out the remains of old furniture, break down rotted wardrobes, and stack what little could still be salvaged. The motion calmed him. After what had happened that day, he needed something physical — something to pull him out of his own head.

But it wasn’t so simple.
The unease still smoldered in him, like embers beneath ash.
Hours had passed, yet the shadow of the Crimson Queen still hung over him — as if she had left behind more than pain, more than memory.

All day he’d felt trapped. Every sound, every sudden movement brought back that same paralyzing dread. It wasn’t ordinary fear — it was something deeper, a grip around his mind that strangled any attempt to break free.
Vilk never ran. Never.
But today… today it felt as though his own body no longer belonged to him.

He’d had no control. Not even the thought of resistance.
If the Queen had wanted him dead, he would’ve died without so much as raising a hand. That thought cut deeper than pain — deeper than her voice, her eyes.

How could she still make him feel so small?

He clenched his jaw, not letting it show. Sika didn’t need to know. This was his burden — his problem. He would drown it, bury it. After all these years, he’d thought himself free of her.
But it took only a moment, one word, one glance, to remind him of what he was.

Nothing.

His fingers tightened on the wooden chair he was lifting.
No. Not now. Not anymore.

— You think we’ll manage this in a few weeks? — Sika asked, wiping sweat from her brow with her sleeve.

Vilk leaned against the doorframe, looking at her with weary eyes. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not now. Not ever.
— We’ve got no choice.

She gave a short snort of laughter, but didn’t reply. They worked a while longer, hauling boxes and sacks, until even she had to admit they’d done enough for one night.

Vilk tossed the last piece of wood onto the pile and drew a deep breath. He felt a little better. Not well — but steadier.

— Tomorrow I’m going to town with Jan, — he said. — Time to start sorting things out with the old torture hall.

Sika glanced at him through narrowed eyes, studying him. He was tense. He hid it well, but she knew him too well not to notice.
— You sure you can handle it?

He rolled his eyes and said nothing. He wasn’t about to talk about it. She didn’t press.

They gathered their tools and went back inside. Vilk could feel the tension tightening across his back and shoulders. He knew he should let go, focus on the next day — but the thoughts wouldn’t still. Every shadow in the corners seemed too thick, too present.

He had no choice but to push it aside.

The house was silent, the air heavy, dense. Vilk felt it — but ignored it. He was too tired to care.

Sika glanced at Grym, who stretched lazily in the corner, his paws reaching forward.
— You’ve got it easy, huh? — she muttered toward the dog. He didn’t so much as flick an ear.

Vilk sat down heavily on the makeshift bedding and leaned his head against the wall. He could feel exhaustion slowly swallowing what was left of his tension. But he knew sleep wouldn’t bring rest.

This was only the beginning.

— Tomorrow we start a new chapter, — he said softly, more to himself than to her.

Sika didn’t answer. She was already asleep.

Vilk closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would ride to the city — and step once more into a world he no longer trusted.

The forest whispered beneath Vilk’s boots.

Each step took him deeper into shadow—a place where the world felt thin, fragile.
As if reality itself could crack under the weight of what was unspoken.

Sika walked beside him.
Close enough to feel—warm, solid.
But what pressed cold against the back of his neck had nothing to do with her.

He could feel them.

Jegor. Viktor.

Not men anymore.
Maybe they never had been.

Now, they were echoes.
Reflections of his will.
Shadows drifting at the edges of his mind—weightless, hollow, suspended between being and not.

Brat...

The word came like a dry leaf skittering across stone.
Not a voice.
More a thought. Blurred. Distant.

Jegor’s presence touched him faintly, like a whisper from the bottom of a well.
No will. No direction.
Only emptiness.

Kde... my... szto my?

Viktor this time—his thought trembling, unsure, teetering between dream and waking.

Vilk narrowed his eyes.
The air thickened.
Even the forest seemed to hush, uneasy with these lingering ghosts.

The brothers began to fade.

Their outlines blurred, scattering like ash—but not gone.
Not fully.

He could still feel them—just beyond reach.

– Vilk? – Sika’s voice broke the silence.
She glanced at him, brow furrowed.
– What’s with them? Why are they just… standing there?

He took a breath, slow. His skin prickled under her gaze.

– I don’t know, – he said at last. His voice sounded worn.
– Feels like they’re part of me. But I’m not sure.

Sika frowned.
Then nodded—whether in understanding or resignation, he couldn’t say.

– Then let them be useful, – she murmured. – If we’ve got bigger plans ahead… strong hands might come in handy.

Vilk gave a single nod.

He turned toward the shadows.

Spoke—not aloud, but within.

– Hide.
I don’t know what you’ve become.
I don’t even know what to call you.
But disappear.
Wait for your time.
Stay close, but unseen.

No reply.
Only a silence like dying breath.

Their presence thinned—but never vanished.
They sank into the dark like smoke curling just beyond vision.

He and Sika moved on, deeper through the forest’s tangle.

Eventually, they reached the clearing.

Janus’s bones lay where they had fallen—picked clean.
Pale in the dim light.
Grym had done what needed doing.

The hound still licked blood from his muzzle, eyes fixed on what remained:
A worthless life devoured.

The tavern stood like a corpse left to rot.

Death stained the threshold.
The air hung heavy—thick with smoke and rot.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, each step sighing like a funeral drum.

Grym padded close.
His eyes glowed with feral awareness.

At the single upright table sat Jan Białoszewski—
worn, bruised, but unbroken.

He looked up as they entered.

– You’re alive… – His voice carried that same proud resonance, steady even in pain.
– I thought I’d seen the last of you.

– You’re alive, – Vilk said in return.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Jan lifted a trembling hand.

– Alive... thanks to you.
That debt is deep—as deep as the pit of hell.
As heavy as a country betrayed.

– Now’s not the time for debts, – Vilk answered.
– We clean this up first.

They got to work.

No words.
Only motion.
Only the weight of bodies, the stink of death, the creak of burdened wood.

The tavern soaked up the blood, greedy to remember.

Later, by the fire, Jan drew a signet ring from his coat.
A silver crest caught what light remained.

– Go to Tarnów, – he said. – My estate will give you rest.
I ride for Kraków—to account for what’s happened here.

Show them this. It will open doors.

Vilk took it in silence.

– We’ll wait.

Jan rested a hand on his shoulder.

– You saved me.
My honor won’t let me die before I repay it.

Sika met Vilk’s gaze.

A flicker of peace.
Or something like it.

– A little rest… we could use it.

The road to Tarnów wound long and quiet.

The forest gave way to open hills.
The silence gentled.

When they reached the estate, it stunned them.

White walls.
Orderly gardens.
Sunlight spilling gold over tilled earth and trimmed hedges.

– Didn’t expect this, – Sika whispered. – It’s… beautiful.

– Strangely peaceful, – Vilk agreed.

They settled in a side chamber.
Servants—startled but obedient—did as Jan had ordered.
Food.
Warmth.
Clean water.

Vilk stripped off torn clothes and sank into a bath.
Heat soaked into old pain, melting knots too long held.

That evening, they sat on the terrace.
The sun dipped low.

No words.
Just silence.
Permission to exist.

Only wind stirred the garden leaves.

– It’s easy to anger someone here, – Vilk said, voice low.
– Sometimes it just… happens. Rage breaks loose. No stopping it.

Sika studied him.

– You think that’s what happened back there?

– Maybe. Maybe it was all bound to happen.

– Are you angry with me? – she asked softly.

He didn’t answer at once.

Then:

– No, Sika.
This isn’t about anger.

Sometimes things just… happen.

And here, they happen more than anywhere else.

That’s what I told you—we’re not like the rest of Europe.

Forget what you learned in the West.

Here, a man makes his own law…
or dies by someone else’s.

They sat together into the night.

No plans.

Just the quiet breath of survival.

And for the first time in a long time, Vilk felt it:

The faint, fragile sense of being human again.

Morning spilled gold across the trees.

Soft light.
Stillness.

The past felt far away.

Vilk sat on a bench, bent over wood.

In his hands—knife, steady and sure.
Each stroke peeled away another layer.
Each curl of wood a quiet relief.

A shape emerged.

Broad paws.
Lowered head.
Ears pricked forward.

A dog—rough, but forming.

Across the courtyard, Sika lay on a blanket, face turned to the sun.
Peace softened her features. A faint smile touched her lips.

For once, there was no darkness between them.

Then—

A rustle.

– Sir...

Vilk looked up.

A boy.
Maybe twelve. Fair-haired. Eyes too serious.

He held a wooden singlestick

—worn, familiar.

– I’d like to try, – the boy said. – If you’ll allow it.

Vilk studied him. The knife still in his hand.

The boy didn’t waver.

– Not a good idea, – Vilk muttered.

But the boy stayed.

– Please.
Someday we’ll all have to fight.
I’d rather learn now.

From the blanket, Sika opened one eye.

– Oh, let him. A little movement might do you good.

Vilk sighed. Set down the knife. Rose.

– Fine. But easy. This is practice.

They faced each other in dappled sunlight.

The boy moved well—guided by instinct, not training.

Vilk met him lightly. Taught without words.

At first it was slow. Almost dull.

Then—

Laughter.

The boy’s laughter rang bright and pure.

And Vilk—

Vilk smiled.

Just a flicker.
A forgotten reflex.

When it ended, the boy bowed and offered back the weapon.

– Thank you, sir.

– Remember this, young warrior—
Fighting isn’t strength.
It’s patience.

The boy nodded.

Then paused.

Something in him changed.

The courtyard air cooled.

– Be careful, Vilk, – he said softly.

His voice wasn’t a child’s.

– There’s a darkness following you. It stirs behind your steps.

Vilk froze.

The boy turned to Sika.

– And you—watch the house.
It shelters you now… but it keeps its own secrets.

Then he turned.
And ran into the trees.

Gone.

Sika rose slowly, unsettled.

– Strange boy… he knew your name.

Vilk said nothing.

He stared after the child, the words still echoing.

Too old to be just warning.

Something inside him trembled—quiet, not ready.

The darkness he’d learned to live with?

It felt a step closer now.

They sat in silence.

The light wrapped around them—calm, golden.

But under that peace…

Something waited.

Unspoken.

Patient.

A shadow biding its time.

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Sika stretched lazily on the blanket, squinting up against the sunlight.
Peace had its charm—but for her, it always gave way to restlessness a little too quickly.

– Vilk… – she murmured, eyes half-lidded as she glanced his way. – It’s nice here, sure. But doesn’t anything happen in your Tarnów? Maybe we should go into town. I’d like to see… civilization. Opportunities. – That last word curled off her tongue like smoke, sly and amused.

Vilk looked up from the piece of wood in his hands.
A bird was taking shape beneath his knife. He stared at it for a moment, weighing whether to finish.

– Town’s a town, – he muttered. – People, filth, noise.

But the glint in her eye gave him pause.
He sighed, setting the carving and blade aside.

– All right. I’ll let the staff know. They should be told we’ll be out for a bit.

Sika rose with an easy grin.

Vilk crossed the courtyard to one of the stablehands sweeping hay.

– We’re riding into Tarnów for a few hours, – he said curtly. – If Jan returns before we’re back, tell him we’ll be here by evening.

The boy gave a short bow.

– Of course, my lord.

Vilk nodded and returned to her. The horses were already saddled—rested, brushed, ready.

A few minutes later, they were on the road.

– Finally, – Sika muttered, settling into the saddle with a pleased sigh. – Let’s see what your townsfolk look like up close.

Vilk didn’t reply, though a faint smile touched his mouth.
He had a feeling this trip wouldn’t be as simple as it seemed.

They left Jan’s estate behind, the road shining in the afternoon light.
The journey was brief—the weather fair, the earth dry but still soft from recent rain.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in ribbons of gold. They passed wagons heavy with grain, barefoot children chasing each other beside the road, old women carrying herbs in baskets lined with cloth.

Sika took it all in like a sponge. Every sound, every scent.
Vilk rode beside her, silent, but watched her now and then out of the corner of his eye.

The gates of Tarnów came into view before long.

The city greeted them with a wave of life—noise, scent, sweat.
Bread baking. Horses straining. The sharp edge of refuse.
Crowds thickened around the stalls: peasants, merchants, tradesmen, wanderers.
Laughter, bartering, curses.
A kind of chaos only the living could make.

– Gods... so many people, – Sika murmured, shaking her head. – It’s filthy. But it’s alive. Beautiful, in its own way.

Vilk gave a thin smile.

– Wait till you see it up close. The polish wears off fast.

He led her through the beating heart of the town.
The marketplace, where voices climbed over one another in a contest of price and pride.
The wells, where gossip flowed thicker than water.
The tavern corners, where merchants bartered through drink.

Then Sika slowed.

A woman stood alone in a narrow alley.

She wore a deep green dress. Pale skin. Brown hair loose across her shoulders.
Beautiful—yes. But broken.
There was ruin in her posture, something collapsed inward.
A quiet defeat Sika knew all too well.

– Who’s that? – she asked softly.

Vilk followed her gaze. The woman adjusted her gown, keeping her eyes averted from passing men.

– Don’t know, – he murmured. – Never seen her before. Doesn’t look like life’s been kind.

Sika nodded once.

– No. She’s working on her own—and it’s not working. Women like that don’t last long without something behind them.

Vilk watched a moment longer.
She didn’t belong. Not really.
Like someone shoved into the wrong life, trying to wear it like a proper coat.

– Maybe she belongs with us, – Sika said, almost to herself. – If we’re going to build something real… we’ll need people. Especially the ones with nothing left to lose.

Vilk didn’t answer.
But the image lingered: green dress, hollow eyes, the shape of despair with a face.

He turned only when Sika nudged her horse forward.

The city swallowed them again.

They stopped at a fruit stall where a woman in a bright kerchief sold apples and plums.
Sika ran her fingers over the fruit, smiled faintly.
They bought a few. The old woman blessed them both.

As they led their horses through the streets, Sika asked:

– Vilk… where’s the other house?

– The what?

– You know. The other house.

He raised a brow.

– You mean the brothel?

Her grin turned sly.

– Got to see the competition, don’t I? I want to know how to do it better.

Vilk exhaled, half-laughing.

– Don’t expect anything pleasant.

He led her through narrower streets.
Cobble turned to packed mud.
The buildings sagged under their own weight.

The brothel stood like something forgotten—grimy windows, curtains stained to near-black.
A warped door hung half open, coughing up air thick with sweat and cheap perfume.

A few drunks lingered outside, laughing at nothing.
A woman by the door—painted lips, hollow eyes—stood in a dress meant for a younger version of herself. Her smile was more flinch than welcome.

Sika stared.

– This is the competition?

Her voice was low, disgusted.

– I thought towns were supposed to be more... refined.

– Tarnów’s no Kraków, – Vilk replied. – And this place is barely holding.

– We’ll do it better, – Sika said. Her voice sharpened. Became iron.
– Much better. No one’s coming back here once they’ve seen ours.

Vilk said nothing.

But for the first time in a long while, he believed something could actually change.

They turned away.

Still, the woman in green haunted her thoughts.

At a stall draped in dyed fabrics, Vilk paused.

– You need something better than those rags, – he said, his tone halfway between gruffness and care.

Sika frowned, but followed.

The merchant, a plump matron with the voice of a festival bell, spread her wares.

– Something sturdy, – Sika said. – I’ll be working in it.

The woman offered her a heavy cloth in deep red, nearly burgundy.

– Strong, washes well—and lovely on someone shaped like you, dear.

Sika brushed her fingers across the fabric.
Nodded once.

– Good. We’ll take it.

Vilk, meanwhile, picked up a lighter red cloth, embroidered in faint gold.

– And this, – he said, offering it. – For when you’re not working. You’ll need something that shows who you are.

She looked skeptical. Then softened.

– All right. But only because it’s pretty.

They paid. Loaded the cloth into saddlebags.

As they rode from the city, Sika looked at him sideways.

– I never thought I’d say this, Vilk… but I like your soft heart. Even when you try to hide it.

He barked a laugh—short, real.

– Don’t get carried away. It’s just cloth.

– Not just cloth, – she murmured. Her eyes turned toward the horizon.
Toward the manor rising again in the distance.
– It’s more than that.

The sun dipped lower.
Copper light gilded the fields. Roofs glowed like burnished bronze.

Sika rode contentedly, bundles by her side.
The simple red dress.
Leather aprons. Work shirts. Trousers.

Nothing grand.
But all hers.

– Now I’m ready, – she said. – Maybe your world isn’t so strange after all.

Vilk gave a small smile.

– Don’t get used to it. Tarnów’s a village. Wait till you see Kraków.

– One thing at a time, – she said, lifting her face to the light.
– First we stand. Then we rise. Then... we take the world.

Vilk chuckled.

And for once—didn’t argue.

The ride back was slow.

Fields glowed. The air smelled of grass and ash and coming rain.

As they rode into the courtyard, something stirred inside him—quiet. Unfamiliar.

Not dread.

Not rage.

Something smaller.
Stronger.

A dangerous thing.

Belonging.

– We’re home, – he said under his breath.

Sika heard.
Smiled softly.

– Yes.
We’re home.

**

The following days passed in calm.

Wounds—of flesh and soul—began to heal, slowly, without ceremony.
The manor became a place of quiet rhythm: warm meals, deep sleep, the scent of fresh linen, the creak of floorboards at dusk.
Even laughter returned now and then—brief, unexpected.
Not joy, perhaps, but something close enough to pass for it.

Vilk and Sika let themselves breathe.
Let the tension bleed out of their bones.

And then—

The stillness broke.

Hoofbeats.
Distant at first, then louder.
Measured. Heavy. Certain.

Jan returned as the sun sank toward the horizon, the sky painted in strokes of amber and bruised rose.
He rode alone. Dust clung to him like ash. And though the road had clearly worn him down, there was something upright—almost defiant—in the way he dismounted and straightened his coat.

Sika glanced over once, then returned to helping a maid carry buckets to the kitchens.

Vilk stepped forward, slow and wordless.

Jan shook the dust from his collar.

– How was the road? – Vilk asked.

– Long. And unkind. – Jan’s voice carried weariness, but also a strange calm.
– But the matter in Kraków is settled. Quietly. No names spoken. No inquiries made.

He allowed a small smile.

– Perhaps it’s for the best.

Vilk gave a slow nod.

– You look lighter. Like a man who left something behind.

– Perhaps I did, – Jan murmured. – Come. Let’s eat. Food first. Answers after.

They gathered in the great hall.
The long oak table stretched from one wall to the next, scarred and stained, older than any of them. Candles flickered alongside oil lamps, throwing restless shadows across stone.

Outside, the wind passed through the gardens like a whisper trying not to be heard.

Jan looked up from his plate, eyes tired but warm.

– My friends, – he said slowly, his tone steady. – I owe you my life. What happened in that tavern... I will not forget. Repaying such a debt is no easy task. But I intend to try.

Vilk stared into the flame of a candle.

– We’re not here for repayment. I did what had to be done.

Sika’s mouth curved slightly.

– Still. Your help would mean something. We’ve been thinking about staying. Opening a place. A tavern... or something with teeth.

Jan paused, spoon halfway to his lips. He studied them both.

– A tavern, hm. Tarnów has its share. But there’s always room for courage.

He leaned back, pipe between fingers, thinking.

– Though the city council’s been restless. They want to regulate pleasure houses. Say they’re too close to the market. Tarnów’s not Kraków. They still pretend respectability matters.

Sika shrugged.

– All we need is a roof and a crowd. Let them gossip. A zamtuz suits us just fine.

Jan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

– There is an old manor. Outside Tarnów. Abandoned. Half-rotten. Said to be cursed. The council would pay to be rid of it. Remote, but close enough to draw traffic. Locals whisper of ghosts. Blood on the stones. A tragedy, they say.

– Then maybe it’s meant for us, – Vilk murmured.

– Perhaps, – Jan said. Then he gave Vilk a longer look.
– You spoke of other paths. You still mean to offer yourself for the post?

Vilk nodded.

– Executioner. If there’s no better way to serve.

Jan’s gaze grew heavy.

– Tarnów’s had no hangman. They bring one from Biecz—it costs. But know this: the post brands a man. Forever.

Vilk’s jaw tightened.

– I’ve already been branded. If this gives me purpose, I’ll take it.

The fire snapped quietly between them. Sika and Vilk exchanged a look—brief, but solid.

– It’s a hard road, – Jan said softly. – I hoped for better.
You, Vilk… you carry yourself like a man of blood. And you, Sika… you could run a gentler trade.

Sika chuckled, low and dry.

– That world never wanted us. My companion chose his path long ago.
The dark follows him.
And we’ve stopped running.

Jan exhaled slowly. Filled his cup again.

– The city needs a steady hand. There’s law, but no one left to carry it out. Still...
do you know what that life will cost you?

Vilk didn’t flinch.

– I’ve lived in shadow for years. I kill. I’ve killed.
If this makes it mean something—no, I’m not sorry.

Jan looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

– Grim. But necessary. I’ll speak to the council.

He paused. His fingers drummed once on the table.

– You could still choose another way, you know.

– I’m done choosing, – Vilk said. – A roof. A meal. Enough.

Jan leaned back. The fire caught his face in gold and smoke.

– Then I’ll go to Tarnów at first light. I’ll speak for you.
Tell them you’re willing. And that the lady requires a property. If they’re smart, they’ll listen.
And if they pry... I’ll remind them who owes what.

Vilk pushed his cup aside.

– This isn’t about debt. Just survival.

– You’re not running from anyone, are you?

– Only from ourselves, – Vilk said quietly.

A silence settled over them.
Not heavy—just deep.

They ate the rest of the meal in that hush. The fire, the wind, the shifting of old wood above.

Jan rose after a time, straightening his coat.

– Rest tonight. Both of you. Tomorrow, I’ll show you the manor. You’ll want to see it before you decide.
And I’ll spend the night finding the right words for those council bastards.

His voice dropped.

– It’s no easy thing, speaking for those who walk in shadow. But I’ll try.

He bowed his head once, then turned and left, his coat brushing the stone as the dark took him.

Vilk and Sika sat a while longer.
The candles burned low. The lamp flickered and hissed.
Only the sound of wind and the deep ache of stillness remained.

– He means well, – Sika murmured, her finger circling the rim of her cup. – But he doesn’t understand. There’s no going back for us.
This isn’t darkness.
It’s our shadow.
And we know how to live in it.

Vilk glanced her way. The candlelight caught in his eyes—faint, flat.

– Maybe.
But I still look for light.
Not to be forgiven. Just... to make it count.
Blood’s going to flow either way. I’d rather it belong to those who’ve earned it.

Sika moved slightly. Her bare foot found the stone floor.
Her posture changed—not soft, but sure.

– That’s why this fits.
We’re not lying to ourselves anymore.

Her gaze met his—clear, strong, without apology.

– I don’t want to run.
I want to live by my rules.
And if I’m being honest... I like it.
Maybe more than I should.

Vilk looked at her for a long time.
Then nodded.

– That’s why you’re still here. You don’t flinch.

– Why flinch? – she said, smiling with something sharp beneath it.
– It’s our game.
Our rules.

He didn’t argue.

When darkness becomes part of you, there’s no use chasing light.
You just learn how to see inside it.

– Maybe you’re right, – Vilk said at last, his mouth tugging into a crooked smile.
– Who’d ever understand us better than we do?

A creak from the beams above. A whisper from the corridor.
The night listened. But it did not intrude.

– Let’s get some sleep, – Sika said, rising. She ran her fingers through her hair. – Tomorrow’s another mess waiting to happen. Maybe it’ll fall into place. Or apart.

– Or apart, – Vilk echoed.

They rose.

A servant stepped from the shadows to light their way. The house dimmed behind them.

In the pale wash of moonlight, they shared a glance.

No promise.
No vow.

Only understanding.

Then they parted—each disappearing into their room.
Leaving the hall, the candle, and the night to whatever fragile peace remained.

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Morning came softly, veiled in mist.

The manor sat quiet beneath a pale sky. Sunlight crept across the windows, casting slow-moving shadows on the floors and walls.
Somewhere inside, life stirred: the scrape of broom bristles on wood, the clatter of bowls, the rhythmic thump of a cleaver striking fresh meat.
The world was waking.

Sika rose slowly, stretching beneath the linen like a cat in a sunbeam.
She felt lighter than she had in weeks—still bruised, still wary, but breathing deeper.
No fear clutched her chest. No tension snapped across her shoulders. Not for now.

Vilk had been awake since before dawn.
He always was.

When she stepped into the courtyard, hair still damp from a quick wash, he was already waiting there—quiet, still, present.
So was Jan.

– Good morning, my friends, – Jan greeted, voice calm, manner easy. – I’ve business in Tarnów today. The council, the matter of the estate… and your position, Vilk.
– It won’t take long. A few hours. You’re welcome to enjoy the house in my absence.

– We won’t be in your way, – Vilk replied simply.

– I’m glad to hear it. – Jan smiled faintly, adjusting his gloves. – I’ll return before noon. Then, if strength allows, we’ll go see that manor I mentioned.

They exchanged farewells, quiet and brief.
Jan rode off at a measured pace, his horse disappearing into the mist like something out of a dream.

Sika lingered in the courtyard.
The morning held a strange peace—cool air, soft light, the scent of wet stone and early blooms.

Vilk found his bench beneath the great oak.
There he sat, a fresh piece of wood in one hand, his carving knife in the other.

He worked slowly, steadily. Not for speed or beauty. Just for rhythm.
The act grounded him.
Each stroke a breath.
Each shaving a memory falling away.

The branches stirred above him. The wind played through the leaves, knocking down droplets that landed cold on his skin.

Then—

A voice broke the silence.

He turned.

The boy was standing there again.

Small. Still. Watching.

The same one from days before.

Same pale eyes. Same solemn mouth. Same singlestick

in hand.

– Sir, – the boy said evenly. – Would you care for another bout?

Vilk looked at him a long moment.
He set aside his carving and stood.

– Since you insist... – he murmured, accepting the wooden weapon the boy offered.

It fit in his grip without effort.
Like it belonged there.

He adjusted his stance, flexing his shoulders, testing balance.

– What’s your name, boy?

– Jarosław, – came the soft reply.

They began.

At first, it was a slow rhythm.
Testing. Feeling.

But Vilk soon realized—this wasn’t a game.

The boy moved like water.
Precise. Intentional. Unhurried, but sure.

He struck with knowledge, not force.
And Vilk had to focus.

– Tell me, Jarosław... – he asked between parries – how do you know my name?

The boy didn’t answer at once.
Then, calm as before:

– Lady Marza told me. She whispers things sometimes.

The name stirred something behind Vilk’s ribs.

He blocked the next strike, narrowed his eyes.

– And what else does she whisper?

Jarosław smiled, faintly. Almost teasing.

– That one should always be careful with strawberries.

Vilk blinked.

– Strawberries?

– Mm. – The boy moved again, quick and low. – They’re not ripe yet. Pull them too early, and they’ll only be sour.

He pivoted and swung. Vilk had to step aside.

The boy’s tone was playful—but underneath it, something hummed. Something old.

Vilk pressed forward.
The boy answered with a move he hadn’t expected—a devil’s quarte, elegant and rare.
Vilk caught it just in time. His breath sharpened.

The boy lowered his weapon.

His expression shifted.
Older. Still.

– Thank you, Master Vilk, – he said quietly.
– But remember… in the end, the light always comes.

Vilk stopped moving.

The words hit him differently. Not a lesson. Not a game.
A thread pulled taut in his chest.

– What did you say your name was?

The boy turned away.

– Jarosław, – he said again. Then vanished behind the hedges like a shadow returning to silence.

Vilk stood in the damp grass, singlestick still in hand.

Above, the oak branches whispered in the wind.

Somewhere distant, a crow called.
The air felt thicker somehow. The moment had shifted the light.

He looked down.

The carving he’d left behind still sat on the bench.
A hawk, not yet finished. The wings were missing.

He picked up the knife again. Tried to focus.
But the words wouldn’t leave him:

In the end… the light always comes.

Was it a child’s dream?
A warning?

Or a truth that lived deeper than reason?

The rest of the day unfolded quietly.

Sika read beneath the eaves, lounging in a patch of sun.
Vilk kept to himself.
The memory of the boy lingered like a taste you can’t name.

Then—

Hoofbeats.
Steady. Familiar.

Jan returned.

– How have you fared? – he called as he dismounted.

– Well enough, – Vilk answered. – Your hospitality serves us better than we deserve.

They ate outdoors—a simple meal of bread, cheese, roasted roots.

The sun hung low.

Vilk turned to Jan after a while.

– That boy. Jarosław. Who is he?

Jan paused.

– Ah. That one.

He looked over his shoulder, toward the garden paths.

– Strange child. Stared at the sun too long once. Lost his sight. Blind now, mostly. But he sees more than most. I took him in. His mother worked here, years ago. He’s... special.

– Special how?

Jan chuckled softly.

– People say he sees the world as it truly is. That when he closes his eyes, he dreams in prophecy. That the crown of the sun burns behind his lids.

He waved a hand.

– Folktalk. But the truth? The boy understands things no child should.
And eyes aren’t always what you need to see.

Vilk said nothing.

He looked out across the hills, where the sun bled gold into the sky.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, like a thread pulled taut—

In the end… the light always comes.

He didn’t know if it was a promise.

Or a warning.

But it stayed.

Like fire that refused to die.

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The wind shifted as they rode away.

Behind them, the manor stood still—its tall windows catching the last light, turning the ruin into something almost holy.
Not redeemed, not cleansed—only seen. A thing no longer hidden.

Vilk glanced back once. The colors from the stained glass still shimmered faintly, even from the road.
Sika didn’t look back. She rode forward with the quiet conviction of someone who had already begun building something inside her mind.

They returned to Jan’s estate as dusk thickened around them.
The servants had prepared a modest supper.
No one spoke much. No one needed to.

Later that night, Vilk sat alone beneath the oak.
The stars flickered behind a veil of drifting clouds.
In his hand, the carving was finally taking form—a hawk now, wings unfurled, head turned sharply east.

He did not finish it.

Instead, he stared toward the forest.

There was something there.

A hush, heavier than before.
Not a threat. Not a warning.
Just… waiting.

He didn’t move until Sika stepped into the moonlight beside him, wrapped in a worn shawl.

— You think it’ll hold? — she asked, her voice barely above the rustle of leaves.

Vilk didn’t answer right away.

— It doesn’t need to, — he said finally. — We’ll make it.

Sika nodded, then sank to sit beside him.

They said nothing for a long while.
Then:

— I felt something in there, — she murmured. — In the manor. Like... like it was watching us. Judging.
She hesitated.
— And then it stopped. Like it decided to let us in.

— Not let, — Vilk said. — Just... didn’t resist.

Sika tilted her head, studying him in the dark.

— You’re not afraid?

Vilk shook his head once.

— I’ve walked through worse things than stone and memory. If ghosts still haunt that place, they’ll learn to live with us. Or move aside.

She gave a small smile.

— Or join us.

A silence settled again, deeper than before.
Sika leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. Her warmth bled through the shawl.

— I’ll make the taproom glow, — she said, eyes distant. — Candles, lanterns, lace curtains, a proper hearth. No more cold girls in green dresses waiting in alleyways.
She breathed out.
— There’ll be music. Laughter, if we’re lucky.

— And blood, — Vilk added softly.

— Maybe. But not for nothing. Never again for nothing.

The stars glinted through breaks in the clouds, silver needles in black velvet.
The wind sighed in the branches above them, as though the oak itself was listening.

Sika’s voice came again, softer now.

— You think it matters? That we try?

Vilk looked up at the night sky.

— No one else will. So yes... it matters.

A beat passed. Then two.

— Then I’ll try with you, — she whispered.

Vilk didn’t move. But a breath left him that had been trapped for years.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say anything at all.
He just sat there beside her, with the carving in his hand, the stars overhead, and the feeling that—for once—the shadows around them might finally be still.

Even just for a little while.

Morning came quietly, as if careful not to disturb the calm they both needed.

Moisture clung to the wooden beams of the inn, and the first pale light slipped through the shutters. The fire had nearly died—just a thread of smoke curling lazily beneath the low ceiling.

Vilk woke earlier than usual. His head still carried the soft weight of last night’s drink, a dull haze echoing somewhere behind his eyes. Not pain—just a slow, pulsing fog.

He stretched, propped himself up on one elbow, and glanced toward Sika.

She lay curled in her cloak, breathing steady. For a moment he wondered if she was asleep—or only pretending.

Her eyes moved slowly around the room, checking that everything remained in place. Her thoughts weren’t on the night before. Not really. Whatever echo the revel had left in her, she let it be—acknowledging it, but not holding on.

She pushed herself upright, ran her fingers through her hair, and stood without hurry.

Vilk did the same. No words passed between them.

– Morning – she muttered, sitting at the edge of the bed and rubbing her neck.

– Morning – Vilk answered, his voice rough, still marked by sleep and smoke.

There was no awkwardness between them.

Or if there was, it didn’t stay long enough to matter.

Maybe, for a heartbeat, something had slipped out of their control the night before—but it was over now. Life had surprised them before. It would again.

– We eat, then move – Vilk said, slinging his belt over one shoulder.

– Mhm – Sika replied, tightening the strap at her hip.

They went about their tasks without needing to speak.

Vilk checked the gear, packed what needed packing, made sure the waterskin hadn’t leaked. Sika turned to the food: a bowl of bread and cheese sat waiting on the table, and near the hearth, the last scraps of meat had dried in the low heat.

They ate in silence.

But it was the kind of silence that belonged to mornings—simple, unburdened.

Vilk leaned on his forearm, eyes on the faint flames. Sika, focused on her meal, glanced up from time to time, but asked no questions.

– Long road ahead? – she asked finally, chewing the last of her bread.

– About half a day to the first stop – Vilk replied, lifting his cup. – We’ll see after that.

– Weather’s good. Should make it easy. – She checked her pack without looking at him.

Vilk nodded.

Routine. Familiar. They didn’t need much more than that.

A few minutes later, they were both on their feet, finishing the last of the preparations.

The horses waited outside, already saddled.

Vilk tightened the girths. Sika gave the packs one final check.

No words, no ceremony.

They mounted and rode off without looking back.

The road would take care of the rest.

Share

The road was calm, the hours passing unhurriedly.
Sunlight filtered softly through the trees, and the forest hummed with birdsong and the quiet rustle of leaves.
Both of them had loosened up; from time to time they traded light remarks, and the air between them was far easier than it had been that morning.

Sika sighed quietly and glanced at Vilk from the corner of her eye.
She’d been thinking about it since morning—maybe all through the night. It wouldn’t leave her alone.
She pressed her lips together, ran her fingers through a strand of hair, hesitating. She wasn’t sure whether to start the conversation—but she had to.

– Vilk? – she asked softly.
– Hm? – he answered, eyes still on the road.
– Listen... about last night... – she hesitated, choosing her words. – I wanted to apologize.

Vilk frowned slightly. He didn’t look at her, but the tension around his eyes, the small shift in his jaw, said enough.

– You don’t have to. Nothing happened – he said evenly, but his voice lacked conviction.
– But I want to. – Her voice grew firmer. – I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to offend you. I thought... maybe you wanted it too...

She trailed off. The doubt in her voice wasn’t for show.
Vilk could feel it—her trying to trace the moment again, searching herself for blame.
He didn’t want her to.

And before he could stop himself, he said it.

– I did.

It came out sharp, sudden. Truth unfiltered.

Sika blinked, sitting a little straighter in the saddle.
Silence fell—only hooves and the soft wind in the trees between them.

Vilk felt the flush rise. He hadn’t meant to say it that way. But now it was there, and there was no taking it back.

– Then... why? – she asked, quiet, watching him.

Vilk exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck.

– The aurochs – he began. – That was on my family’s coat of arms.

She waited. He rarely spoke like this.

– I was raised on honor. Codes, loyalty. Bloodlines, titles, old names. I was supposed to live a certain way. Be someone.
But things changed. What I did... what I became... I don’t know how to make peace with that. I stopped being who I was meant to be.
Now I just... exist.

His voice was low, weighted.

Sika looked down. For a while she said nothing.

Then:

– So it wasn’t about me – she said softly.

Vilk shook his head.

– No. Not at all.
It was never about you.
It’s just... when I think about what I’ve done, what I’ve been... I feel it in my bones. And I didn’t want you to think it was your fault.
I’m sorry.

He looked at her, eyes steady.

– You’re attractive, Sika. You know that. You’ve got a fire that pulls people in. It wasn’t rejection.

She watched him a moment longer, then let out a dry, quiet laugh.

– So you do find me attractive.

Vilk rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching.

– Stop.

– The question is... could you handle me?

Vilk glanced sideways and smirked faintly.

– Maybe one day you’ll find out.

Sika laughed, gave him a light punch on the arm.
The tension broke like a thread cut clean.

The road wound on—rolling hills, packed earth, sun streaking through the trees.
Vilk rode slightly ahead, scanning the landscape. He knew these lands—fields, shrines, thin woods.
Each shadow had meaning.

Sika followed behind, eyes more on him than the path.

– You sure this is the right direction? – she asked, squinting into the light.
– We’re near Kraków – Vilk replied. – Closer to cities. More people, more rumors. But also more eyes. Royal offices. Oversight.
Here, an executioner needs papers—not just a blade.

– So you don’t mind being one?

– I mind doing it for pay. I mind doing it because someone else says so.
I do it when there’s no one else who can. Or will.
Not for respect. Not for gold. Just to make sure the blood has weight.

Sika nodded slowly.

They passed through a thinning patch of forest.
To the side, water shimmered—a quiet channel or forgotten stream, still and silver in the light.

Vilk reined in.

– Rest?

Sika dismounted with a quiet groan, stretched her back.
She walked to the water’s edge, knelt, and splashed her face.

Vilk sat on a log, watching the trees. Calm, but alert.

– Many people here? – she asked.
– Traders. Soldiers. Cutthroats. It’s a trade route, not wilderness.
– I used to think crowds meant safety. – She looked at him. – Maybe I should pay more attention to where we’re going.

– You take care of your part. I’ll take care of mine. That’s what I’m here for.

Evening crept in slow and golden.
They rode on.

That night passed quietly—in a modest roadside inn, with steady firelight and the scent of smoke and stew.

By morning, they were already on the move again.

The air was crisp. Dew glistened in the fields.
Their conversation flowed easily—light, practical.

Vilk spoke of the roads ahead. Of places worth stopping, and those best skipped.

By afternoon, they reached a larger tavern—busier than most.
Wagons lined the yard. The smell of meat, the press of voices, thick smoke curling under the eaves.

– Now this is something else – Sika murmured, scanning the crowd.

– Welcome to real life – Vilk said.

He didn’t say it lightly.

And neither of them knew—yet—just how right he was.

**

The tavern throbbed with life.
From the doorway came the thick scent of smoke, beer, and roasted meat, tangled with the damp smell of straw, wet cloaks, and human sweat.
Voices overlapped in chaotic bursts—some drawn-out and slurred, others quick and sharp, full of emotion from people who spoke too much, yet hoped no one was truly listening.

Vilk and Sika paused just past the threshold, eyes sweeping the room. There were more than twenty people inside.
Some wore their intent openly—on their faces, in their posture. Others needed to be watched longer.

At one table sat nobles—loud, theatrical in gesture, their faces still young but already softening under the weight of wine and vanity.
Across the room loomed brutes—huge, silent men with knives and hand-axes at their belts, not as a threat, but as a reminder: we know what they’re for.
And off to the side, away from the noise, two women—the older one hollow-eyed with weariness, the younger alert, her smile sharp enough to slice between warmth and mockery depending on price.

– Pick a spot – said Vilk, not looking at her. – I’ll get the beer.

Sika slipped between the tables, choosing a place where they could see the room without drawing attention.
Vilk made for the counter, where a thick-set innkeeper wiped the wood with a stained rag.

– Two beers, good man – said Vilk, laying down a coin. – And something to eat.

The innkeeper raised a brow.

– Two coins for the beer. Food makes it three.

Vilk nodded.

– And lodging?

– Six coins for a single bed. Ten for a chamber—locked, private, no others.

Vilk gave a slow nod but didn’t pay yet. He took the mugs and a bowl of meat, then returned to Sika’s table.

– Well? – she asked, reaching for her drink.

– There’s a room. We’ll see if it’s worth staying.

They drank.

Sika watched the crowd as always—but something was different.
Vilk’s presence sharpened her perception. His gaze didn’t just observe—it taught. It invited her to look properly.

– See them? – he murmured, eyes resting on a group of young nobles trying far too hard.

– Full of themselves – she said. – Convinced everyone listens, even when no one asked them to speak.

Vilk smirked faintly.

– Raised to believe the world owes them. Wealth gives them the right to make noise, but not to mean anything.

Her eyes moved on—to the hulking men in the corner, to the ones whispering near the window, to the solitary noble by a pillar with a severe face. Their eyes crossed once or twice, without clear intent.

– That one’s different – she murmured. – Doesn’t fit here.

Vilk nodded.

– He knows how to behave. People divide into those who want to be seen—and those who know when to watch.

A pause settled between them, though the tavern kept pulsing around them.
The women near the door scanned the crowd.
Drunkards laughed.
Mercenaries whispered.
Vilk chewed his meat. Sika sipped her beer.
It wasn’t idle talk—it was a lesson.

– Tell me – she said suddenly. – What are your feasts like?

Vilk raised a brow.

– Like everything in this country – he muttered. – Grand and brutal. Sometimes glorious, sometimes stupid. Often both.

Sika smirked, nodding toward the nobles arguing as if they ruled kingdoms.

– Then the night’s only begun.

Vilk nodded once.

Smoke curled thick in the air, lit by the glow of oil lamps and the heat of the hearth.
The room smelled of wet timber, burning tobacco, and incense meant to mask sweat and spilled liquor.

Vilk drained his mug, leaned back, and watched the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

Sika waited.
He slid the empty cup toward her.

– Your turn. Let’s see how you do.

Sika scoffed, lifted her chin.

– Facile! – she muttered in French, with mock dignity.

Vilk smiled to himself as she moved through the crowd.

She threaded between tables, ignoring glances, crude remarks, slurred compliments.
She ordered the beers, took the mugs, and turned—
Just as a shoulder slammed into hers.

Beer spilled down her chest and onto the floor.

– Watch where you’re going, you black cow! – someone barked.

The voice was arrogant, drunk.

Before her stood Janus Kowalski—young noble, face flushed, eyes too bright for wine to be the only culprit.
His two companions, Jegor and Viktor, stood behind him, blank-faced and motionless.

Vilk was already on his feet—ready to move—
But another voice came first.

A tall, broad noble in a rich kontusz stepped forward.
His gaze froze Janus mid-motion.

– Milord! – he barked. – What are these manners? Is this an inn or a sty? In the Commonwealth, guests are honored, not mocked!

Janus narrowed his eyes, drawing breath for a retort—
But the older man grabbed his shoulder and leaned in.

His voice dropped. Cold steel on frost.

– Let this be a warning. You stand in the Commonwealth. Here, a guest is treated with respect. He who insults a lady spits on his own name. I suggest you think—before I make you to.

Then louder:

– You stink not of nobility but of gutter filth—of a boy who’s seen a puddle and thinks the world owes him for getting muddy.

The tavern held its breath.

Janus’s hand twitched toward his belt.
But his men didn’t move.
He yanked his arm free, cast Sika one last bitter look, and stormed back to his table.

The noble straightened. Turned to Sika. Bowed low.

– I beg your forgiveness, my lady – he said solemnly. – Jan is my name. It shames me that such offense happened under a roof where honor ought to rule.

Sika stayed silent for a breath, then gave a small nod.
He bowed again and returned to his seat—though his eyes lingered on her from time to time.

Vilk watched as she returned, set the mugs down, and exhaled.

– That’s why I don’t rush into places like this – he muttered. – Fine country. Questionable people.

The tavern began to breathe again.
Voices returned.
Jan, the noble, lit a pipe and vanished into the crowd.

Later, he returned—with a jug of mead and three cups.

He stopped beside them, gave a small bow—each gesture smooth, precise, never rushed.

– Forgive the intrusion – he said. – I felt the need to erase the bad taste left by that boy’s behavior. Fools like him stain what should be sacred. May I at least offer a proper drink in return?

Vilk looked to Sika.
She nodded once.

– Sit, sir – said Vilk. – Sweet drink in decent company never offends.

Jan bowed slightly over Sika’s hand—his lips barely brushing her skin. A gesture of formality, not flirtation.
Respect, woven tight into every word.

– My lady – he said quietly – few take time to appreciate what nature gives us.
Your color... is not night to me.
It’s oak—resilient, enduring, rooted in time.
It’s soil—source of all life, silent strength beneath everything we build.
No one should be called less for wearing the hues of the earth.

– For others... a black cow – Sika murmured.

Jan lifted his glass.

– Youth – he said. – They chase life but don’t yet know its weight. They sniff their powders, bark like dogs, and think they’re men.

Vilk let out a faint snort.

– Not everyone looks past the cage of their own purse.

Jan exhaled a stream of smoke—violet-tinged, sweet, rising like morning mist.

He passed the pipe toward Vilk.

– Only for those who know how to listen.

Then, to Sika:

– Your beauty isn’t the kind that fades with firelight.
It’s the kind that endures.
The kind that doesn’t ask to be noticed—because it doesn’t need to.

Sika felt warmth rise in her cheeks.
She’d heard many words before—curiosity, suspicion, desire.
But never this.
Strength. Respect. Dignity.

– Then let’s drink – she said softly – to words worth remembering.

Jan raised his cup.

– And to those who still dare speak them.
The world forgets truth too easily.
But the oak remembers.
The soil remains.
And what’s divine never asks to be praised—it simply is.

The tavern buzzed around them.

Voices, light, warmth.
But for the three at the table, time moved slower.

Mead. Smoke. The scent of spice and old wood.
And a night that would stretch longer than most.

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The flame of the oil lamp cast a soft glow across the table, tracing golden lines over drifting smoke that curled lazily around the cups, their hands, and their faces.
Jan took a slow sip of mead and leaned back on the bench, studying Vilk and Sika with a look that held no rush. The night had slowed.
No more raucous toasts, no need to shout over the crowd.
Their words moved like a river finally reaching open ground.

– I like these moments – Jan said at last, letting out a thin ribbon of smoke. – When a man can just sit, drink, talk. No rush, no noise from a world chasing after things it can’t even name.

– They’re rare – Vilk murmured, his gaze fixed on the fire. – That’s what makes them worth something.

Sika ran her fingertips along the rim of her cup, her eyes drifting over the room—faces, gestures, the invisible lines between them.
When she spoke, it was slower than usual.

– Doesn’t matter where you come from – she said. – In places like this, everyone’s the same.

Jan smiled faintly.

– Ah, my lady... not quite true. If that were so, we wouldn’t still be fighting our endless quarrel between West and East.

– So what of it?

– Only that Poland is like this table – he tapped the wood. – The West lays its gold and ideals on one side, the East its chaos and color on the other. Each convinced his is finer, purer, truer.

Vilk raised his cup slightly.

– Yet the table stays the same.

—Exactly,— Jan nodded. —Here the worlds converge.
The West carries with it structure — parliaments, codes, the weight of written law.
The East carries breath and movement — tradition older than kingdoms, the vast liberty of open lands where authority is personal, not written.
And we, poor souls, dwell where the wind from both sides collides, never letting us forget that we belong to neither entirely.

Sika’s gaze sharpened.

– And you think that’s a good place to be?

– The best – Jan lifted his cup again. – I think it’s the only place like it in the world.

Vilk drew slowly from his pipe, eyes half-closed.

– Maybe we’re not between them at all – he said. – Maybe they’re the ones stuck at the edges, staring at horizons they’ll never reach.
And we? We live here—where everything touches.

Sika tilted her head.

– So Poland’s a cauldron?

– A cauldron, a crossroads, a market square – Jan replied. – Every caravan leaves something behind.

A silence settled.
Not awkward—just honest. The kind born of firelight and reflection.
Outside, the wind slid its cold fingers across the windows. Inside, the warmth held.

The candle on their table burned low, its flame trembling, but no one minded.

Vilk traced the rim of his mug.

– Which is better? – he asked suddenly.

Jan looked at him.

– The West or the East?

Jan chuckled.

– What kind of question is that? That’s like asking which is better—day or night.

He raised his cup.

– Night can’t exist without day. Day without night means nothing. And between them? Dusk—the moment when you can’t tell who’s in charge.

– So our country is eternal dusk? – Sika asked, smiling faintly.

– No, my lady – Jan said. – It’s both dawn and dusk at once. Here, you find everything.

Vilk finished his mead and set the cup down.

– Sounds wise.

– Maybe – Jan shrugged. – But it’s not philosophy. It’s just life.

Silence again—comfortable now.

Sika took a slow sip, glancing at Vilk.
Jan smoked the last of his pipe, then pinched the ember out with his fingers.
No one hurried.

The three of them sat with words that wandered.
Like stones rolling through shallow water—never still, never in a rush.

Then Sika’s eyes shifted. A faint grin curled her lips.

– What is it? – Vilk asked, following her gaze.

At the far end of the room, where shadows gathered, a young woman—thin, heavily painted, smile honed like a knife—sidled up to Janus Kowalski.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve, her mouth shaped a sweetness he’d mistake for real.

Janus sat between two Rusyns—Jegor and Viktor.
Big, quiet. Not friends. Leash-bearers.

In one hand, Janus rolled red rowan berries—skins taut and glistening like bloodied marbles.
With the other, he tapped his dagger’s hilt against the table.
Each tap, timed with the crush of a berry.
Red powder smeared the wood.

He watched it all with the satisfaction of someone mistaking cruelty for charisma.

Jegor glanced at Viktor. Viktor shrugged.
Another tantrum. Another night.

The woman leaned in closer.

– Milord... so much strength in one hand.

Janus didn’t reply.
He drew a line of crushed powder off the table and sniffed it hard—too much, too fast.

– More than you think – he muttered, trying for menace, landing somewhere near parody.

The woman smiled. Calm. Distant.

– And what will you do with it?

Her voice coiled, soft and slow.
He heard interest.
His guards heard mockery.

Janus brushed back his hair. The movement was sloppy, theatrical.

– Maybe you should find out.

– Maybe I should.

– Maybe you should.

They hovered there, like gamblers bluffing at the same table.
Then the dagger slammed again.
Another berry. Another stain.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth.

Vilk watched in silence.
Jan sighed.

Then, almost to himself:

– Youth...

Their table fell still.

Jan’s eyes stayed on Janus—not with anger, not with judgment.
Something heavier.

– There you have it – he said. – The promise of tomorrow.
Men who should build this country, and instead chew through it like worms.

Vilk raised a brow, said nothing.

– Honor – Jan continued, tasting the word. – Once it meant something. Once it set us apart from cattle.
Now it’s just a sound.
Spoken often. Understood rarely.

Sika tilted her head.

– So what do they live by now?

– Desire – Jan said. – For power, pleasure, control. Without the weight of consequence.
Everyone wants to take. No one wants to pay.

– And that troubles you? – Vilk asked.

– It troubles anyone who thinks beyond tomorrow morning.

Jan stared into the fire. His hand tightened around the cup.

– The world changes.
I used to believe power could protect virtue.
Now I see it feeds on it.
And when the ones who rule are ruled by nothing but greed—
This land will fall, just like any other.

Vilk stayed quiet.
Sika looked at him.

– And what about us?

– Us?

– We sit here, drink, talk about virtue. What about us?

Jan smiled crookedly.

– We’re like this smoke – he said, raising his pipe. – We exist until someone waves us away.

Outside, the night deepened.

The tavern carried on.
Beer flowed. Songs rose. Mugs clattered.
Laughter wrapped itself around curses like vines climbing a fence.

Vilk drained his cup.

Jan stood.

– Excellent mead. But a man should answer nature’s call.

Sika rolled her eyes.

– Such a noble declaration.

Jan grinned.

– Even when speaking of honor, one must still piss.

He disappeared into the crowd, pipe in hand.

Vilk watched him go, unmoving.

The night stretched.

Sika leaned back, spinning her empty cup between her fingers.
The air was thick—smoke, sweat, the fatty tang of meat drifting from the kitchen.

– He’s a good man – she said suddenly, not looking at Vilk.

Vilk didn’t answer.

– Maybe.

– Maybe? That’s all?

– Goodness is a matter of circumstance – he said. – You don’t judge a man by what he says at a table, but by what he does when he reaches for steel.

Sika smirked faintly.

– So you’re waiting for him to do something wrong?

– I’m waiting for him to show he’s human.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It breathed.

Music wandered through the air like a restless ghost.
The tavern pulsed.
Alive.
Awake.
Waiting.

****

Vilk felt it before he saw it.

Nothing moved.
No curtain stirred.
The hum of the tavern stayed the same.
No shadow crossed the wall. No cry split the air.

And yet—something was wrong.

He couldn’t have said what.
Only that something was coming.

His gaze swept the room.

It stopped—just for a heartbeat—on Janus.

The young noble hunched over the table, posture loose in a way that had nothing to do with calm.
Sweat shone on his temples. His breathing was shallow. He kept rubbing under his nose, trying to wipe away something that wasn’t there.

Hawkrowan berries.

On the table before him, red pulp smeared with beer stains and ash.
Jegor and Viktor didn’t look amused.
Grim as always—but now there was something else behind their eyes: weariness. Tension. Resignation.

Janus licked his teeth. Muttered something.

Jegor didn’t answer.

– Let’s go – Janus said suddenly, too loud.

Jegor sighed and stood.
Viktor followed, slower—the kind of slow that meant I already regret this.

Janus dragged a sleeve across his nose and staggered toward the door.

Vilk watched.
Didn’t like it.

But he had no reason to move.

Not yet.

Something twisted in his chest.
A tension he didn’t have a name for.

– I’m stepping out – he said.

Sika looked up, tilted her head.

– Just like that?

– Need air.

She arched a brow. Let him go.

Vilk stood, slung his cloak over his shoulders, stepped outside.

The night air hit him—cold, sharp, wet with the smell of earth and ash.
He drew in a breath.

Three steps.

Then—voices.

Rough. Colliding.

A pause.

Then—

– Fuck you, old man! – a voice cracked, high and shaking, strung too tight.

Steel.

Vilk ran.

A few strides—and there they were.

Jan, upright.
Hand on his sabre.
Janus—face flushed, shaking, eyes too wide.

Behind him, Jegor and Viktor.
Still. Silent. Unwilling.

Janus raised his blade.

– What, you scared?

– No – said Jan.

– Then fight, old man!

Jan adjusted his kontusz. Calm. Icy.

– Duels are forbidden – he said, voice cold enough to freeze wine. – And I won’t stain my steel for a brat still sucking his mother’s tit.

Janus grinned—cracked, twisted.

– Not milk, old man. Hawkrowan.

He wiped his nose.

That was when Vilk moved.

The yard went still.
Only the wind moved—sweeping dust, lifting ash.

Two centuries faced each other.
Jan—fury like a steel box, locked tight.
Janus—blood roaring, hands twitching, hollow pride spilling through every crack.

Vilk stayed back, watching, fists coiled.
Jegor and Viktor didn’t move.
Statues. Trapped in lives they didn’t ask for.

– Duels are forbidden – Jan said again. – And I won’t perform for a boy who can’t stand straight.

Janus laughed—raw, broken.

– Fuck you, old man! You play the wise man, but I know your kind!
You swagger through taverns, pretending you matter.

He puffed up his chest, breath coming in snorts.

– Do you even know who I am? Janus! Kowalski! Of those Kowalskis!

Silence.

– Of which? – Jan asked, like he was asking about spoiled cheese.

Janus blinked.

– Those! My father—he’s known to lords! To hetmans! To—

– Truly? – Jan cut in. Glacial. – Then hear this.
I am a hetman.
And I don’t give a damn fuck who your father is.

Silence thickened. Oil waiting for fire.

Jegor and Viktor stiffened.
Something flickered behind their eyes.

Vilk smiled. Thin. Mean.

Janus cracked.

His eyelids fluttered. His lips opened—then failed to speak.
And then, with all the fury of a boy with nothing left, he screamed:

– YOU OLD FUCK!

Steel flashed.

Chaos.

Jan moved once.
Block. Turn.
Hilt met jaw—crack—like splitting wood.

Janus reeled.

Jegor lunged.
Viktor followed.

But Vilk was already moving.

Jegor swung—a wide, brutal arc.
Vilk ducked. Close enough to feel the wind.
Then drove a punch straight into his chest.

Thud. Like a hammer into mud.

Jegor staggered. Didn’t fall.

Viktor rushed in.
Vilk pivoted, caught his arm—

Crack.
Viktor dropped to one knee, groaning.

Vilk didn’t wait.
Fist in the man’s hair. Knee to the face.

Red spray.
Teeth like stars scattering in the light.

Janus screamed—clutching his mouth.
Jegor roared louder.

The brute came again—fist like a boulder.
Vilk swayed aside. Felt it graze—metal in his mouth.

Good.
Damn good.

Jegor raised his arm again—
Vilk caught it. Twisted.

Jegor flew.
Crashing into barrels. Wood exploded.

Janus froze.

Too late.

Jan was already there.

Grabbed him by the collar.

Slap.
Sound like a whip.

Janus whimpered.

Slap.
Blood flew.

Then—

Glass shattered.

Hands grabbed Vilk from behind.
Too fast. Too late.

Jegor.
Dragging him backward—

Crash.

The tavern erupted.

Blood. Shouts. Violence.

Tables overturned.
Mugs burst.
A body hit the wall with a sickening thud.
Another folded under a boot to the ribs.

Vilk rose. Half-wild.
Eyes locked on the door.

Then—

– RUN! –

Janus’s shriek split the chaos.

No pride left.
Only panic.

– HORSES! GET FUCKING HORSES! WE’RE GETTING OUT!

Jegor and Viktor met eyes.
They’d waited for this.

They moved.

Janus stumbled.
Jegor caught him.

– Durak, stoj! – Jegor barked. – Ty ne hoditi—ty jezditi!

He threw the noble across a saddle like a sack of grain.

Janus flailed, choking on his own orders.

The horses turned.

Vilk moved—
Ready to tear them apart.

Then—

– TAKE THE BLACK WHORE! –

The words split the dark.

And that’s when Sika burst from the tavern.

Dust in her hair.
Blood on her cheek.
Eyes lit like fire.

She shoved through the brawl, searching—Vilk, Grym, anything.

And found him.

Their eyes locked.

One heartbeat.

Enough.

They moved.

– TAKE HER, GODDAMN YOU! – Janus again.

Jegor hesitated.

Just a second.

Then nodded.

His horse wheeled.
He rode past—arm out—

Closed around her throat.

Sika screamed.
Feet left the ground.
The world blurred—

Gone.

Vilk ran.

Too late.
Too fucking late.

Their shadows vanished into the trees.

He reached the doorway, lungs burning, vision pulsing.

Instinct screamed—chase.

But first—

Jan.

He found him slumped against the wall.
Hand to his ribs.
Blood on his fingers.

– You alive?

Jan looked up. Eyes blazing.

– Go – he rasped. – For God’s sake, go.

Vilk didn’t hesitate.

One glance back.

Broken tavern.
Groaning men.
Blood in the sawdust.
A curse whispered between shattered teeth.

No time.

He hissed—

And Grym moved.
Not like a dog.
Like something loosed from the dark.

Vilk followed.

Out into the night.
Into the trees.

And there—
There was no man anymore.
No Vilk. No warmth. No tavern.

Only the beast.
Only the hunt.

Only the storm that never strikes the same place twice—
But when it does?

Nothing survives.

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The forest tore past them in a blur—a mad, writhing dance of branches that cracked and buckled under the wind’s weight.

Hooves pounded the sodden ground in a violent rhythm, driving the riders through a darkness that clenched tight around them like the jaws of something ancient—waiting to bite down on fear, exhaustion, and flesh.

The horses snorted and strained, their breath steaming. The air pulsed, alert. The night itself seemed aware.

Something was coming.

Sika fought.
She wasn’t a prize.

Her body twisted hard, tense like a drawn bow.
Fists slammed into Jegor’s arm. Her nails tore at his sleeve. Her teeth searched for a place to sink in.

– Tiho, suka blyat’, tiho! – Jegor snarled, clamping her like iron tongs.

She kicked his thigh, rammed her elbow into his ribs, but Jegor might as well have been forged from stone. Unmoving. Cold.
Every blow she landed was a gust of wind striking a mountain.

And still—she didn’t stop.

Viktor spat into the road, as if to rid himself of the stench—of the forest, the night, the thing riding just behind them.

Then they felt it.

Not a sound. Not a shadow. Not even breath.

Just silence.

The forest froze.
The wind died.
Branches drooped as though afraid to sway.
Even the ground held its breath.

Then came the howl.

It wasn’t a beast’s cry.

It was lower. Deeper. Something ancient and wrong—like the earth itself had opened its dead heart and screamed.

Viktor’s hand shot to his weapon.
Jegor crushed Sika tighter, as if brute force could stop what was coming.

And then—he was there.

Vilk.

He didn’t emerge from the dark.
Didn’t step from the trees.

He simply was.

One heartbeat—nothing.
The next—him.

As if the void had coughed him up. As if the shadows themselves had tried to swallow something and spit it back out.

He stood in the middle of the path.
Unmoving.

And the air around him trembled.

His cloak swallowed the light—darker than the dark.
And beside him—Grym.

No longer just a beast.
Something older. Something blurred between fur and fog.

His outline shifted with every breath, smoke and sinew, presence and shadow.

His eyes gleamed faintly—as though they saw beyond this world, into things no human should behold.

And still—he didn’t move.

He simply waited.

The horses reared, screaming.
Pine needles burst from the ground in a panicked gust.

Jegor met Vilk’s eyes—and he knew.

No words were needed.

It was over.

Viktor spat again. Dry. Empty.

– My idjom, – Jegor rasped. – Poljak – tvój problem. Zabij, gri, hren ego znajet. Nas to nie kasajet. My hotim k doma. Na Rus’. Suke bierem.

Another thick spit.

– Tut nam ne nada. Polsha... hnoj, ne kraina.

Vilk didn’t move.
But the air thickened—like each word tore through the fabric of the world.

– To Rus’, then? – Vilk’s voice was soft, like steel on wet stone. – Which one? The Norse one—or the Mongol one?

Silence.

Jegor’s jaw clenched.

Viktor’s fingers brushed his hilt.
Instinct, not bravery.

– My hotim nie izsajem germanom, – Jegor muttered. – Po swojemu żyjem.

Vilk smiled.

Not like a man.

Like a sentence being passed.

– And that’s why we keep tearing each other apart. – His tone held no anger—only fact. – One bastard above the next. Never beside. Never enough. Always more.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Viktor spat again and shoved Sika from the saddle.

She hit the dirt hard. Rolled.
Discarded like refuse.

The brothers dismounted. Hands on axes.

Vilk looked at them.

No pity.

He took a step.

Not close.
He didn’t need to.

His eyes found Jegor’s—sharp. Final.
Behind him, the shadow stretched—rippling, coiling like oil brought to a boil.

Jegor flinched before his mind caught up.

And everything shifted.

– I won’t touch Janus – Vilk said. His voice rang like a drawn blade. – But I’ll watch what you do to him.

Janus staggered backward.
Whimpered.

Jegor turned.
Moved.

No hesitation.
No words.

He grabbed Janus like a sack of grain.

– What the fuck are you doing, you rusin idiot?! – Janus shrieked, his voice cracking under its own weight.

Jegor didn’t answer.

He drew his fist back—slow, precise—and slammed it forward.

Crunch.

The sound was sickening.
Teeth sprayed across the path like stones.

Blood flooded Janus’s chin.
The scream that followed didn’t sound human.

Viktor froze.
– Brat... szto ty delajesz?

Jegor didn’t speak.

His eyes were hollow.

As if watching himself from the bottom of a grave.

Behind him, Vilk’s shadow pulsed.

It thickened—whispering something no one should understand.

Then Jegor turned—on Viktor.

A snarl. A blur. Impact.

Viktor reeled. Swung wide.
Jegor slammed into him again. Fists like hammers.
Ribs cracked. Flesh split.

– How do you like it? – Vilk’s voice glided through the storm. – Brother against brother.

Grym barked.

Not a bark, not anymore.

A voice from something buried deep—something wrong—howling pain into the world.

The brothers crashed into the trees.

The forest screamed with them.

And then—Vilk moved.

His shadow rolled across the ground, vast and alive.

The air thickened around him.
Time slowed. Refused to pass.

His eyes glowed—not with flame, but judgment.

The judgment of the hunted. The wild. The old.

– For what you’ve done... – His voice fell like stones. – I wanted to rip you apart. Scatter what’s left to the wind.

He stepped closer.

The trees groaned.

– But no. – He was ice on iron. – You hate this land. You despise it...

The shadow unfurled—like arms.

– ...then you’ll stay here. Forever.

His hands didn’t strike.
They sank.

Not into flesh.

Into something deeper.

Their bodies jerked—like threads pulled tight, snapping from within.

Vilk’s shadow poured through them—into their cracks, their hollow places.
Into whatever soul still hid there.

Then—stillness.

No cries.

No deaths.

Just stopped.

Not chained.
Worse.

Cursed.

– That, – Vilk whispered, his voice fading like smoke, – will do.

******

Vilk collapsed.

The ground hit him like truth—sudden, brutal, without mercy.

Something inside had torn.
Not cracked.
Ripped.

A thousand pieces of him scattered—each one burning as it vanished.

Every breath felt like dragging molten lead into his lungs.
The earth pressed in.
The cursed soil beneath drank part of his soul—and kept it.

But the hunger remained.

Not hunger of flesh.
Something older.
Deeper.

An emptiness no food, no warmth, no mercy could ever fill.

It was the hunger to erase.
To scour the world clean of everything false, everything rotten.

Janus lay sprawled in his own blood.

Eyes glassy.
Body twitching.
Mouth opening and closing—begging for something that no longer existed.

No screams.

Only wet, broken sounds—
wheezing, choking, breath caught in blood.

The sound of a man too small to die properly.

Vilk moved toward him.

Slow. Relentless.

There was no triumph in him.
No satisfaction.
Only need.

A craving that had nothing to do with meat, or justice, or revenge.

It was a command—
ancient,
pure,
merciless:

Destroy what is unclean.

He stood over Janus.

Looked down into his eyes.

The terror there was almost innocent—simple, pure, final.

Janus knew.

He knew nothing would be forgiven.

Vilk leaned in.

And sank into him.

Not like a man.
Not like a predator.

Like a curse.

His mouth met flesh.

But what he devoured wasn’t the body—
it was the essence.

The reek of the soul itself.

Every drop of blood burned with memory.

Filth.

Deals made in dark corners.
Coins passed with grins.
Laughter covering screams.
The stench of wine and cowardice.
The joy of cruelty.

Each swallow brought more—

Faces disappearing down alleys.
Women mourning what was stolen.
Men bent beneath Janus’s greed.
Gold slipped under tables.
Knives. Contracts. Bribes.
Kisses bought.
Truths sold.

Vilk’s head throbbed.

The corruption crawled under his skin—black oil seeking a home.

He tore free with a shudder, lungs heaving.

Jegor and Viktor stood still.

Hollow.

Empty.

Whatever made them human had already been carved away.

They watched like shadows witnessing their own extinction.

Behind them—Sika.

Frozen.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry out.
Only watched.

Her chest rose and fell too fast—
but she made no sound.

She’d seen it all.

And worse—she understood.

She looked into Vilk’s eyes—
and found nothing human left.

The man was gone.

Grym approached.

His eyes met Vilk’s—not with loyalty.
With contempt.

And recognition.

Then he lowered his head—

and bit.

Not wild.

Deliberate. Ritual.

Flesh peeled from bone.
Slow. Precise.

Sika’s breath hitched.
Her voice cracked, raw and jagged.

– What the fuck... was that? – she said. – What the fuck just happened?

Vilk looked at her.

Eyes hollow.
Voice a rasp of ash and iron.

– I don’t think you’ll be ordering beer anytime soon.

Silence.

Not peace.

Judgment.

The forest held its breath.
The night curled inward—

and swallowed them whole.

The mist still clung to the earth, drifting low between the trees, heavy and unwilling to yield to the morning sun. It soaked into the undergrowth, wrapped itself around roots and rough bark, and spread across the forest floor like smoke, blurring the edges of everything. What was near blended with what was receding into shadow. The air hung damp, thick with the scent of wet wood and decomposing leaves. Beneath it all lingered the faint, acrid trace of a dying fire’s ash.

The forest still slept. Birds called hesitantly, one by one, uncertain whether morning had truly come. Somewhere in the thicket, something shifted quietly—and then that same motionless stillness returned, where night slipped into dawn.

Vilk opened his eyes. The waking came without a start—the body already knew the morning: the chill creeping under the cloak, the damp clinging to skin, the belt pressing against his hips. All of it familiar. Only this time, something was different. He felt a presence—sudden, foreign, sensed beneath the skin like the coming of weather.

He wasn’t used to that feeling.

For years, he had woken with only Grym. The dog’s breath, his movements, his sleep—those belonged to Vilk’s world. They were part of him. That was natural.

But this… this was warmth.

Not the self-contained heat of a fire. Not the instinctive closeness of an animal.

Something else.

Human.

He turned his head.

Sika lay a few paces away, wrapped in a cloak, her face tucked into the crook of her arm. She breathed slowly, evenly. Not tense. Not like someone who kept watch even in her sleep—but like someone who, for once, could let herself sleep.

That was new.

A rough awareness stirred in him. Something had shifted.

Grym lifted his head and looked at him. He didn’t move, but his golden eyes gleamed, alert and silent.

Just a glance was enough.

„So now we’re a pack? “

Vilk exhaled and turned away. He had no answer.

He rose with the cautious movements of habit. Buckled his belt. Pulled his cloak tighter. Morning wasn’t for thinking. It was for doing.

He didn’t wake her.

There was no need.

He stepped into the forest.

He felt no hunger—not after the night before. The blood still moved warm beneath his skin, slow and thick with the breath of those he’d killed. Grym moved at his side, calm and loose, his instincts satisfied for now.

But Sika was human.

And humans needed to eat.

Vilk didn’t dwell on it. He simply moved. He listened. Among roots and moss, he found a nest tucked beneath a cluster of damp branches. He reached in. The eggs were warm.

Good.

He didn’t think about doing it for her.

He didn’t allow himself that thought.

When he returned to the camp, the mist still lay heavy, though it was beginning to lift toward the treetops. The fire had gone out; only a few embers glowed faintly. Vilk crouched near a stone, pressed his hand against it.

Still warm.

Good.

He stirred the embers, added a few dry twigs, and waited for the flames to rise again. The crack of the fire cut through the silence. Heat spread across his skin. He lifted the stone and set it among the flames, letting it heat slowly.

He cracked the eggs carefully over the smooth surface. The whites began to thicken, a thin wisp of smoke rose, carrying the scent of food.

Then Sika stirred.

At first, she stretched lazily, not yet aware of the world. She inhaled, shivered faintly at the chill, murmured something incoherent, coughed, and opened her eyes.

She looked at the fire, at the eggs hissing softly on the hot stone, at the thin smoke winding between them.

At him.

She was still wary—that guarded look of someone waking in a place not of her own. But the distance was beginning to soften.

She wiped her face with one hand, sat up, and drew her knees close.

– Smells better than anything I’ve eaten in months – she said finally, her voice still rough with sleep.

Vilk said nothing. There was no need.

He lifted the first piece from the stone and handed it to her on a scrap of leaf.

She took it without a word.

The day had begun.

The mist rose higher.

The fire crackled quietly, and the air filled with the scent of smoke, scorched fat, and damp earth. Moisture glistened on their skin, left behind by the dissolving fog.

Sika ate slowly—not with pleasure, but with purpose. Each bite was just a step forward. Food as fuel. No more, no less.

– We can’t just keep walking without a plan – she said suddenly, breaking the silence in which only wind and the faint crackle of embers had spoken.

Vilk didn’t look up.
– We can.

Sika raised an eyebrow.
– You can.

She set the rest of the egg down on the leaf and stretched, arching her back.
– I need something more.

Vilk turned the knife in his hand and slid it back into its sheath.
– Inn.

Sika smiled faintly.
– People.

Vilk looked at her.
– And what will you do with them?

She tilted her head.
– Make sure they do something for me.

There was something natural in her tone, something that required no further explanation.

– What exactly?

– Money. Shelter. Connections. – She shrugged. – Opportunities.

Vilk watched her carefully.
– Opportunities for what?

Sika leaned back, ran her tongue over her teeth as if weighing her words.
– For a better bargain.

Vilk didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t a question—it was a decision.

Sika understood the world—its trades, its rules—though she never played by any set for her. She might not yet know how to turn it into something greater, but she knew one thing: this time she would choose.

Not wait.
Not yield.

Vilk sighed.
– It’s not enough to see an opportunity. You have to know which ones you can take—and which will burn you.

Sika snorted.
– That’s what I have you for.

Vilk raised a brow.
– To explain the world?

Sika laughed softly, without mirth.
– The world? – she repeated, amused. – Vilk, I know the world all too well.

There was something in her eyes—a glint he couldn’t name—and he didn’t try.

– So what do you want me to explain?

– How to speak.

Vilk looked at her—not as someone who needed him, but as someone he was beginning to understand.

Sika was a quick study. The kind who felt things others had to be taught. She knew how to move. How to claim space. How to bend the world to let her pass. Survival wasn’t just strength. It was timing. Shape. The choice to appear harmless—or to bare teeth.

She didn’t need a teacher.

She needed a tool.

A language.

Vilk sighed, the sound of resignation.

– We’ll start with simple things – he said at last. – How to greet. How to ask. How to take.

Sika didn’t look impressed.
– I thought you’d start by teaching me to curse.

Vilk smiled faintly.
– That comes naturally.

– So?

Vilk studied her, gauging what use might come of it.
– Say: I want.

Sika frowned.
– Ayy-v...

– I want.

– Ayywoo...

– You stretch it too much. One breath – I want.

She moved her tongue, testing the shape of the sound.
– I wand.

Vilk nodded.
– Now: I want money.

Sika grimaced slightly but tried.
– I want... moo...

– Money.

– Moni...

Vilk rolled his eyes.
– Money.

Sika pressed her lips together.
– I want money.

It sounded stiff, but understandable.

Vilk lifted a brow.
– And that’s how it begins.

Sika rolled her eyes.
– It would be easier in French.

A flicker crossed Vilk’s eyes.
– You speak French?

Sika nodded.
– For years, it was the only language I spoke. I thought you already knew everything about me.

Vilk didn’t respond immediately.
– When I drink blood... I see fragments. They become part of me. But not all at once. I don’t know how it works.

Sika shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.
– I know some Spanish too. Enough to understand when someone talks to you thinking you can’t hear.

Vilk nodded, but something unreadable stirred behind his gaze.

Sika straightened a little in the saddle.
– These languages are different. In them, everything is soft, fluid. Spanish is water; French is silk. Words glide over the tongue—you don’t have to force them.

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.
– And Polish...? Polish is different.

Vilk raised a brow.
– Different?

Sika tilted her head.
– It’s... wolflike. Rough. Like blows. It doesn’t flow—it strikes. Every word has an edge.

Vilk shrugged.
– We don’t waste breath on ornament.

Sika fell quiet, thoughtful.
– And yet – she glanced sideways at him – for all its harshness, it’s alive. It breathes.

Vilk stared ahead, as if weighing her words.
– Because it’s a language that holds all truth about man.

Sika raised an eyebrow.
– And what’s that supposed to mean?

Vilk ran his hand over his cloak.
– That it contains everything. Fury and beauty. Purity and filth. You can blaspheme in it, or write poetry. You can scream—or fall silent—and both will mean the same.

Sika didn’t answer at once.
She looked at him, then toward the horizon, as if trying to grasp something beyond words.

She shot him a sidelong look.
– Give me a few years and I’ll sound like one of you.

A faint smile touched her lips.
– But for now... let’s start with something simpler.

Vilk tightened his belt and said:
– Inn.

Sika frowned.
– in.

Vilk shook his head.
– Try saying it like a human.

Sika shaped her lips but instead burst out laughing.
– Maybe in a few years.

Vilk rolled his eyes.

The mist had nearly vanished now, and the road ahead was clear.
And they—whether they wished it or not—had to rise and move on.

*

The mist was slowly retreating, leaving a film of dampness on skin and cloth. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of earth, forest, and the ashes of a dying fire.

Vilk never cared for humidity — it crept into the bones, clung to fabric, soaked into flesh and refused to leave. But he’d learned to live with it.

He stood by the horse, checking the girth. The leather tightened under his fingers; the strap held firm. The horse stood still, breathing softly. Grym paced lazily along the edge of the camp.

Sika hadn’t mounted yet. She stood aside, stretching, as if delaying the inevitable. She didn’t look at the horse.

Vilk glanced at her from beneath his brow.
– A few more years?

She answered only with a brief look.

At last, without a word, she approached. She slid her foot into the stirrup but tensed — her body ready to leap, not to ride.

He offered her his hand.
– If you want.

She hesitated, barely noticeably, then gripped his forearm. Hard. Vilk tightened his muscles, helped her up. She was strong, self-assured. There was no clumsiness in her — she moved quickly, without wasted motion.

She glanced down at him from the saddle.
– Better?

She adjusted her legs.
– I’ll let you know.

They rode on slowly.

The world was waking. Mist drifted off the meadows and hills in the day’s rising warmth. The horses moved smoothly, in the rhythm of a long road.

Vilk rode ahead. He didn’t look back, didn’t comment, but he could feel Sika catching the rhythm of the ride. With every hour her movements grew steadier — no longer gripping the saddle with her thighs, no longer fighting the reins.

By the time they crossed a broad clearing, Vilk called over his shoulder:
– Keep your heels lower.

Sika shot him a sideways glance.
– Will you ever stop telling me what to do?

– When you stop looking like you’re about to kiss the dirt.

She squinted, but adjusted her legs.

They rode on.

The second day mirrored the first. Sika handled herself better now; Vilk no longer corrected her.

By dusk, they found shelter among the hills, where the land sloped gently toward a lake. The water lay still and wide, encircled by forest. They lit a fire. Grym curled beside Vilk; Sika stretched out opposite, kneading sore muscles in her thighs.

– People who keep dogs think they can tame them – she said suddenly.

Vilk looked up.
– Do they?

Sika ran a hand across her neck.
– They do. But they still have to feed them, if they want loyalty.

Vilk said nothing. He watched her for a moment, then reached for a piece of wood, started whittling, cast a glance at Grym. The dog raised his head, flicked an ear, as if to say Sika didn’t know what she was talking about.

– Is he yours? – she asked.

Vilk shrugged.
– No. He just never left.

Sika smirked faintly.
– Like the horses.

Vilk frowned.
– What?

– They could’ve run off – she nodded toward the animals half-hidden in twilight. – No ropes. No chains.

Vilk looked at his stallion. She was right. They could have gone. But they stayed.
Not every freedom meant escape.

On the third day, there was smoke.

Sika saw it first — a thin, pale line rising into the sky. Smoke of people, not of trees.

She turned her head slightly.
– So?

Vilk stayed silent for a while. Watching.
Smoke meant people.
People meant trouble.

– Not yet.

Sika raised an eyebrow.
– Why not?

Vilk pulled the reins.
– We watch first.

Sika eyed him, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth.
– Your time again?

Vilk glanced at her from under his hood but said nothing.

They turned toward the trees. Before entering the settlement, they had to know what they were walking into.

The mist lingered low, reluctant to yield to the sun’s warmth. Moisture clung to everything — to fabric, to skin, to the horses’ manes. The air was thick with the scent of wet wood and soil.

Morning was quiet.
Only the steady rhythm of hooves broke the silence.

Sika was still learning the movement. Her horse breathed calmly, sure-footed, but she treated the ride as something to master, not something to share.

Vilk watched her from the corner of his eye.
– Don’t pull.

Sika gave him a quick look.
– I’m not.

Vilk lifted a brow, didn’t argue.
– Loosen the reins.

– Maybe I like having control.

Vilk snorted.
– Maybe it’s just an illusion. You need to feel the horse.

She didn’t answer. Ran her hand down the horse’s mane, as if testing whether the animal accepted her. The horse flicked its ears.

– I’ve known people who thought they held the reins their whole lives – she said after a while.

– And?

Sika smiled faintly.
– There’s always someone holding them tighter.

Vilk narrowed his eyes but didn’t press.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.
It flowed — steady, alive.

Vilk rode ahead, not turning, but he knew Sika was adapting. With each step she was less rigid, her movements smoother, no longer fighting the rhythm.

– How do you say “better than before”? – she asked suddenly.

Vilk looked back.
– Better.

– That’s it?

– What else did you expect?

She grimaced.
– I thought it’d be more complicated.

Vilk shrugged.
– “Better” is enough.

– Your language cuts – she muttered. – Like your people.

Vilk raised a brow.
– Cuts?

– Yes – she said, frowning. – It’s hard. Words sound like blows, like they’re carved with a knife, not spoken.

Vilk didn’t respond immediately.

Sika tilted her head, thinking aloud.
– It doesn’t stretch, doesn’t flow. It’s not a language you sing. Every word sounds like a command. Or a warning.

Vilk gave a short laugh.
– You expected it to be soft?

– I expected it not to sound like everyone’s angry all the time.

He smiled under his breath.
– We are.

She shot him a look.
– All of you?

– Most.

– And that’s why you speak like that?

Vilk shrugged.
– Slavs don’t like to waste breath. If something needs to be said, we say it. We don’t polish shit for the shine.

Sika narrowed her eyes.
– Yet your words still sound like strikes.

Vilk was quiet for a moment.
– Maybe because life here doesn’t care for soft sounds.

Sika tilted her head, weighing his words.

Vilk looked to the horizon.
– I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, but here it was never easy.

Sika was silent.

– People everywhere have it hard – she said finally.

Vilk nodded.
– Maybe. But we’ve always had to fight for our place. This land was never peaceful. There were always those who wanted to pass through, to rule, to leave their mark.

He looked at her.
– They’re gone. We’re still here.

Sika bit her lip lightly.

Vilk went on, his tone calm, stripped of emotion, yet weighted.
– And we’ll stay.

There was no pride in it — only certainty. Only truth.

For a while, Sika said nothing. Then ran her tongue over her teeth.
– Still sounds like fighting.

Vilk shrugged.
– Maybe because life here is a fight. The cold, the hunger, the wars. Nothing comes easy.

Sika was silent, but something in his words felt familiar.

Vilk looked ahead.
– And yet – he added quietly – it’s a language that breathes.

– Breathes?

He turned the reins between his fingers.
– It’s raw, sometimes rough, but alive. Strong — and it holds something no other tongue does.

Sika arched a brow.
– And what’s that?

He ran his thumb along the leather, thinking.
– It can hold everything. Speak what a man can’t say, but feels in his gut.

Sika frowned, as if trying to imagine it.

Vilk continued softly, focused.
– It’s a language that knows all truth about man. What’s born in him when he loves, when he kills, when he waits for something he can’t name.

Sika tilted her head.
– And what if no one listens?

Vilk smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed solemn.
– This language taught us you don’t need to shout for words to carry weight.

Sika brushed her hand over the horse’s mane.
– Yet you said you can curse in it and write poetry.

Vilk nodded.
– Because we learned to be whole. To embrace brutality and still search for beauty inside it. We can blaspheme until blood stirs, or speak so softly it makes the heart ache.

Sika was quiet for a long moment. Then she spoke, almost a whisper:
– I want to hear how it sounds when it isn’t a command.

Vilk glanced at her with a faint smile.
– Give it a few years and you’ll speak like us.

Sika smirked.
– Maybe. But for now… say something that doesn’t sound like a blade.

Vilk thought for a while, then said quietly:
– Silence is full of voices.

Sika narrowed her eyes.
– What does that mean?

He looked at the sky.
– That not everything needs to be said to be understood.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore. It wasn’t a pause between words, nor a weight between them.

It was full of voices.

Not human ones — neither broken nor sharp nor bitter. It was a silence where the earth spoke to the sky, the river murmured to the trees, and the wind carried messages no one ever wrote down.

Among the birches, a faint rasp echoed — like fingers brushing old parchment. Willows bent over the water, their thin branches tracing invisible symbols in the air. Something small darted through the grass, scattering tiny footsteps across the damp soil. The stream didn’t stop its story, winding through roots, washing stones, whispering to those who knew how to listen.

Sika drew a breath.
She wasn’t listening to Vilk.
She was listening to the world.

The rustle of wind in the grass sounded like a hundred voices speaking at once. Their whispers crossed and merged, filling the space. Water murmured endlessly, repeating the same prayer without beginning or end. Birds called to one another in short bursts — fragments of a conversation whose meaning couldn’t be caught. It wasn’t silence between sentences. It was silence in which everything spoke.

– All of this... – she began, but didn’t finish.

– Hm?

Sika squinted, watching the movement of trees, the ripple of water, the bird rising from the reeds and vanishing toward the hills.
– It speaks... almost like you do.

Vilk didn’t take his eyes off the road.
– It does – he said quietly. – If you know how to listen.

Sika tilted her head, as if tuning herself to what she heard.

The birches trembled, their slender trunks bending beneath the touch of wind, creaking softly. Willows by the river swayed, their leaves brushing together in a rhythmic dance. Water carried its secrets, glinting among reeds, curling around stones, hollowing the banks, murmuring to those who could listen. The wind, once faint, rose again, lifting dry leaves, curling around branches, gliding across the valley like a hand over strings.

– Maybe you learned to speak like nature – she said softly.

Vilk raised a brow, but stayed silent.

They rode on, passing grasslands, hills, streams. Nothing stood still here. The sky changed shade with every heartbeat, shadows stretched and folded, the world breathed in a rhythm that couldn’t be stopped.

Sika said nothing more.
She didn’t need to.

The world around them didn’t keep quiet.
The water had its song.
The wind had its words.
The birds, the trees, the crack of branches under hooves — everything was part of something still being written.

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The day began as the one before—quiet, veiled in mist, dampness settling on leaves, horse manes, and skin. This time, there was nothing new in it. No revelation. No surprise. Just another day among many. Time had blurred, lost its shape.

The road narrowed, more concealed now. No clear tracks to follow—only winding paths worn by animals and by people who preferred not to be seen. They crossed valleys where mist pooled low, as if the earth still refused to let go of the night. The forest arched overhead, branches tangled into a canopy that sealed them in—surrounded by shadows and murmuring leaves.

Sika no longer felt ordinary fatigue. Only a quiet, steady weariness. Her body had begun to adapt to the rhythm of the ride. The horse no longer felt foreign; she could sense its movements, knew when it slowed for real, and when it only pretended. The strangeness of the world hadn’t vanished, but it no longer pressed so sharply against her.

She stayed silent, listening to the road. What had felt like discovery yesterday was habit now.

Vilk glanced at her from time to time but said nothing.

The sun climbed higher, but gave no warmth. The sky stretched wide and cold above them, streaked with heavy, drifting clouds. On either side of the trail, a patchwork of meadows, hills, and tangled forests unfolded. This land did not yield easily.

There were no broad, flat fields here—nothing that gave itself willingly to the hand. The earth rose and dipped, demanding respect, forcing people to bend to its will.

The forest pressed in—wild and dense, its undergrowth thick with old roots and ferns, stones coated in velvet moss. Here and there, streams flashed through the shadows, glinting like steel in the light. The way was hard, but it was theirs. No one followed.

They paused only in places well hidden—where the trees grew close, the canopy scattered light, the fire burned low, and smoke vanished into leaves before it could be seen.

Vilk rode first, always. He never looked back, never checked to see if she was still there. He didn’t need to.

Sika shifted in the saddle and sighed.
– How much longer?

Vilk didn’t glance up.
– Two hours, maybe.

– To what?

– A place to rest.

She grimaced, tugging the hood lower over her eyes.
– Perfect. Can’t wait to collapse onto another pile of damp leaves.

Vilk smiled faintly but said nothing. They rode on.

Evening came faster than expected.

The forest thickened. Trees rose taller now, their trunks dark in the dimming light, slender and straight as pillars in a forgotten sanctuary.

They stopped in a small hollow, sheltered by slopes covered in beech and maple. The ground here was drier, spared from the mist that clung elsewhere.

The fire burned low, steady. No leaping flames, only slow licks of orange curling against the wood.

Sika sat on the far side, her back against a tree, knees drawn up. She stared into the fire, but her gaze reached beyond it—beyond the night itself.

Vilk said nothing.

In that silence, there was no peace—but no tension either. As if neither of them wanted to be the first to sleep.

Eventually, Sika exhaled, her eyes half-closed.
– Do you have any family?

Vilk raised an eyebrow.
– Do you?

She tilted her head, not smiling.
– I asked first.

He shook his head slightly, as if the question barely merited an answer.
– Everyone had someone once.

– That’s not an answer.

Vilk breathed in, rubbed the bridge of his nose.
– I did.

Sika opened her eyes. Looked at him.
– And?

He didn’t reply right away.

The fire cracked softly. A ribbon of smoke coiled upward, twisting into the branches.

– Not anymore.

Sika watched him a long moment, then turned her face away.
– Me neither.

He didn’t answer. He knew that was all she meant to say.

The forest lived around them. Shadows shifted in the dark. Leaves whispered in the wind. Somewhere far off, a river murmured, lost in its own dream.

Vilk breathed deep, eyes closing for a moment, as if trying to push back thoughts he didn’t have names for.

He looked at Sika again.

She didn’t return the glance.

She didn’t need to.

They both knew the silence was enough.

Morning came cold again—gray and damp. Another day in the saddle. Time, once sharp-edged, now stretched into a single, unbroken line.

They moved in silence, keeping to hidden paths—trails no map would mark. Worn by beasts and by those who passed unseen. Valleys dipped beneath them. Hills rose. Streams cut through the dark forest like blades.

Sika knew motion. But not this kind of exhaustion—a slow erosion that burrowed into muscle and bone. She held her posture, though every part of her moved differently now. The tension in her thighs, her hips, her back—all shifting with every step.

She didn’t mention it.

The road stretched on, as did the sky—clearer today, smeared with slow-moving clouds.

– Could use some music – she said at last.

Vilk shifted slightly, as if pulled from thought.
– What?

– Music – she repeated. – Would be nice to hear something.

Vilk raised a brow.
– Anything in particular?

Sika shrugged.
– Anything to drown out the hooves.

Vilk was quiet for a moment.
– There’s always music. People sing when they have reason. Or when they don’t.

Sika looked at him.
– What kind of music matters most here?

Vilk ran a hand along the reins.
– The kind people learn young. Lullabies by the fire. Work songs. Drinking songs. Songs for battle, for mourning. Songs that break your heart—or make you forget. They stay close to the bone.

– And instruments?

He hesitated.
– Plenty. Hurdy-gurdy, fiddles, flutes, bagpipes, sukas, lutes, gusles. Drums. Shepherd’s pipes.

Sika closed her eyes, lips parting slightly, as if trying to imagine them.
– And you? What do you like most?

Vilk paused.
– The hurdy-gurdy.

– Hurdy-gurdy? – she echoed, drawing the word out. – What’s that?

He was quiet for a moment, choosing his words.
– A traveler’s instrument. A wooden box with a crank that turns a wheel and pulls the strings. It sounds... like something between an organ and a human voice. It fills the air. You can’t drown it out.

Sika tilted her head.
– Like the voice of the earth?

Vilk nodded.
– Like a sound that never dies. Only endures.

They rode in silence for a while. Sika listened—to hooves, to breath, to wind.

– I’d like to hear it – she said softly.

Vilk looked ahead.
– Maybe you will. Someday.

They kept riding.

Sika brushed her hand along the horse’s neck, feeling its warmth.
– I love music – she said at last, quietly, more to herself than to him.

Vilk didn’t reply.

***

The night was warmer, though it still carried a trace of spring’s chill. The air had a certain lightness—not the easy warmth of summer, but a quiet reminder that winter hadn’t yet let go.
The fire crackled softly, sending long, wavering shadows across the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a stream murmured—water striking stone, slipping between roots, spreading into dark pools.

Sika sat by the fire, legs stretched out, arms lifting in a slow, deliberate stretch. Her body was stiff from the road—heavy with the rhythm of too many days in the saddle.
It wasn’t pain, not exactly—more a deep fatigue that lived beneath the skin, whispering with every movement. Every muscle remembered the miles; every part of her pulsed with the effort of endurance.

Vilk watched her in silence. He saw the way she rolled her shoulders, rubbed her neck, stretched her legs only to pull them back again—as if no position brought relief.
She wasn’t used to it. But she didn’t complain.

Her hands moved over her body—neck, shoulders, hips—with slow, practiced precision. But Vilk could see it wasn’t enough.

– Does it hurt? – he asked.

Sika gave him a sidelong look.
– What kind of question is that?

He didn’t smile.
– You can suffer in silence if you want. It won’t make it stop.

She opened one eye, studying him briefly, then shrugged.
– You’ve got a better idea?

Vilk turned to the fire, rubbing his hands together. The glow caught on the pale scars that crossed his fingers.
– Turn around.

She narrowed her eyes.
– Why?

– If you want to sleep without pain, don’t ask.

She hesitated, watching him closely—as if trying to read the intent behind his voice. There was no uncertainty in him.
With a quiet sigh, she shifted, sitting sideways and turning her back to him.

Vilk moved closer, knelt behind her, and set his hands on her shoulders. His touch wasn’t soft.
He didn’t fumble or hesitate. His palms pressed firmly, precisely, finding the tension that travel had left behind. He felt the strength beneath her skin—the rigid neck, the taut lines of muscle hardened by the road.
These weren’t the shoulders of someone who belonged in a saddle. They were the shoulders of someone still fighting against it.

His hands moved slowly, tracing the line of her spine down toward the bottom of her back.
Sika made a quiet sound—unplanned, instinctive.
Vilk didn’t pause. His hands stayed steady, his breath even.

Gradually, he felt her body yield beneath his palms. The stiffness ebbed. Her breathing deepened, steadied.
He worked lower, through the weight of exhaustion, until her body no longer resisted his touch.

Sika’s eyes closed. It felt good—better than she’d expected. She hadn’t realized how much she needed it. The warmth of his hands seeped through her skin, through the ache in her muscles, and further still.
He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t cautious either. He was simply present—focused, unhurried, deliberate.

It wasn’t just comfort.
It was something else.
A quiet surrender. A wordless trust.

His hands began to still, about to withdraw—
– You can do the rest too – she murmured.

He froze. Didn’t move.

Sika tilted her head slightly, a lazy smile curving her lips.
– You’ve already seen me, Vilk – she said softly. – It’s only a body.

Vilk didn’t answer.
She was right.
There was nothing left to hide between them.

They had already seen each other without masks, without pretense.

His touch lingered a moment longer—not in possession, nor desire, but in recognition. The quiet strength in her. The resilience carved into muscle and bone. The warmth that survived beneath all the scars of travel and struggle.

The night held them there—two people, nothing more, nothing less. The distance between them had changed, though neither spoke of it.

When he finally drew back, his hands fell still.
The firelight danced across her skin, running over her shoulders, down the narrow line of her waist. She turned slightly, glancing at him over her shoulder.

– Seems you know how to make a woman feel better – she said, her voice low, faintly amused.

There was no mockery in it. Only warmth.
– I’ll have to return the favor someday.

Vilk said nothing. He only looked at her, and something unspoken passed between them—quiet, heavy, impossible to name.

She was at ease again. Confident. Entirely herself.
And Vilk… was only human.

He wouldn’t lie and say it meant nothing.
But he wouldn’t pretend it changed everything either.

Not here.
Not now.
Not with her.

The night settled around them again.
And Vilk knew that whatever had passed between them—small, wordless, fleeting—would stay.

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Dawn came quietly, sliding between the trees in a milky haze. The ground was still damp, but it felt different now—fresh, soft, like the promise of something new.

Vilk opened his eyes.
It was calm.

For a moment, he lay still, feeling the cold of the earth beneath his back, the scent of forest and the fading smoke of the fire.
For years, every morning had been the same—wake, rise, move on.
But today, for the first time in a long while, he felt no urgency.

He sat up slowly, adjusted his belt, rubbed his face.
Beside him, wrapped in her cloak, Sika slept deeply. Her breathing was slow, steady—peaceful. For the first time since he’d met her, she didn’t look ready to run.

Vilk watched her for a while, then turned his gaze toward the horizon.
It felt like a day for something different. A roof. A hot meal. A bed that didn’t smell like damp leaves.

When Sika stirred, stretching lazily and mumbling into her arm, Vilk said softly:
– Tonight we sleep in an inn.

She opened one eye, blinked, then closed it again.
– Glorious idea – she muttered, her voice rough with sleep. – Shame I have to get up to appreciate it.

Vilk smiled faintly.
– Then get up.

Sika sighed, pushed herself upright, stretched her arms, rolled her shoulders. She was built like a fighter, though her body still carried the ache of travel.
Last night’s massage had helped—her movements were looser, though the muscles still complained.

Vilk noticed, from the corner of his eye, how differently she moved—how she rubbed her thighs before standing, no longer hiding the fatigue.

– A proper dinner today – she muttered, reaching for her waterskin.

Vilk raised a brow.
– Don’t get ahead of yourself.

She gave him a sideways glance.
– After so many days in the woods? You should promise me a feast. We’ve got enough coin.

Vilk shook his head, but didn’t argue.

The road passed quickly.
The day felt lighter—as if they’d left something behind.
No more running. No more watching their backs.

They took the quieter trails, where the ground was soft and the air smelled of moss and new growth.

After a few hours, Sika asked:
– So what do people actually eat in this Poland of yours?

Vilk glanced at her.
– What do you think?

– I don’t know. Meat? Grain?

Vilk snorted.
– Meat, groats, bread. But not just any kind.

– What do you mean?

– Hares roasted with honey and marjoram. Ducks with apples. Geese. Capons. Venison stewed in cream. Pork with garlic...

Sika raised a brow.
– Honey? I’ve heard of it. Never tried it.

– Honey goes with everything—meat, bread, ale. Gift of the gods.

Sika shook her head.
– Sounds strange.

– Tastes right. Then there’s the soups—sour rye broth, pigeon stock, borscht. Baked apples. Sweet cakes with poppyseed. And wine. Lots of wine.

Sika laughed under her breath.
– So not just beer?

– Not just. But beer’s never in short supply.

His voice warmed as he spoke, until he added:
– But there’s one thing you have to try.

– What’s that?

– Mead.

Sika blinked.
– Mead?

Vilk smiled to himself.
– Ambrosia. Drink of the ancestors. The only true drink.

– Is it good?

– Not good. The best.

Sika tilted her head, smiling faintly. It was the first time she’d heard real tenderness in his voice.
– You haven’t had any in a while, have you?

– Probably not.

They rode on for several more hours.
By a river, Vilk dug up roots; Sika brought down two partridges.
They ate simply—roasted birds, salted by hand, washed down with cold water.

– So where’s that honey? – Sika asked.

Vilk rolled his eyes.
– Find me bees, and I’ll bring it to you.

She laughed and went back to eating.

The sun dipped low, gilding the fields in warm light. The forest softened.
The world around them slowed, already leaning into sleep.

They rode at an easy pace. No rush now. No need to look back.

At last, Vilk saw it—a roof, low and shingled, the walls dark with smoke.
A roadside inn. One of those at the edge of trade routes—close enough to find, far enough to forget.

The first thing they noticed was the smell—warm, heavy, thick with meat, bread, and woodsmoke.
The yard was nearly empty. Two horses tied to a post. A wagon near the wall. Silence.

Vilk dismounted.
Sika eyed the building.

– Modest.

– But dry – Vilk said.

– And no bugs in the bedding.

– And doors that lock.

She took her reins and followed him inside.

The common room was low and timbered, full of smoke and the scent of stew.
An old man hunched over a bowl in the corner. Otherwise empty.

Behind the counter stood the innkeeper—round, heavy, face carved with lines.

Vilk stepped forward, set coins on the counter.
– A room for the night.

The innkeeper rubbed one between his fingers.
– Upstairs. Left side.

Sika was already halfway up the stairs, but Vilk lingered.

– Anyone else coming tonight?

The innkeeper shrugged.
– Doubt it.

– Who sleeps here besides us?

– Him – he nodded toward the old man – and me.

Vilk gave the room another glance, then followed her.

The room was plain, but clean. A straw bed. A table. A chair. A basin with water. A candle.
After days in the woods, it might as well have been a palace.

Sika tossed her cloak onto the chair, eyed the bed, and grinned.
– Looks like paradise.

Vilk snorted, unbuckling his belt.
– Don’t get used to it.

– Just a trial run – she murmured, stretching.

Vilk walked to the window, glanced out at the dark.
– You sleep where you can. Take the bed—I’ll stay on the floor.

Old habits. Even if no one was hunting them now.

Sika lay back, arms over her head, stretching like a cat.
– You sure you want to sleep on the floor like a dog?

Grym snorted, clearly offended.

– Mhm – Vilk muttered, pulling off his boots and leaning against the bed.

Sika rolled her eyes.
– You know I don’t mind, right?

Vilk half-turned.
– Don’t mind what?

She rested her head on her bent arm.
– I’ve shared beds with men I didn’t want.
And you’re... tolerable.

Her tone was light, teasing. But her eyes didn’t waver.

Vilk closed his eyes, resting his head against the mattress.
He could feel her gaze on him. And beneath it—something else. A pull he refused to name.

But he had rules.

– Goodnight, Sika – he said quietly, voice rough.

She smiled, sinking into the pillow.
– Goodnight, Vilk.

He closed his eyes.

Then Grym lifted his head, looked at them both, and—without hesitation—jumped onto the bed.

Sika burst out laughing as fur brushed against her arm.
– All right, all right – she murmured, trying to push him off.

Grym didn’t move. He curled up beside her like a spoiled pup, paws draped over her hips.

Vilk opened one eye, watching. He didn’t say a word.

Sika grinned at him.
– Your dog has no shame. I like him.

– He never did.

She slid her hand into Grym’s fur. The dog rumbled contentedly, pressing his muzzle against her chest.

Vilk bit the inside of his cheek.
He stayed still, though every part of him tensed.

Grym knew exactly what he was doing. Or maybe he didn’t.
It didn’t matter.

Vilk saw something in it—a reflection of what he himself denied.

Sika sighed, smiled faintly, and nudged Grym aside.
The dog grumbled but settled into the blanket.

She looked at Vilk.
Their eyes met in the dim light.

Something passed between them—primal, unspoken, impossible to name.

Then she rolled onto her side, eyes half-lidded.
– Sleep tight, Vilk – she murmured.

He sat a moment longer.
He could feel the warmth of her a few inches away.
He could hear Grym’s steady breath. The rhythm of rest.

And he knew this night would leave something behind—though he didn’t yet know what.

He closed his eyes.

Tonight, he slept under a roof.
And that was already something.

*****

Morning came sooner than expected.
Pale light slipped through the cracks in the shutters, soft and cold.
For the first time in days, Vilk woke in a place that was dry, warm, and walled off from the world—unfamiliar, but safe. No dew soaking his clothes. No wind brushing his skin. Just stillness.

He blinked slowly, ran a hand over his neck—and only then realized he wasn’t the only one awake.

Sika sat upright on the bed, blanket still wrapped around her, back against the wall. Awake. Watching him.
Her gaze was calm. Steady. A little curious.

Vilk shot her a look.
– Why are you staring?

Sika shrugged.
– Because you don’t snore. When you’re quiet, you almost look handsome.

Vilk snorted.
– That’s what you watch for?

– When someone sleeps like a stone, yes.

Vilk stretched, his spine cracking pleasantly after a night on the hard floor.
– Slept like in heaven?

Sika murmured in satisfaction, sinking back onto the pillow.
– Like a queen.

He shook his head, stood, stretched again.
Grym, curled at the foot of the bed, stirred only when Vilk reached for his belt. The dog lifted his head, yawned wide, and rolled onto his side, growling softly, as if the night had been just as kind to him as to Sika.

Vilk glanced at him and shook his head.
You’ve got it easy, he thought.

The day passed quickly.
They didn’t hurry, but they didn’t linger either. They rode quietly, again taking side paths—but without that earlier tension that made them glance back every few minutes.

They talked, but without philosophy. Sika was clearly more rested, less guarded than the day before, though Vilk could still see the strain in her body. She didn’t complain, but her way of sitting in the saddle had changed; sometimes she stretched her arms or rubbed the back of her neck.

– Better? – he asked.

Sika looked over.
– Than what?

– Than yesterday.

She studied him, as if deciding whether the answer mattered. Then she shrugged.
– Better. Give it another day or two and my thighs will fall off.

Vilk smiled faintly.
– You’ll get used to it.

She narrowed her eyes.
– That’s not comforting.

– It wasn’t meant to be.

She snorted and let it drop.

As they neared a larger road, Vilk scanned the treeline. He wasn’t looking for another camp. He wanted a proper stop—not just somewhere to roast meat over dying coals.

Then he saw it: a sturdy inn, fenced with timber, high-roofed, smoke curling from its chimney.

He reined in, studied the yard. A few travelers sat out front. A carter stacked barrels. Another drew water from the well. Not crowded. Not empty.

He looked at Sika.
– Not just a bed tonight – he said, dismounting. – A real meal.

Sika slid to the ground, one eyebrow raised.
– And something real to drink?

Vilk gave her a look.
– Do deer shit in the woods?

Sika grinned.
– I don’t know what a deer is, but I guess they do.

Inside, there were more people than expected.
Not a crowd—but merchants, carters, a few noblemen drinking slowly, speaking in that unhurried, Sarmatian drawl of men who had seen much and remembered little.

No one paid them much attention.
A man and a woman, both dusty, both armed. Road-worn. Nothing unusual in these parts.

Still, something stirred in Vilk. That old flicker of instinct. The one that never left.

Sika, on the other hand, walked in like she owned the place.
She didn’t belong—and somehow that made her fit even more.

They approached the counter.

The innkeeper, older, wiry, with a face like weathered bark, looked up.

Sika glanced at Vilk, then said with dramatic solemnity:
– I want beer. Bright lord.

Vilk blinked, one brow raised. Then turned to the innkeeper.
– Two, good host – he said smoothly. Then, to her – Please.

Sika frowned.
– Was I close?

– More or less. If your goal was to highlight your exotic charm, you nailed it.

Sika leaned on the counter, pleased.
– Then teach me how to order five.

– When you can drink five, I will.

Sika laughed.
– Who knows, Vilk. Who knows.

The beer was cold. The food was hot.

They took a table under the window, where they could see the whole room.

A few glances came their way—nothing hostile. Just curiosity.
They weren’t a common pair: a man with a wolf’s stare, and a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of another continent.

But no one asked questions. Not here.

The tavern breathed with its own rhythm—steady, chaotic, alive.
Voices mixed under the low ceiling, tangled with the smell of roasted meat, beer, damp wood.

In one corner, two carters argued about the road to Sandomierz—one waving his hands, the other cursing marshes.

By the window, an eastern merchant listened to two old soldiers with sabres at their belts and scars on their backs.

Near the hearth, a young man plucked at a gusle. The sound was soft, haunting—something ancient in its cadence, like a song older than the tongue it was born in.

Sika looked up.
– What’s that?

– Gusle.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes, as if trying to hold the sound in her memory.
– It’s… beautiful.

Vilk glanced at her, slightly surprised.
– You really do like music.

Sika smiled faintly.
– Music’s the only language everyone understands.

Vilk didn’t reply, but her voice had a note in it that made him watch her a moment longer.

They sat in silence. The room buzzed around them—stories, laughter, mugs knocking on tables.

Vilk took a sip. The bitterness was sharp, clean.

Sika drank, swallowed, licked her lips.
– Well.

Vilk raised an eyebrow.
– Well?

– It’s actually good.

He chuckled.
– You know, one of our princes—Leszek the White—refused to join the Crusade because there was no beer in Palestine.

Sika blinked.
– Seriously?

– Told the Pope himself he wouldn’t survive without beer or mead.

Sika laughed.
– Now that’s dedication.

– Beer and mead—our sacred treasures.

She raised her mug.
– I’ll admit, your beer has charm.

– Wait until you try the mead.

Sika smiled.
– Looking forward to it.

As if on cue, one of the men at the next table slammed his fist on the wood so hard the cups rattled.

– What’s this I hear?! – he roared.
Broad-shouldered, red-faced, moustache thick enough to smother a child.

His companion blinked, then nodded rapidly, sensing this was suddenly important.

– Leszek the White, you say?! – the first bellowed, eyeing them with glee. – Now that was a ruler! Wit! Honor!

– Who doesn’t drink, isn’t one of us! – his friend shouted, sloshing beer.

All around them, heads lifted.
Mugs raised. A few toasts flew—no one sure if they were saluting a king, the beer, or both.

Someone shouted:
– Leszek’s one thing—but since we’re naming kings…

And just like that, the tavern lit up.

– Casimir the Great!

– Batory! Chased the Turks like dogs!

– Nonsense! Sobieski! Who else stood at Vienna?!

– Władysław the Elbow-high, damn it!

– Jagiełło! Grunwald!

– Zygmunt the Old!

Names flew like arrows—not to win, but to outshout each other.

Finally, one noble raised his mug and bellowed:
– Kings are kings—but the nobilities! What a glorious breed we are!

The tavern erupted in laughter.

It wasn’t serious.
It was something else—raw, loud, deeply Polish. Born from drink, pride, memory.

Sika looked at Vilk, eyebrow raised.
– Are they arguing or agreeing?

Vilk took a sip, smiled faintly.
– Same thing.

Sika laughed.
Now she understood.

Vilk belonged to this land, but he wasn’t its mirror.

He was the shadow it left behind—someone who’d stepped away from the fire but still felt its warmth.

They, on the other hand, were the fire.
Loud. Proud. Drunk. Defiant.
And sincere.

Something about it felt… right.

Sika lifted her mug.

– To freedom and beer?

Vilk touched his mug to his lips.
– Always.

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The tavern still pulsed with its own rhythm. The earlier uproar had softened into low voices, roughened by beer and mead. Heat hung in the air—thick, heavy, greasy—clinging to the walls and sliding across faces. Someone still hummed a drinking tune. Someone else cursed quietly about the tolls in Lublin. By the door, two nobles said their goodbyes as if parting forever.

Vilk drank slowly. He knew his limits—let the warmth settle under his ribs, but no further. His gaze wandered through the room, scanning out of habit, but always circled back to Sika.

She was different tonight. Relaxed. The spark in her eyes hadn’t dimmed, even after everything. She drew from the moment like someone tasting the world for the first time.

– What are we eating? – she asked suddenly, breaking the quiet between them.

– Hungry already?

– Of course. – She nodded toward the counter. – You talked about food so much, now I have to try it.

Vilk smiled faintly.
– Then let’s have a feast.

The innkeeper’s wife brought their meal—not rushed, not careless. Duck with plums, skin glistening with fat, steamed on a platter. The air filled with cinnamon, cloves, and the sweet warmth of baked apples. Alongside it, white fried cheese browned in honey, sprinkled with poppy seeds and raisins.

Sika inhaled deeply, as if the smell alone could intoxicate her. For a while, she only looked. Then she picked up her fork. She cut a bite, tasted—and closed her eyes.

The duck melted on her tongue. Sweet plums, warm spice, crisp skin. The cheese was golden outside, soft and buttery inside. The apples—sharp and sweet like a dessert.

She paused, surprised. Then looked at Vilk.
– What kind of sorcery is this?

– Polish cooking – he said.

She was already lost in it. She ate slowly, as if trying to hold on to every flavor. Here, food wasn’t survival. It was celebration.

When she finally set her fork down, she looked at him seriously.
– This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

– Told you.

– So that’s why you people love your feasts so much? – she asked after a moment, biting her lip.

– Feasting, drinking, celebrating—it’s in our nature. But good food... changes the world.

Sika laughed quietly, glancing around the room.
– And? Does it all fit together? Beer, duck, revelry?

– Fits perfectly – Vilk replied.

Time in the tavern slowed. Voices softened, laughter sank lower. Most guests sprawled on benches. A few already slept where they sat. The warmth turned heavy, wrapping the room like a worn blanket.

Sika stretched on the bench, watching the flicker of life around them—soft, but still there.
– Good place – she said.

– Because they feed you well?

– Because everything here’s alive. Even when it’s quiet, something’s happening.

They didn’t get to say more. Two of their earlier drinking companions returned—a broad-shouldered noble with laughter in his eyes, and another, heavier, with a sabre on his hip. They sat like men drawn by fire and noise, needing no invitation.

– Gentlemen! No shortage of mead for folk like us, eh? – the broad one boomed.

– If you chip in for the next, maybe there won’t be – Vilk said dryly, though not without humor.

Laughter broke across the table. Sika joined in easily—teasing, throwing playful remarks without hesitation. She didn’t weigh her words. She didn’t yet know the lines—but somehow, they forgave her for it.

They drank. They told stories. The talk grew bolder. The glances lingered longer.

Vilk knew this turn—the moment when innocent laughter tipped into something sharper.

Sika hadn’t seen it yet. Her laughter was still free. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. She felt safe here—maybe for the first time. She didn’t realize she was already close to the edge.

Vilk leaned in, voice low.
– Careful.

– Hm?

– After a few cups of mead, our nobles get very imaginative.

– You analyze everything, Vilk?

– The ones who don’t will not last long at these tables.

She opened her mouth to answer, but the broad noble stood, lifting his mug high.
– A toast! To our beautiful guest!

Mugs clashed. Mead spilled. Laughter roared.

The night carried on—louder, warmer, brighter.

Vilk watched her from the corner of his eye.
He would let her learn their ways.
But he wouldn’t let the lesson cut too deep.

*******

The evening softened. Conversations loosened. Laughter came more easily, the jokes grew sharper. Vilk didn’t take his eyes off them—he could see how the mood shifted, how the air thickened. Banter turned bold. The line that had been clear not long ago blurred with every cup poured.

Mead untied tongues—and distances.

Sika kept laughing, unaware she was already leading a dance the nobles would gladly follow a step too far.

– It’s true, my friends! Mead’s the most honest drink there is! – roared the broad noble, slamming his mug down.

– Why’s that? – Sika smiled, but there was a touch more caution in her voice.

The stout one leaned forward with mock solemnity.

– Because after mead, every man says what he truly feels!

The broad one waved a hand.

– Not every man—some just start talking nonsense!

– Then a wager – Sika spun her mug lazily between her fingers. – Whoever starts talking nonsense after the next round, loses.

That earned a burst of laughter. The broad noble answered right away:

– A wager needs a prize, or it’s no wager at all!

– So what are we playing for? – Sika raised an eyebrow, teasing.

The stout one grinned, teeth showing.

– A kiss.

Vilk lifted his gaze.

Sika didn’t flinch. She ran a finger along the rim of her mug.

– A kiss? And who’s first?

– Let fate decide! – the broad one laughed. – Though not everyone knows how to take what they want.

The laughter rolled again, but Vilk already saw it—that shift. The looks lingered longer. The air thickened.

Then he spoke—quiet, even:

– She’s not alone.

Silence fell like a dropped blade.

Sika looked at him. So did the nobles.

– Of course we know! – said the broad one, still trying to keep it light.

Vilk didn’t smile.

– She’s under my protection. And I like how that works out.

They took it in without protest. Still grinning, still flushed with drink—but they’d felt the edge. The tone shifted back. Talk moved toward horses, roads, stables. Safer ground.

Sika followed the change. She let the words flow past her. Vilk watched her with quiet approval. She understood now.

Later, as the tavern began to thin out, Vilk glanced at her.

– A moment.

She rose without a word and followed him outside.

The night air was crisp. Cool. A breath of silence after the closeness of the room. Vilk leaned against the wall, lit his pipe.

– I could’ve played along a little longer – Sika said, half-smiling.

– You could – Vilk replied. – But would you have known when to stop?

– I would’ve.

– Not yet.

– Because nobles like to play?

– Because men drink mead and think it gives them permission.

– But I’m the one who decides.

Vilk met her gaze.

– You are. But I’m the one who shields you.

She didn’t answer.

He added, quieter:

– It’s not about what you want. It’s about what they might. Refuse too late, and they’ll feel insulted. A noble doesn’t like to be insulted.

– And then?

– Sometimes he tries to make it right with steel.

– You don’t want to dance with them?

– No. I’d rather quiet than foolish.

Sika smiled crookedly.

– So are you my guardian or my strategist?

– You’re still learning.

She sighed, but without resentment.

– Come on. The mead’s getting cold.

They went back inside.

Something between them had shifted.

At the table, the laughing Sika returned. Toasts followed. One more round of jokes. But Vilk saw her now—not just laughing, but watching. Weighing. Learning.

When the tavern emptied, he gave her a nod. They went upstairs without speaking.

Once the door closed, the noise below fell away.

The room was dim. Still.

Sika unbuckled her belt, sat on the bed, stretched with a lazy groan.

– Was I really that close to trouble?

Vilk shrugged.

– Closer for them.

She smiled, and even Grym stirred, stretching by the wall.

– Maybe you got jealous?

Vilk took a slow sip of mead.

– No.

Sika undid her vest, slipped out of her skirt, crawled onto the mattress and stretched like a cat.

– A real bed... I can’t remember the last time.

– Yesterday – Vilk said.

– And you? Still on the floor?

– I’m not that fragile.

– Enjoy it while you can.

Vilk didn’t move, but he felt her presence now—the warmth, the scent of her skin.

She slid closer.

Her hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. Then his chest.

The touch was slow. Calm. Certain.

– Lord Vilk... solid man – she whispered, her palm moving lower.

He closed his eyes. He knew this shouldn’t happen.

– Probably a vigorous one too...

He felt it now—the tension winding into his spine, the tight air between them.

Sika gave a low hum, hand squeezing gently through the fabric.

– Ohhh.

She smiled, pleasantly surprised.

– Strong as an ox.

That broke something.

Vilk pulled away—sudden, sharp, like from fire. He didn’t touch her. Just tore himself from the moment.

Sika froze.

They stared at each other.

The breath between them grew heavy. Thick.

Vilk turned toward the wall, breathing hard.

The moment shattered.

And just like that, they were no longer the people who’d entered that room.

A blinding flash split the sky, and moments later thunder crashed overhead like a cannon blast. Torrential rain hammered the ground, turning puddles into erupting fountains. Amid the chaos—surrounded by twisted, mournful trees—a man in a soaked, heavy cloak knelt over the limp body of his victim. His boots slipped in the mud as he bent lower, inhaling the scent of blood and death.

He moved with mechanical certainty, but there was no triumph in him. Despite the passing years and countless victims, he had never grown numb enough to take pleasure in the act. Something within still resisted—a buried fragment of long-lost humanity that refused to fully embrace the brutality. When it was done, he let the body slump into the softened earth.

The black dog, which had been circling the killing ground in restless arcs, padded forward immediately. Its golden eyes gleamed with feral excitement. Lightning flickered across its wet fur, and its muscles quivered with barely restrained savagery. It tensed, ready to pounce on the corpse with frenzied eagerness—until a sharp glance from the man stopped it cold.

Easy.

The unspoken word hung in the air—more commanding than any shout. Grym bared his teeth for the briefest instant, a flash of displeasure, but then obeyed. He lowered himself, settling into a calmer, more deliberate gnawing of the remains.

The scene was macabre, but for them, it had become a ritual—brutal, yes, but essential. Over time, they had formed unspoken rules. The man insisted their violence remain swift, efficient—never cruel without cause. Grym, driven by raw instinct, understood the silent code. Even if he sometimes needed reminding.

Another thunderclap split the sky, casting the chaotic landscape in stark, momentary light. The man stepped back cautiously, scanning the road ahead, where wind whipped through the trees in violent gusts. There was no one in sight. The storm, once a curse, had become their trusted accomplice—erasing every trace.

When the dog had finished, he shook himself violently, spraying mud and blood in wide arcs. The hunger had been sated—for now. A few days of quiet would follow before the need returned, gnawing at their insides.

— That’s enough — the man said quietly, but with firm finality.

He looked once more at the body. For a heartbeat, hesitation flickered across his face. He knew the rain would cleanse the ground—but still, something gnawed at him. A vague, irrational unease. He clenched his jaw.

— Enough — he repeated, louder this time, as if to silence his own thoughts.

They moved on. The man adjusted his cloak, feeling the rain soaking through the fabric, dragging at his limbs like dead weight. Behind his eyes lingered bloody fragments—the victim’s final memories, not his own. Foreign terrors that passed into him like parasites with every hunt. And lately, they were harder and harder to distinguish from his own.

He exchanged a glance with Grym. They rarely needed words. The dog trotted faithfully at his side, lifting his head now and then to catch the scent of spring rain and churned earth.

The hero slowed. He was full. And for that fleeting moment, peace returned. No hunt. No need. But he knew—as always—that the hunger would come back. It always did.

That was the order of things.

And yet, in recent weeks, he’d noticed something… different.

There were moments when he locked eyes with his prey and saw something beyond fear. A flicker of recognition. A softening. At times, a single glance seemed enough to drain their will to flee or resist. Once, while hunting a deer, the animal had merely trembled—frozen—allowing him to approach unchallenged. There had been something in that moment, something unnatural.

And something that, though he couldn’t explain why, gave him pleasure.

He sighed, then quickened his pace slightly—as though walking faster might banish the thought. Time moved on, indifferent. And still, they balanced along that narrow line between savagery and the fading embers of humanity—clinging to whatever illusion of dignity remained.

For now, only one thing mattered: finding shelter. Surviving the night.

And waiting for the hunger to return.

Without a glance behind, they disappeared around the bend—leaving nothing but the fury of the storm and the lingering questions that would, sooner or later, come for them again.

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The night dragged on, relentless and enraged. The rain, instead of relenting, hammered the earth harder still, pounding out a steady, thunderous rhythm. Narrow rivulets coursed from every direction, churning mud beneath the feet of the hero and his dog as they moved through the storm’s howling violence. Every so often, lightning cleaved the sky, briefly unveiling the towering silhouettes of distant mountains and the frantic thrashing of tree canopies bent under the weight of the wind.

The man, hood drawn low over his drenched hair, kept close to the edge of the path, trying to avoid the deepest pools. But every step was a struggle—a slow, slogging resistance against nature’s fury. At his side, the black dog plodded silently, occasionally shaking its head to fling away the sheets of water. They were alone. Just the two of them, and the unceasing downpour, loud enough to drown thought itself.

Yet up ahead, amidst the darkness, something flickered.

As they drew closer, the path widened into a clearing encircled by towering, rain-slick trunks. At its center, raised atop a low stone base, stood a shrine. Even in the gloom, its steep, peaked roof revealed intricate carvings—winding leaves, spiral patterns, symbols that hinted at thunder and lightning. At the crest where the beams met, a six-pointed star was etched into the wood, its grooves now filled with running water.

The hero looked up just as another bolt of lightning illuminated the scene. For an instant, the details leapt into sharp relief—the delicate scrollwork, the smooth stone within the niche—and nestled there like a precious relic, the statue of the Virgin Mary. She glowed faintly in the stormlight, her figure carved from pale stone, now darkened slightly by the rain. Even so, she held a quiet grace, her features softened by a profound and inexplicable sorrow.

In the gentle curve of her arm sat a gromnica- thunder candle—long and slender, its flickering flame impossibly steady. Wind screamed. Rain battered the world. But that tiny flame remained. It trembled but did not die, as though sheltered by a fold of her stone garment. Water coursed over her face and hands, but still she cradled the light.

From afar, the scene looked unreal. The storm painted the clearing in shades of grief, and the trees loomed like sentinels. But in the center of it all, stood the shrine—and within it, a pale mother figure guarding a single flame in defiance of logic, of nature, of despair. The dog stepped forward, ears perked, sniffing curiously at the glow. The man raised his hand to stop him. He couldn’t explain why, but some instinct urged reverence. This place demanded it. Even if only for the quiet defiance it embodied.

A crack of lightning struck close by, and for a moment the Madonna’s features lit up in full. Her stone profile looked so lifelike that the hero held his breath. The light glanced across her cheekbones and lips, giving the illusion that her eyes—half-closed in eternal mourning—were fixed on him. There was no miracle, no movement. But still he felt her gaze. Gentle. Knowing. Forgiving.

A sudden pressure bloomed in his chest, as if something deep within had stirred—something long buried, long denied. He tried to suppress it, as he always had. But her face brought the question roaring back: What was the point of all this? What was he becoming? Where did this path lead?

He had pleaded before. Once. Long ago. And had heard nothing in return.

But now, staring at that flickering flame and the stillness of her stone face, he felt the weight of his dead—felt the hunger, the ruin, the echo of a self that might never return. And for a moment, just one, he longed for warmth more than blood. For something to answer the void.

The rain kept falling. The world remained cruel. But he stood motionless, staring at that candle as though it alone had meaning. As though it alone might carry some final truth.

His knees buckled. He sank to the mud, letting it seep into him. Cold. Clinging. He didn’t care. He lifted his eyes to the statue, hand trembling as he reached out—not to touch, but simply to reach.

— Give me... give me a sign — he whispered. The words broke apart in his throat, lost under the downpour.

— Tell me... is there still a path for me? —

He knew how foolish it was. But still he knelt, hand sunk in the dirt, waiting for anything—anything at all. Around him, the storm raged. But between them and it stood the flame, still alight, still defiant. He stared at it, desperate to believe that something saw him.

Then came the flash.

Lightning tore the sky. The air cracked like a whip. The dog flinched and growled low, instinct rising. But the hero’s eyes were locked on the statue. And there, just beneath her sculpted eyes, he saw it.

A line of water—no, darker. Thicker.

It couldn’t be…

Blood?

He blinked, disbelieving. Lightning again. Crimson trails ran down her cheeks.

He raised a hand to his face. It came away slick. Not with rain, but something warm. Something red. Impossible.

— Mother... — he choked, his voice lost. His soul screamed without sound. But before he could process what it meant, thunder shattered his thoughts—and the world snapped back.

Grym rose suddenly, ears sharp, nose twitching.

The man turned toward him. The dog’s body had gone still, tense. Something was out there.

And then, unmistakably, a cry. Human. Desperate. Muffled by the storm, but real.

The hero froze.

His plea still echoed in his skull. Give me a sign.

Now someone was screaming.

Was it coincidence? Or an answer?

He rose quickly, mud sucking at his knees. His fingers wiped across his brow, and came away red—but fading, already vanishing in the rain. A moment ago he had begged for mercy. Now, someone else was crying out.

Another scream.

Grym snarled low, ready to move.

— Whatever it is, I must... — the hero muttered, not knowing what he meant to say. He turned one last time to the Madonna. Water traced her face. Rain alone, he told himself. And yet...

It looked like she was crying.

Another cry echoed from the trees. The dog curled its lip, vibrating with tension.

He clenched his jaw, heart torn wide open.

— Come — he said at last.

They ran toward the sound—one man caught in a storm of sins and omens, one beast driven by instinct. Behind them, the shrine faded into the rain, but the flame—small, stubborn—lingered like memory.

And though the hero no longer knew whether hope could be trusted, something in him believed the flame had seen him. Had answered.

Even if all it promised was another trial ahead, waiting in the dark.

**

Somewhere in the night’s downpour, beyond the edge of the trees, another scream tore through the rain — clearer this time, laced with desperation.
The man and the dog flinched at once, a shiver crawling up their backs as if death had brushed past them. They exchanged a look.
The chapel’s silence was behind them now — without hesitation, they ran toward the sound, through the soaked forest floor.

Rain drummed against the canopy. Lightning carved the slopes and branches in sharp, fleeting flashes.
Nature had opened the gates of its fury — every drop a blade, every tree a barricade.
The man moved with an inhuman lightness, a shadow gliding between trunks.
The dog, sleek and alert, ran close behind.

Before they reached the camp, the man climbed into the branches.
The wind rocked the boughs, but he seemed to weigh no more than smoke.
He wanted to see everything from above.
The dog circled below, hidden in the undergrowth, ready to strike from the dark.

Below — chaos.
Wagons overturned, frightened horses trapped in mud, merchants in bright foreign garments attacked by a gang of mountain bandits.
The roar of rain mixed with screams, the clash of weapons, the wailing of beasts.
In the flashes of lightning and swinging lanterns, blades gleamed — axes, knives, short spears — as men fought savagely, without mercy.

And then he saw her.

A woman entered his sight — tall, powerfully built, with broad hips and muscular legs.
Short black hair clung to her skull, her skin gleamed in the stormlight like obsidian.
He had never seen anyone with such dark skin.
She was like a living statue — strong, proud, high-cheekboned, moving with a wild and fluid grace.
But in her eyes there was a shadow, a weight no warrior could bear.

Their gazes met.
She — furious, wounded, foreign.
He — a silhouette among leaves.
For a heartbeat they stared at one another; she froze, sensing in him something not entirely human.

– Lougawou! – she cried, her voice a thunderclap steeped in legend and rage.
Her movements betrayed her status — the rough weave around her hips and chest spoke of command, not choice.
Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a cold, enduring hatred.
One of the horses screamed; lightning split a nearby branch.

In the same instant, the woman seized a stone and tore open her forearm.
The skin split under the pressure; blood burst forth, hot and metallic in the rain.
Pain and defiance mingled on her face — a reflex of rebellion, even in the face of the inevitable.
Their eyes met again: she below, he hidden in the canopy.
For a moment — shock.
She saw a shadow with an unsettling aura.

Vilk dropped beside her — silent, feral, as if born of the storm itself.
He seized her hand; her blood flared within him like living fire, flooding his mind with visions: cages, ships, lashes, curses in unknown tongues.
He cried out, feeling her pain as his own.
When he raised his head, his eyes burned with someone else’s fury.

The battle became instinct.
Driven by her memories, Vilk lunged at the raiders.
His movements were swift, bestial.
Grym joined in, ripping throats apart.
Screams drowned beneath the deluge.
The merchants panicked at the sight of them — man and beast as one.
Vilk, drunk on blood and Sika’s rage, fought without mercy.

With every strike, his wildness grew.
Throats torn in a single motion, flashes of dark ships and broken bodies — the hell of slave markets burned behind his eyes.
It all pulsed within him like molten fire.

At last, the bandits broke.
The dog brought down another; Vilk moved like a specter.
The slaughter was brief but enough — most lay dead, the rest fled into the forest.
Only two remained — neither fighting, nor fleeing.
They stood suspended between life and death.

Vilk stared at them.
In their eyes he saw not defiance, but surrender — the same resignation he had seen in dying animals.
A heavy silence fell.
The men slowly dropped their weapons; their faces emptied of expression.
They turned and walked into the woods — wordless, joyless, like sleepwalkers led by something they could not comprehend.

Vilk was left with their fear — foreign, clinging, something he had never wanted to feel.
Sika watched him through narrowed eyes, rain and blood streaking down her skin.

Silence descended suddenly.
Thick. Unnatural.
The world after the carnage stood still.

Hero did not move. His eyes still burned with borrowed anger.
He tasted her blood in his mouth; her memories coiled in his thoughts like snakes.

Beside him stood the woman — the one who had torn her own flesh moments earlier to reclaim a fragment of her will.
Her gaze had changed: not only suspicion now, nor only fear.
There was admiration there.
And a wrath that had not yet burned out.

— What did you do to them? — she asked quietly, her voice tight.
Vilk said nothing, watching her — strong, proud, wounded.
— I only looked — he said, not entirely believing his own words.
— You looked? — she echoed. — And that was enough? —
He nodded.
— Why Lougawou?

Sika straightened, still ready to fight.
— Lougawou… that’s what they called them. Monsters who destroy without needing to touch.

Hero was silent. Her pain roared in his head.
Sika glanced at her bleeding hand, then sat on a fallen trunk, her eyes never leaving him.
Vilk crouched slightly, closing the distance.
The silence between them was heavy — not peaceful, but a truce.

Grym prowled among the corpses, sniffing from a distance.
Sika faced him, tense as a cornered beast.

— I won’t kill you — hero said quietly.
Sika lifted her chin, but didn’t step back.
— And why not?
— You are the reason.

Her lips tightened; water ran down her face and shoulders.
— You have my blood — she said. — But not my consent. —
Vilk nodded.
— I know, Sika.

She froze.
— How—
— Blood speaks louder than words.

A pause. Storms still raged in their eyes.

— You know who I am — she said. — But I know nothing of you.
— They call me Vilk — he answered. — For now, that will have to do
— That’s not a name. It’s a warning.
— Maybe.

Grym approached, growling at one of the survivors, whom Vilk sent away with a glance.
— We should move — he said. — Grym’s finishing up, and the night won’t be merciful twice.

Sika looked over the battlefield.
— I can’t stay here. The smell, the mud… this isn’t a place for talk.
The Hero was silent for a moment.
— There’s a road beyond the ridge. I know the path. We can clean the wounds and…
— And decide what comes next — she finished. — Fine.

They moved among the bodies without a word, gathering what could still be used — saddlebags, weapons, food.
No prayers, no mourning. Only need.

They took the horses — a black stallion and a chestnut mare.
The animals offered no resistance, as if eager to leave the slaughter behind.

Grym circled the corpses, knowing what to do.
Vilk didn’t need to say a word.

— I don’t care what you do with the dead — Sika said, stepping over a pool of blood. — Just don’t let me see it
— You won’t — he replied.

When everything was packed and ready, they looked at each other once more.
There was nothing warm between them — but a thread had formed, one that could no longer be cut.

They rode into the forest. Grym vanished among the trees.
Behind them remained the mud, the blood, and all that’s left when there is no choice.

It was not yet an alliance.
But they were no longer strangers.

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The storm had begun to fade, but rain still dripped steadily from the high branches, falling in soft, persistent splashes onto the soaked earth. Vilk and Sika had found shelter in a hollow between two fallen trees, protected by a thick lattice of overhanging branches. Grym circled them in slow, measured arcs, sniffing the air and pricking his ears at every sound. Their horses stood a short distance away, calmly grazing—but their muscles twitched at the slightest shift in the night.

Vilk sat down heavily, his back against the trunk. He was soaked, bone-tired, the last of the battle’s adrenaline slowly bleeding out of him. With it came a deeper breath, and the faint ache of wounds not yet noticed. Across from him, Sika crouched with her injured hand clenched tight, struggling to bind the gash with a scrap of torn fabric.

— Do you need help? — he asked quietly—more out of habit than compassion.

Sika shot him a sideways glance. Her eyes, tight with pain, held no gratitude—only suspicion. After a pause, she shook her head.

— I’ll manage — she replied flatly, without flinching.

Vilk gave a short nod and said nothing more. For a long moment, the two of them stared into the fire between them. It crackled and spit, offering warmth and flickering light, but doing little to dispel the weight hanging in the air.

— Your name, — Vilk said at last, breaking the silence. What does it mean?

Sika hesitated. Then she raised her gaze, meeting his eyes directly—as if searching for something behind them.

— In my homeland, it means ‘gold.’ My mother gave it to me, hoping my life would be worth something. That I wouldn’t live as she had. — Her voice hitched almost imperceptibly. — But I learned early that even gold can be bought and sold.

Vilk looked into the flames. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes made it clear—he was listening.

— What happened back there — Sika said slowly, her tone cautious now. — By the wagons. That look you gave them… it broke something in those men. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Vilk was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged, his answer gruff and dismissive.

— I don’t know — he said. — Lately, something’s been happening to me. When I meet people’s eyes... sometimes it’s like I take something. Their will. I don’t understand it.

Sika winced, not from the wound—but from the answer. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a sharpening wariness.

— You’re dangerous — she said.

— Yes — he replied without hesitation. — But not to you. I won’t harm you.”

— And I’m supposed to believe that?

— No — he said calmly. — You’re not. But if I wanted to hurt you, I already would have.

Their eyes held again. Long enough to test intent. Long enough to weigh risk.

Eventually, Sika looked away and let out a breath.

— I’ve survived too much — she murmured. — I don’t trust anyone without cause. But I also know I can’t make it on my own. I need someone who can keep me alive. Someone strong. Someone who knows how to kill.

Vilk turned toward her, studying her with renewed attention. The anger had faded from her features—replaced now by calculation. A kind he recognized.

— You want me as your bodyguard?

— Not a bodyguard — she said. — An ally. You have power. I have eyes and ears. I know how to listen, where to look, what to notice. You know this land. I don’t. But I understand people.

Her voice was steady, but her breath faltered for a moment, weighted by something invisible.

— I don’t know these forests. I don’t know their words. Everything smells wrong. Even the rain feels strange here.

She turned her head slightly, as though listening for a voice from far away.

— When I speak, people flinch. Men see me as something to buy. Women, as something to fear.

She paused.

— I have no friends. No map. And I don’t speak your language. If you hadn’t tasted my blood, we wouldn’t even be speaking now.

Vilk`s brow furrowed slightly. He said nothing. He listened.

— I know what I look like — she continued. — I know I won’t last here on my own. I want to survive. And I’m not ashamed to know my own worth.

Her gaze dropped to his hands—scarred, calloused, twitching slightly from the fight.

— People will fear you. Good. Maybe that way they’ll stop looking at me.

The silence between them deepened.

Vilk lowered his eyes. Firelight licked across his face, casting fractured shadows. Doubt tugged at him. He could walk away. He could say it was too risky, too complicated. He’d made this mistake before. He’d paid for it.

He clenched his jaw. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then Grym stirred.

The dog, silent until now, rose and padded around the fire, nudging Vilks’s leg with his head—an insistent, impatient prod. Vilk blinked, surprised. Grym rarely interfered.

— What? — he muttered. — You don’t like that I’m hesitating?

The dog stopped, staring up at him. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just... waiting.

Vilk looked at Sika again. She sat still. Calm. Not begging. Not pleading. Simply watching. Offering nothing—but asking even less.

That, he realized, was what had given him pause.

She wasn’t a victim.

She was someone setting terms, even though she had nothing to bargain with.

He sighed. Quietly. Almost a whisper. His fingers flexed in the dirt.

Finally, he nodded.

— For now, we’ll try — he said. — But don’t expect more than what’s necessary.

— What more would I want? she answered flatly. — I’m not looking for a savior. Just someone who won’t die in the first fight. Or mistake me for a reward.

The fire cracked.

Sika rose slowly, careful of her injured hand. Grym returned to Vilk’s side and laid down again, content. His work was done.

Vilk watched the flames. This wasn’t an end—it was the beginning of something. Grym, as always, had known it first.
— It’s settled, then — Sika said quietly. — I need to wash. I smell of blood and fear.
Vilk didn’t move. He only watched as she slipped beyond the edge of the firelight and vanished into the dark.
Grym gave a low, weary huff and laid his head down beside him.
Vilk remained still, eyes fixed on the embers. He had long since stopped believing that anything could change. But tonight had reminded him—surviving wasn’t the same as living.
There was no hope in this arrangement.
No trust.
Only necessity.
And for now—maybe—that was enough.

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The stream murmured somewhere at the edge of hearing, as if even it had grown weary of this night. The fire gave warmth, but it did not chase away all shadows—not the ones stretching across the ground, nor those lurking behind closed eyes. Vilk sat still, hunched, hands resting heavily on his knees. He felt the damp gradually leaving his clothes, his shoulders slowly regaining strength, yet the cold inside him remained.

Closer to the flames, Sika wrapped herself in the wet cloth. She stretched shamelessly, with relief—like a creature finally finding solid ground. Then she settled back on her heels, chin tucked to her knees, staring into the fire. She sought answers in the flames, not in people.

The silence between them was thick. Not awkward—it was heavy, dense with everything they had left behind that night, and with all that remained unspoken. Vilk stared into the embers, feeling not her gaze on him, but her presence—solid, warm, persistent.

The fire cracked and spat sparks. Clouds drifted lazily above the treetops. Horses snorted somewhere in the distance, their breaths softening, as if the world had paused for a moment.

Sika spoke first, her voice low, dropping words into the fire like stones into water:
— You’d better be a killer, Lou. Otherwise, they’ll eat you alive.

Vilk looked at her, eyebrows slightly drawn.
— I was a soldier… Lou?

A half-smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
— That’s what we call you. Lou-ga-wou. Monster. So you know how to hold a sword. What comes next?

Vilk shrugged, adjusting a stick in the firelight.
— Next… scars. And a few stories no one wants to hear.

Sika laughed shortly, without warmth.
— I had no weapons. Only my mouth and my thighs. Scars are still here, and no one asks where they came from.

Silence followed. Vilk looked at her from the side—she was honest, bare, unshielded. She didn’t belong in this world. Neither did he.

— I’ve seen men like you — she said suddenly. — In towns, in squares. A hooded man, avoided by everyone. I thought it was fashion… until I saw one take a man’s head off. Maybe it’s better to have no friends.

Vilk smiled crookedly.
— No one loves executioners. They see too much. Know too much.

Sika shrugged.
— I don’t even know if my name matters here. Back home it meant gold. Here? Maybe a curse.

Silence again. Fire popped softly in the ash. A raven called in the distance. Sika didn’t move, staring into the embers.

— Don’t worry, Lou — she said. — I had to sell myself. You kill. The world’s simple. Just choose who you’ll devour before they devour you.

Vilk snorted under his breath, shaking his head, as if to rid himself of the night’s remnants.
— At least you can speak it aloud.

— Because I have nothing left to be ashamed of — she replied, calm, sharp.

They sat quietly again. But this silence was different—softer, stripped of fear. Somewhere far off, horses shifted and breathed. Leaves whispered overhead. Sika stretched once more, giving a small, tired half-smile.

— Maybe the world needs a few monsters — she murmured, more to herself than him. — Just to keep it from falling apart.

Vilk said nothing.

They watched the fire—neither friends nor enemies. Not saviors, not sinners. Just people who had survived the night.

Somewhere deep in the forest, a raven cried again—perhaps the echo of those who had never had a voice.

The world kept moving, heedless and hungry.

But for them—for now—it had slowed, even if only for a single breath.

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The night hung heavy and damp, the air still bearing the scent of storms—lightning echoes etched into sodden earth. Among fallen trunks and tangled branches, they had carved out a narrow refuge, a patch of ground only slightly drier than the rest, barely enough to breathe without drowning in mud and memory.

The fire crackled softly, throwing wavering shadows across their bodies—filthy, bone-tired, yet bound together by shared survival. Vilk sat motionless, his eyes drifting between the embers and the dark beyond. Grym lay beside him, ever watchful, golden eyes fixed on the shifting gloom.

Across from them, Sika sat wrapped in a damp scrap of cloth. She rubbed her shoulder where a fresh wound throbbed, her face sharp and unreadable. She wasn’t resting—not truly. Her posture held readiness, like an animal that knows the forest never really sleeps.

— I’ve spent too long being looked at — she said abruptly, voice dry and flat. — Too many times I had to pretend I wasn’t even there. And still, they looked. Merchants. Soldiers. Men.

She glanced at Grym—who didn’t so much as blink—then back to Vilk.

— And don’t tell me you haven’t looked — she added—not with accusation, but with cool certainty.

Nobleman didn’t deny it. He said nothing at first, his jaw tightening as if bracing against some truth growing steadily inside him, since the moment he’d first seen her.

— But I’m not waiting behind you, waiting for you to turn your back,” he said eventually, voice low. — That’s the difference.

Sika offered a faint smile—sharp-edged, mirthless. Just air escaping her lungs with irony.

— Maybe. But the line’s thinner than you think. And you… you cross lines. Whether you mean to or not, something about you pushes.

— I won’t hurt you,” he said, flatly. And he meant it. Not as a gesture. As a vow.

They stared at each other in silence. There was distance, yes—but not coldness. Wariness. Like two predators circling, not sure yet whether the other might bite—or save.

— I’m going to wash — she said, rising smoothly. Despite exhaustion, her movements were fluid, self-contained. — You coming?

— You go ahead. I’ll follow.

Something held him back. He didn’t know what.

As she passed, he caught the outline of her hips—full, muscular, impossible not to notice beneath the damp fabric. He cursed himself inwardly for the way his eyes followed her. Embarrassment knotted with curiosity. With something else.

He soon heard the soft splash of water.

He closed his eyes.

It didn’t help.

She was there in his mind: standing at the stream’s edge, her skin slick with moonlight. He saw her plunge her hands into the water, drag them across her face, push wet curls from her forehead. Grym circled her with almost teasing grace, brushing her legs, nose lifting toward her skin—testing boundaries.

Vilk opened his eyes. The stream was close enough to see her through shifting reflections and half-light.

He shouldn’t be watching.

But he could smell her—the sharp scent of sweat and rain, of salt and skin, the memory of her pain still humming beneath his own ribs.

This wasn’t just want.

This wasn’t hunger.

These weren’t even his own images. He knew that. They’d seeped in when he drank from her—her memories, her fury, her shame. Her hatred of being watched, of being reduced to flesh. He couldn’t be one of those men.

He turned away, fists clenched.

Grym, still by the stream, caught a piece of her fabric between his teeth and tugged. Playful. Insistent. She hissed and tried to shove him off, but the dog held firm, tail wagging, as if enjoying the game far too much.

The cloth slipped lower.

Her hips, thighs, and glistening back emerged—curves carved from strength, from survival, from defiance. The fire in Vilk’s chest tightened.

He didn’t move.

He should have.

— You little bastard — Sika muttered, yanking the fabric back—but not in haste. Not in shame.

She raised her head and looked directly at him.

— Grym. — His voice came sharp, rough.

The dog stopped, glancing once at his master, then released the cloth. It floated, slow and silent, across the water’s surface. Sika’s eyes lingered on Vilk—mocking, maybe, but not unkind. Not closed.

Something shifted.

She didn’t cover herself. Didn’t flinch or flee. She let him see—not in surrender, not in provocation, but in challenge. For a single second, she offered him a choice.

Look away.

Or accept what he saw.

Vilk didn’t look away.

She turned, slowly, deliberately, her posture proud. The water slid down her back like light across onyx. There was no apology in her gaze. Only strength. Only the question: What will you do with this?

Vilk clenched his jaw and turned away.

But the image stayed.

Grym gave a huff that could have been laughter, then settled near her on the stones. Vilk stared into the fire, trying to bury it—her silhouette, her eyes, the echo of something stirring where nothing had stirred for too long.

Sika said nothing more.

But she had seen it.

The moment of hesitation. The storm beneath the silence. The part of him he hadn’t dared name.

This was only the beginning.

And they both knew it.

The sky was no longer the same.

Even in darkness, even in the unmoving hush of night, the moonlight felt altered. It wasn’t cold anymore, nor detached or distant. It seemed heavier now, as though weighted with judgment, casting its pale glow not just over the world but directly upon him.

He stood still. Thought circled tightly in his mind. What now? What was he supposed to do with himself? He stared into the void between the trees, trying to fix his attention on anything else—anything other than what had just happened.

– We need to find something to eat– he muttered, more to himself than to Grym.

Only then did he glance at the dog. Grym sat in silence, unchanged, composed, as though none of it mattered. As though this world—this place where death and hunger and strange magic mingled—was of no concern to him.

And beside him, the horse was gone.

Only bones remained.

The hero froze. His thoughts staggered, refusing to assemble. He didn’t see. Didn’t hear. He simply stared. No. It must be a mistake. A trick of light. A hallucination. Moments ago—it had still been there. He couldn’t allow himself to consider what that meant. He had already passed too many thresholds.

Some truths were better left unspoken.

He turned his eyes to Grym again. The dog’s gaze burned golden through the shadows. It held no accusation, no sorrow—only clarity. A reflection. Grym hadn’t looked away. He had seen what happened and had accepted it, as if this, too, was part of the world’s natural order.

Without a word, the hero turned and walked.

His body moved ahead while his mind still wandered in tight spirals. Grym rose and followed without hesitation.

They left the path unnoticed.

The forest welcomed them.

Branches thickened overhead, tangled into a living canopy. The night felt deeper here, heavier, folding in on itself. Mist crept along the forest floor, dense and sluggish, and the air carried the scent of soaked earth, wet bark, and slow decay. Somewhere among the roots and low shrubs, small pale lights flickered—fireflies, or perhaps something else. The forest didn’t just surround them. It observed.

His thoughts strained, like an animal on a short leash. He couldn’t ignore what had happened. He needed understanding. A shape, a name. Had he been cursed? Was this punishment for the life he had lived? Or a signal, a mark of some ancient design—one that had already claimed him before he even knew where the line was drawn?

The deeper he went, the more he felt he was descending—not just into the woods, but into himself. He passed through old layers of thought, into darker places. The branches above whispered, their leaves brushing softly. The roots beneath twisted like the buried limbs of some long-dead giant. There was beauty here, yes—but it was wild, unknowable, and profoundly uneasy.

He couldn’t say how long he walked. A minute. An hour. Time had lost its grip.

Eventually, he found it: a stream.

Its black waters moved slowly over polished stones, quiet and reflective. The moon’s light slipped across its surface in thin silver ribbons. It looked real. Clean. Unchanged.

He knelt at the edge and looked down.

His reflection stared back—though he wasn’t entirely sure it was him. The face was familiar, but changed. Dark eyes. Hollow, yet something flickered inside them. Not moonlight. Something red. Subtle, but present.

Don’t think about it.

He splashed his face. The water was cold. He could feel it. And yet it didn’t register as fully his skin. The chill brushed across him like wind through a memory. He dipped his hands into the stream again, not knowing why. Not to cleanse. There was nothing left to clean.

The water was clear and silent, passing over its bed without resistance. He breathed, slowly, and looked into the surface once more.

It was not the face he had once known.

His skin looked tighter, as though something pulsed just beneath. His eyes held a foreign glow—dim, reddish, faint, but real. It wasn’t moonlight. It wasn’t a trick.

Without thinking, he splashed more water onto his face. It didn’t help. The chill brought no clarity. No relief. Whatever had changed was not skin-deep. It lived inside him now. It was him.

He inhaled again and looked at Grym. The dog watched from the riverbank, unmoving. Calm. As if he had always known.

The stream murmured gently, slipping between stones, unbothered by the presence of man or beast. The hero watched the water. Watched the way the light broke on its surface. Breathed in again.

Then it struck him.

The words he had spoken earlier—so casually, so instinctively—returned with sudden force:

We need to find something to eat.

They echoed through his mind like a stone dropped into a still pond. But instead of vanishing, the ripples grew wider. Deeper. They stirred something within him—something that had only begun to awaken.

He stood, though he hadn’t meant to.

The ground beneath his feet felt unsteady. Not in the physical sense, but in something deeper—something that moved within him. A fracture. A quiet shift in shape.

His stomach tightened. Not from hunger, not exactly. But from something close to it—an anticipation. A slow, coiling need. It didn’t feel unnatural. It felt inevitable.

He took another breath—and the air changed.

It had structure now. Texture. Layers.

At first, the scents came softly. Water—cool, mineral-rich. Moss—damp, earthy, deep. Roots, bark, sap, decay. The breath of the forest, subtle and ancient. It flowed into him like a story half-remembered, like a song heard before waking.

Then another scent joined them.

Warmer. Heavier. Slow. Saturated.

It didn’t crash into him. It wove through everything else—threaded through the forest like velvet in water. It gripped his focus. Pulled him in. It was not a smell. It was a presence.

Blood. Life.

He didn’t feel predatory. He didn’t feel like a hunter.

It simply felt… natural.

A darker thread wove through the scent. Denser. Tense with motion. Alive. Present.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing had changed. But the world was different.

The water still ran. The forest still breathed. Grym still waited.

But everything else had shifted.

He turned slowly. The scent was near. He hadn’t found it yet, but he would. He didn’t need vision to guide him. Only instinct.

He took a step. Then another. Quiet. Measured.

Grym moved beside him, silent and sure.

With each step, the air seemed to tighten—coalescing into paths, invisible but real. The world had become a trail.

His footsteps made no sound. His breathing was calm. Focused.

The scent grew stronger. Richer.

He didn’t think anymore. He only moved.

Every leaf, every shift of shadow, every bend of grass sang with some hidden geometry. The forest no longer surrounded him—it walked with him.

Grym matched his pace. Silent as a ghost. Unflinching.

There was no hesitation.

Only this.

Only now.

The scent sharpened.

He felt heat moving in the air. He heard the whisper of breath. The flutter of a heartbeat.

It was close.

He didn’t see it yet.

But he knew.

His steps quickened—no longer careful, now certain. His body surged forward. Hunger flooded his limbs. Desire overtook doubt.

He could feel it. Taste it. Hear it.

There, between the trees, a flicker of movement—underbrush shifting gently.

His heart pounded. His blood surged.

He didn’t hesitate.

And just ahead—

Grym leapt first.

*

The forest dissolved into motion.

There were no more trees, no more ground beneath their feet—only streaks of shadow and light sweeping past like brushstrokes on a canvas soaked in night. They moved through space faster than wind, lighter than breath. Each footfall made no sound, but they felt everything: the tension in the earth, the flex of roots, the lean of slope. Their muscles drank in vibrations, adjusting with an instinctive grace—like dancers who had long ago memorized the shape of the land.

Pale birches flickered past like ghosts, their bark catching moonlight for the briefest moment before vanishing into dark. Shadows tangled with silver, spinning illusions—this wasn’t a chase. It was transit. Not through space, but through something less tangible. They were no longer moving within the forest—they were part of it. Man and dog, two creatures, two currents of energy, flowing in perfect rhythm.

Grym ran ahead, taut as a bowstring. His paws whispered through the underbrush, leaping over gnarled roots, weaving effortlessly between trunks. The night welcomed him. He moved not through it but with it—eyes blazing gold, the only fixed point in the world’s blur.

And the hero followed, fluid and silent. No longer a man in motion, he was motion itself. A shadow made flesh. A thread of darkness drawn through the weave of the woods. He no longer thought, no longer reasoned. He didn’t need to. Instinct carried him—pure, urgent, unstoppable. He breathed as predators breathe: not for oxygen, but for scent. For the heat of blood. For the nearness of prey.

And always—there was the ribbon.

It pulsed ahead of them. Crimson, sinuous, almost alive. Not a trail, not a smell, but a presence. A calling. It coiled through the forest like a vein exposed, guiding them forward, unwavering. The trees, the earth, the wind—all of it might vanish. But the red would remain.

It was life. It was direction. It was everything.

The night stretched around them, infinite and trembling. Colors shimmered where they should not have—deep indigos, fractured silver, glimmers of amber caught in Grym’s gaze. But all was drowned by the red. The red ruled.

They moved faster. Step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat, accelerating into something more than speed. Their movements were pure precision, untouched by hesitation. Reflex ruled. Need drove them. They breathed the night in greedy lungfuls, as if air itself had become light.

The forest vanished. What remained was momentum—an unbroken blur. The world trembled underfoot, quivering with pressure, with purpose. Only the ribbon mattered. Only what waited at its end.

They had become the hunt.

And they were close.

The ribbon writhed ahead, delicate and gleaming like smoke in moonlight. It pulsed with life, unaware it was pursued. It tasted of wind and wildness, moss-damp fur, and the silence of branches murmuring to one another in forgotten tongues. It trembled with nervous energy, but it remained steady, glowing—waiting.

Grym and the hero moved as one, weaving through tree trunks, skimming over damp ground. The world bent around their passing, yielding with soft grace. All was fluid, all was dreamlike. And yet the scent sharpened. Grew focused.

The doe was close.

Her hooves touched the forest floor lightly, barely stirring leaves. But he felt her—felt her pulse, subtle and swift beneath skin. Her breath floated in the chill as pale clouds. Her warmth bled into the air around her. She smelled of freedom, of gentle things not meant for violence. She ran—but not yet in fear. She did not know.

Not yet.

The forest blurred further. Trees became shadows, moonlight became thread. Sound disappeared. All that remained was rhythm—the unspoken tempo of two predators converging on one singular point.

The hero saw everything. The ripple of tension in her flanks, the shiver in the air around her body. He didn’t see a creature—he saw a field of energy, alive and radiant. The ribbon intensified: pink to crimson, crimson to blood-black red, glowing with its own inner fire.

He no longer thought. There was no plan, no strategy.

There was only the path.

His body already knew it.

This was the rhythm of the hunt.

And Grym knew the moment.

Golden eyes flared. The dog shifted sideways, angling sharp and low, cutting off escape before the doe could sense danger. Not a sound. Not a misstep.

The moment snapped.

A breath. A single, fragile beat.

And the hero was beside her.

He didn’t leap. Didn’t strike. He flowed.

One final step, and he plunged into her ribbon.

No cry. No blood burst. No collapse.

Only warmth.

It spread through him like light through closed eyes—slow, steady, inexorable. It wasn’t taste. It wasn’t texture. It was being. Liquid life flowing inward, filling him, saturating him.

And then—memories. Flashes. A run through tall grass. The feel of sunlight on a back. The smell of rain before it fell. Her last thoughts—scattered, wild, frightened—spilled into him like starlight into a well.

He leaned back, trembling, full.

Not with victory.

With communion.

This was no kill. This was absorption.

Existence, shared.

When he rose, the doe’s body lay still—whole, empty. Grym approached, calm and methodical, and began to feed. No violence. No frenzy. Only ritual.

The hero did not move.

His breath came slowly. The ribbon lingered in his mind, fading. Its brightness dimmed.

Relief came.

A quiet, temporary peace.

But it was thin.

It would not last.

Perhaps a quarter-hour.

A blink.

A breath.

The hunger always returned.

He stepped forward again.

There was no path. No plan.

Only the hunt.

Only hunger.

It had become his state of being.

A boar followed. Thick-bodied, iron-willed. Its blood was richer, coarser. It fought. It bled. And it died. He absorbed its weight, its strength—and yet the void reopened moments later.

Then came the vixen. Cunning, elusive, all swiftness and guile. He gave chase—not out of challenge, but necessity. She was part of the rhythm. She was red. He caught her in midair, just before escape. Her thoughts smelled of leaves and furrows, cubs hidden beneath roots. She vanished into him like mist.

Boundaries between himself and night disappeared. He was shadow, shape in motion, half-conscious, lost within what he had become. He caught her mid-leap, weaving the ribbon into himself, absorbing all she had been. He smelled leaves within her memories, saw hidden dens, tracks imprinted in earth, memories of other creatures. Yet again, emptiness quickly returned.

Night after night, more prey—deer, boar, hares, even birds bursting skyward at the final instant. Their frail bodies taut with terror, their blood different yet tasting the same.

And him? He wasted away, weakening still.

Days blurred into endless search. Time ceased to exist. The man he’d once been vanished. Each hunt sharpened his instincts but eroded his humanity. He became something new, something wild.

Yet the hunger remained, insatiable, relentless, eternal.

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At first, he moved with restraint, stalking the scent as a wolf might—low, deliberate, precise. But caution burned away quickly, consumed by something too fierce, too primal to control. The hunger surged like fire in his blood. His chest tightened, breath deepened, and in an instant—he ran.

Everything else disappeared. There was no forest, no night, no memory of who or what he had been. Only hunger. Only the flame. The scent, sharper than ever, wrapped around him like smoke and pulled him forward with irresistible force.

He moved through the trees like a storm, not touching the ground so much as parting it, slicing through shadows that warped and twisted around him. Every stride sharpened his senses, every heartbeat sent red thunder pulsing through his limbs. The world fractured into streaks of color—black and gold, scarlet and violet, moonlight shattered into veins of molten crimson.

The night breathed with him.

He became speed. He became fire. His limbs no longer moved—they followed. His body was weightless, reduced to instinct, reduced to need. The forest blurred, became backdrop, became air.

And the ribbon—always the ribbon—remained ahead. Glowing red. A thread of perfect life unraveling through the dark, whispering promises of wholeness.

With every stride, it grew closer.

With every breath, he felt more of it.

Desire no longer clawed at him from within—it consumed him, reshaped him. Not just hunger. Not just craving. This was fulfillment. This was truth.

He ran soundlessly, as if night itself carried him forward. The trees gave way, the sky yawned wide, and the world narrowed to a single point. A red trail on the ground, droplets soaking into soil. One. Then another. Each glistening like a star fallen into the dirt.

A broken carriage appeared ahead—splintered wood, scattered crates, shattered glass catching moonlight like ice. Wheels still rocked faintly, as though something had touched them only moments ago. Torn cloth flapped in the wind. The scent thickened.

But none of that mattered.

He saw only the blood. A trail, a guide, a map etched into the world for him alone.

He and Grym emerged from opposite sides of the glade. Hunters. Partners. Their movements mirrored each other—flawless, inevitable.

Victory already belonged to them.

And then—time broke.

Beneath the wreckage, tangled in torn blankets and ruined goods, lay a man. Crushed. His limbs twisted, his chest sunken where the wood had collapsed. Life clung to him like smoke—barely, weakly. Each breath a ragged whisper. His hand trembled beside him.

The hero didn’t move.

The man opened his eyes.

They were clouded by pain, half-seeing, but not empty. He looked up, not with fear—but with something like recognition.

– Help me…– the man rasped, voice broken.

And then, softer:
– Have a mercy…

Just one word.

Enough to break the spell.

The thought struck hard, like cold steel against the base of his skull.

No.

You don’t have to do this.

He froze.

The scent rushed up into him—hot, rich, irresistible. It filled his nose, coated his tongue, wrapped around his mind. His jaw clenched. His fingers curled. Hunger throbbed in his bones.

But he could stop.

This time, he could still choose.

The man’s heart beat—once. A slow, agonizing thud. That sound should have been nothing. A dying rhythm. But it echoed inside him like a drumbeat.

One second of resistance.

One second where he might still turn away.

And then it passed.

His hands moved. Not gently. Not violently. Simply with purpose. They gripped the man’s shoulders. Shifted him, lifted him, brought him close.

The last breath hovered between them.

He exhaled into it.

And drank.

It was immediate.

Not animal. Not instinctual. Not like the doe, or the fox, or the boar.

This was different.

This was real.

The moment his lips touched skin, warmth poured into him—not just heat but meaning. Blood, yes—but more than blood. Substance. Essence.

It quieted the hunger in an instant.

Not dulled it.

Silenced it.

As if all his suffering had been a prelude to this. As if everything before had been shadow, and this—this—was the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

The blood ran thick. It carried weight. Not just iron, but memory.

The man’s life flooded into him. Not abstract. Not symbolic.

Real.

Laughter. Sunlight. A cup of wine raised in summer light. Fingers entwined in another’s. A meal. A kiss. A fear unspoken. A wound left untreated. The sting of betrayal. The softness of sleep.

A child’s voice.

A woman’s goodbye.

His name.

All of it surged into the hero’s mind like water bursting through a dam. He staggered, overwhelmed. He didn’t just absorb it. He felt it. He knew the man. Knew his final thoughts. Knew the ache in his bones and the song that used to lull him to sleep.

And then—nothing.

The blood stopped.

The warmth faded.

The man was gone.

He let go.

And stepped back.

His hands trembled. Not from weakness. From clarity.

He had crossed a threshold—and there would be no return.

This was the truth. The real hunger. The true nourishment. All else had been illusion. Animal blood was shadow. This—this was light. Color. Memory. Power.

From the darkness, Grym emerged.

The dog said nothing. He didn’t need to.

His golden eyes met the hero’s—and in that gaze was no surprise.

Only confirmation.

Everything had changed.

***

There were no more moans. No whispered pleas. No dying breath to mark the passing of a soul. Only silence remained—dense and unmoving, draping the night like a damp, suffocating veil. The world held still. Not in reverence. Not in shock. Simply still.

He knelt.

Fingers still pressed to skin that had already begun to cool, though no warmth had lingered there long. The body—if it could still be called that—was a husk. Hollow. Bloodless. The same as all the others. Skin stretched thin across bone, lips parted, eyes wide but vacant. Gone was the man who had once begged for mercy. Gone, and yet not quite absent. Something of him still pulsed beneath the surface—inside the hero.

His hands trembled. Not from exhaustion. Not from pain. From something worse. A kind of tremor born deep within, where even the strongest will could not reach. He clenched his fists into the man’s tunic, still damp, stained with what should have been life. Power burned behind his ribs, fresh and strong, pulsing through him like a heartbeat that didn’t belong.

He felt no emptiness. No weakness.

He was full. Overflowing.

And that was what terrified him.

A shiver ran through him, cold despite the heat radiating from his skin. He swallowed, but the taste lingered. Not of blood. Not exactly. It was memory. Essence. The flavor of the man’s final breath, his final thought, still haunted his tongue. The voice that had begged him—mercy—still echoed inside his head.

This wasn’t like the others.

Animals didn’t speak.

Animals didn’t look at him and see him.

He had consumed many, and their deaths had left little imprint. There were no names, no voices, no pleading eyes. But this one had spoken. Had reached for him. Not just in desperation, but with recognition. And he—he had answered not with comfort, not with solace, but with consumption.

He had fed.

And he had liked it.

His breath hitched. A flicker of panic. He didn’t know what part of him was reacting—the man he used to be, or something newer, something darker, pulsing just beneath his skin.

“It was a mercy,” he whispered.

The words sounded hollow even to him.

A justification, nothing more.

But the mind is eager to believe what it must. He clung to the thought. Repeated it.

He was already dying. I didn’t cause it.

I just… ended it.

That made it better, didn’t it?

He tried again. “He wouldn’t have lasted the night.”

It didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like survival. Like need. Like pleasure.

He rose slowly, but not from reverence. It was necessity. His legs were steady, stronger than before. His spine straighter. There was no denying it: the man’s life had not only sustained him—it had empowered him. The ache that had gnawed at him for days had vanished. The hunger, momentarily stilled. His body thrummed with life not his own.

And that—more than anything—was the horror.

The forest understood.

The trees stood silent, still, as if unwilling to speak. No breeze moved the leaves. Even the stars seemed dimmer now, as though they, too, had turned their faces away.

He looked up, seeking comfort in the sky.

None came.

Then he felt the tear. Just one at first. Then another.

He didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t even flinch.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried.

But it wasn’t grief.

Not mourning.

It was resignation.

This was what it felt like—to step fully into the dark.

It didn’t come all at once. It crept. Slowly. Relentlessly. Each act of cruelty easier than the last. Each choice more distant from the man he had once been. The pieces fell away—not in pain, but in silence. No screams. No protests. Just quiet surrender.

He took a breath. Then another.

He was still breathing.

But it no longer felt like his breath.

He closed his eyes, trying to center himself.

Too late.

There was no single voice inside his mind now.

There were many.

A blur of fragmented memories, glimpses of other lives not his own. The patter of paws through leaves. The sting of an arrow. The chill of dawn on skin. Fear. Hunger. Rage. A newborn’s cry. A woman’s laughter. Every life he had consumed—human, beast—echoed now inside him, as if he were no longer a person, but a vessel.

He gasped and recoiled, stumbling backward from the corpse. His knees buckled, his hands scraped against cold, wet soil. Panic twisted in his chest like a blade. He wanted to scream, but the sound died in his throat.

Who am I?

He had no answer.

He was everything—and nothing.

Behind him, somewhere deeper in the dark, Grym finished his meal. The sounds were mechanical, effortless. Flesh torn, swallowed, crushed. No guilt. No reflection. Just instinct.

He didn’t turn around.

He couldn’t.

The hero stared down at his blood-soaked hands, still trembling, still warm.

The man he had been was dying.

And no one would mourn him.

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There was no calendar to mark time. No sun to rise differently, no stars to count the nights. Only the forest, endless and indifferent, and the road beneath his feet that refused to end. It coiled like a serpent through dark groves and crooked glades, always forward, always deeper. Without destination. Without return.

The air had changed. The wind no longer stirred the leaves gently—it hissed through them. Mornings emerged heavy with mist, thick as wool, pressing down on shoulders already bent beneath the weight of memory. Even the trees seemed tired now. Leaves yellowed slowly, reluctant to fall, clinging to bare branches as though afraid of the end. Just like him.

He walked.

Not because he had somewhere to be. Not because he believed there was something ahead. But because stopping meant acknowledging what had already taken hold.

He had stopped counting days. But his body remembered.

Each morning, he rose slower. Each breath was deeper, carried farther down into lungs that once surged with strength. His muscles still moved without hesitation—his limbs remained obedient, almost too obedient—but it wasn’t true vitality. It was something else. A borrowed momentum. An echo of power that wasn’t truly his.

It was a lie.

He hadn’t fed since the man. Not truly. There had been no one else. And animals—he didn’t even try anymore. He knew they wouldn’t help. Not in the way he needed. Their blood was shallow. It filled the void for a moment, then faded like smoke. They didn’t give him warmth. Not like them.

He tried to endure. He told himself he could resist it. That he didn’t need to become something else. That he still had a choice. But the hunger had changed.

It no longer clawed at his stomach. No longer felt like thirst in his throat. It had sunk deeper—into his marrow, into his thoughts. Into his sense of self. It lived in silence. Waited in stillness.

He felt it when the nights stretched longer. When his steps faltered for the first time. When he sat down without meaning to and realized, for a moment, he couldn’t remember why he had risen.

He rubbed his face often. Not from cold, not from dirt. But as if he could scrub something off. As if the right movement, the right force, might tear away what he’d become. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

The stream had frozen at the edges. He still dipped his hands in its icy surface, still washed the dried blood that only he could see. But he was no cleaner than before.

He tried not to remember the man. But memory doesn’t need permission. It returned again and again—his voice, the way his eyes had widened, not in fear, but in recognition. In understanding. Help me.

The plea had become part of him.

He hadn’t torn flesh. Hadn’t crushed bones. But what difference did it make? The blood had been his. The soul, perhaps, too.

And what did that make him?

A beast?

A shadow?

Something worse?

Grym remained close. The dog watched him with the same golden eyes, calm and unmoved. Never questioning, never condemning. Just there. Silent sentinel. Companion. Witness.

He followed when the hero stumbled into another clearing, when he sat on the edge of a fallen tree and stared into the woods, eyes fixed on nothing. He lay beside him at night, curled against the cold, the two of them breathing together beneath a sky that seemed farther than ever before.

The hunger did not strike suddenly. It never did.

It crept. Subtle. Patient.

At first, it was restlessness. Then a faint irritability, like something just beneath the surface, nagging. Then came the disorientation. The forgetfulness. And finally—the hollow.

That emptiness.

That ache not of the body, but of the soul. Like something sacred had been scooped out, and nothing in the world could fill it again. He remembered that feeling. He remembered what it led to.

And he knew what it meant.

He tried to resist it. He had lasted longer this time. Far longer. But it didn’t matter. Resistance only made the hunger smarter. Sharper. It waited until he was weakest. Until he had no more reasons to say no.

He could feel it again now. Watching. Waiting. Stretching its limbs inside him.

The forest had grown colder. Even the wind didn’t howl anymore—it whispered. As though nature itself held its breath.

How long had it been?

A week?

Two?

More?

There was no difference anymore.

The sky remained gray. The woods remained endless. The cold had taken root in his bones.

And deep down, he understood:

He would not last much longer.

*****

The forest did not react.

It bore witness in silence, unchanging. No gust of wind to scatter the leaves. No bird cry to pierce the stillness. The trees stood indifferent, tall and motionless, as though nothing had occurred at all. As though the act had no weight.

But it did.

The hero crouched beside the fallen man, his breath shallow, thick with the metallic tang of blood. The scent clung to his skin, to his clothes, to the air around him, turning every inhalation into an echo of what he had taken. His mouth remained parted, tongue heavy with the taste of a life that was not his, that now existed only within him.

He had not rushed. Had not panicked. Every moment had been deliberate. Each strike, each pause, each breath between the pulses—chosen. Measured. Savored.

And that was what disturbed him most.

He had enjoyed it.

Not just the satiation. Not the warmth or the strength that bloomed in his limbs after. But the act itself. The build-up. The moment of dominance. The surrender.

He had played with his prey.

His stomach turned, but he didn’t retch. He couldn’t. That reflex belonged to someone else, someone who still recoiled from what he had become.

The warrior’s body lay still. Eyes open, but unseeing. Mouth slack. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and gleaming in moonlight like spilled ink across parchment. The sabre still rested in his outstretched hand. Still sharp. Still untouched.

For a long time, the hero didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only stared.

Not at the body.

At himself.

His hands trembled faintly. His pulse had slowed, but not returned to normal. It would never be normal again. This was normal now. This was him.

He stood slowly. His legs ached, though not from exertion. The ache came from something deeper. Something buried.

Grym stepped forward. The dog sniffed at the body, then looked up. Not with reproach. Not even curiosity. Just recognition.

He had seen this before.

The hero turned away. Not from Grym. Not from the body. But from the question forming at the edge of his mind—one that had no answer.

He walked a few steps and stopped.

Something within him had shifted.

He could feel it.

It wasn’t just the strength. That came and went, burned fast and hot and left only ash behind. This was subtler. Quieter. Like a thread pulled loose from the center of a tapestry, unraveling everything one thread at a time.

He was losing himself.

Not in a sudden collapse, but in a gradual decay. A soft erosion. Thought by thought. Choice by choice.

A part of him wanted to scream. But the scream no longer existed. It had faded somewhere between the first kill and the last breath he’d taken from the warrior now lying broken behind him.

He turned back once more.

Not to apologize.

To remember.

He knelt, closed the warrior’s eyes, then wiped his bloodied hand on the man’s cloak.

And stood.

Grym was already moving. Slow, steady steps, heading into the woods. Into the next shadow. The next night.

The hero followed.

Leaves crunched softly underfoot. The air was colder now. The scent of the fire had already faded, replaced by the damp breath of the forest. The trees loomed, branches clawing at the sky.

Behind them, the campfire’s glow waned into ash.

No words were spoken. There was nothing left to say.

Only the road. Only the hunger.

And the quiet knowledge that this, too, had only been another beginning.

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The Queen stepped back, letting the silence reclaim the space between them. Her eyes shimmered with something deeper than satisfaction—something that resembled mourning, or perhaps memory. She didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to.

The hero remained kneeling, his mouth still tingling from the remnants of the liquid she had given him. It clung to his throat like fire and honey, burning gently, settling into the pit of him like a second heart. He could feel it already—how it moved through him, how it rewrote what little was left untouched.

The wound beneath his ribs had closed. Not healed—closed. As if it had never been. As if the act of death, the intent of release, had been nothing more than a breath in the dark. His hands, still slick with blood, no longer trembled. His chest rose steadily. His pulse returned.

He was alive.

Again.

And worse—he was whole.

He looked down, expecting pain. Weakness. Instead, there was strength. Deeper than before. Colder. More certain. Not the hunger of the body—something older. Hungrier.

The Queen watched him rise.

“Why?” he asked, though the word barely formed.

She tilted her head, moonlight catching in her eyes like blades.

“Because I claimed you the moment you crossed the line,” she said. “Because you called to me long before your body remembered how to kneel.”

He said nothing. What was there to say?

She stepped forward once more, fingers brushing his jaw, not tenderly, not cruelly—just to remind him of what he now belonged to.

“You don’t get to die by your own hand,” she said softly. “Not anymore. You chose the dark. And now the dark chooses for you.”

Behind him, Grym approached silently, paws soundless on the wet leaves. The dog said nothing—of course—but his presence was heavier now. More than witness. He had seen it all. Had followed. Had waited.

And he had not turned away.

The Queen began to fade, not stepping back, not retreating—simply… receding. Like mist dissolving in moonlight. Her figure unspooled into shadow until only her voice remained.

“You are not done.”

He lowered his gaze.

He had known that. The moment the blade failed to end him, the moment he drank and survived, he had known.

The story was not over.

He turned, slowly, to face the forest once more. The night had resumed its breath. Wind moved through the trees again, brushing through branches like a whisper. The stars glimmered faintly above, veiled behind drifting clouds.

Nothing had changed.

And yet everything had.

The taste still lingered. Not of blood. Not of death. But of that drink. That gift. That curse. Whatever it was.

He wasn’t human now. Not truly. Not fully. Perhaps he never had been.

The hunger stirred quietly inside him again—not wild this time, not burning—but steady. Watching. Waiting.

He didn’t feel shame anymore. Not exactly. Guilt, perhaps, but even that was shifting. Becoming something else.

Understanding.

This was what he was now.

Chosen. Claimed.

Condemned.

He wiped his mouth, slowly, deliberately. Looked at the sabre still lying on the ground.

He left it there.

He no longer needed it. The blade could kill others. But it would never kill him.

Without a word, he moved forward. Grym followed, as always—silent, unwavering, a golden gaze at his side.

Through the forest.

Into night.

Toward whatever the Queen had meant when she said:

“Now you understand.”

*******

The world returned violently.

Breath—torn, rasping. Air tore into his lungs as if he were learning to breathe all over again. His chest burned, his heart pounded, though no longer with the wild force of that first time. He knew this state now. He had passed through it before.

He lay where he had fallen. The sabre rested nearby, damp with earth—useless, discarded. His eyes fixed on the sky, but he saw no stars. Nothing at all—only the void, stretching above him and within. Just as boundless. Just as eternal.

Grym watched him—too intently.

As if he knew this night would never end.
As if he had seen more than he should.
As if he had been waiting for something that had yet to come.

When the hero stirred, the dog wagged its tail, slow and drowsy—the same foolishly cheerful look on his face, as if nothing had happened. As if nothing extraordinary was unfolding. As if the world hadn’t already shattered into nothingness.

The hero lacked the strength to rise. He lacked even the strength to think. He was a grain of sand, drifting in the ocean of something that had long since ceased to resemble life. So small. So defenseless.

Eventually, a sound escaped him—a dull, pitiful whimper. Not a scream. Not a cry. Something cracked open again inside him. Something that should have long since died.
He couldn’t even end it.
Even death had been taken from him.

And then came the thought—more terrifying than any other:

This will never end.

There would never again be silence.
Not in his mind.
Not in his body.

It was damnation—boundless, unending.

He knew now that he would have to kill to survive. But survival no longer meant salvation. No longer offered choice. No longer brought freedom.

He lay there a long time. Alone—within an endless void, and yet surrounded by something that pressed in on him from all sides. As though the entire world were watching him—and laughing without sound.

And Grym?

Grym merely waited. Because there was nothing else left to do.

Time lost its meaning.

Days bled together, stretching into a formless mass with neither beginning nor end. Sunrises and sunsets ceased to mark his existence—they became a distant, mechanical rhythm, belonging to a world that no longer concerned him. He drifted in the void, submerged in something that no longer resembled life.

He wandered. Through forests, across fields, into dark valleys where mists coiled like spirits. He passed along nameless roads, across paths whose names he’d forgotten—or had never known to begin with. He had no destination. No home.

He moved like a shadow across the world—leaving no trace, no story behind.
He had no memories worth clinging to.

There was only him—and the hunger.
And the victims who did not yet know they were his.

In time, he stopped noticing their faces. But he remembered them all. Every feature. Every pair of eyes that looked back at him in those final seconds—etched like carvings in stone, chiseled into the walls of his soul. Some were faint—chance encounters, swift and without meaning. Others... others were heavy. Deep, like cracks that would never heal.

Each blood had its own taste.
But that was never what remained.

When he closed his eyes, he saw their gazes.
Their voices never faded—only whispered at the edges of thought.
Like doors left ajar, letting in something that should have long been gone.

Sometimes, he felt their hands.

Brief, fleeting sensations—someone holding a child, someone brushing a table’s edge, someone running a finger along the rim of a goblet.

Not his hands.
Theirs.
Not his memories.
Theirs.

Their lives became his.

They lived inside him. All of them.
Their dreams, their voices, their final breaths.

And when he closed his eyes—he no longer knew which thoughts were truly his own.

The world moved around him—and he remained merely a shadow among shadows.

And though he was never truly alone—Grym always stayed by his side—he was more alone than ever before.

Grym never judged. Never questioned. Never left.
He circled him like a ghost, a mute witness to his descent. A sentinel guarding what the hero had long since lost.

And so it continued.
For a long time.

Darkness stretched on into eternity.
It seeped into everything he had ever known.

The darkness had no end. Thick and sticky like tar, it clung to thought and memory—and to flesh, though there was no flesh anymore. No hands. No legs. No eyelids left to close.
Only existence remained, suspended in the void—the same void where he had died.

The world around him was neither empty nor fully formed.
It quivered at the edge of perception, as though everything had been stretched and twisted—present, yet not quite of this dimension. The sky spilled out like blood across metal: a crimson tide rippling in surreal streaks. The ground below—if it was ground at all—throbbed with a dark violet light, as if it were the skin of something alive. Something that breathed. Something trembling in absolute silence.

He lay paralyzed.
Motionless.
There was no pain—only weight. A great heaviness pressing him down, drawing him deeper, until even the shape of his being began to dissolve.
It felt like a nightmare, the kind whispered in folk tales—the mare that sits on one’s chest at night, suffocating sleepers in their beds.
Something was near him.
Standing over him.
But he could not turn to see.

And then he saw her.

She moved slowly, but weightlessly—
as though reality bent beneath her steps,
as though her presence unraveled the world from the inside out,
burning it to ash and remaking it in silence.

She was neither shadow nor light.
She was the exact seam between them.

Her garment—was it a gown? Armor?
He could not say.
It was not fabric. It was not metal.
It seemed not made by human hands, but spun from night itself.
Born of a power beyond defiance.

The folds of black-scarlet shimmered and pulsed like living tissue—yet it repulsed nothing.
It was beauty beyond naming, caught between liquid and solid, beyond the bounds of earthly vision.

Where it touched her skin, there were no seams.
As if there was nothing beneath.
And when she moved, it rippled—reptilian, like snakeskin; delicate as velvet; thin as dragonfly wings.

If it was armor, it had no joints.
If it was flesh, it was flawless—perfect, and utterly cold.

No human flaw marred her.

Nothing familiar lived within her.

She drew near.

Her skin was pale, yet alive. She breathed—but not as a body breathes. Something ancient pulsed through her veins. Something nameless.
And on her forearms burned symbols—not runes, but signs alien and arcane, glowing crimson like fire-carved letters, each one holding a secret too deep for men to grasp.

The markings pulsed in rhythm with her breath.

Her face was stern.

It held no mercy.
It held no judgment.
It was stone—unmoved by wind, untouched by fear or doubt.

And yet, deep within her gaze, there flickered something else.

Not pity.
Not kindness.
But something that resembled… care.

She raised her hand.

A vessel appeared in her grasp.

Heavy. Austere. Forged, it seemed, of metal that had never cooled. Within it swirled a dark, viscous liquid—red as old blood.
It did not reflect light.
It swallowed it.

The Queen of Scarlet lifted the vessel, looked upon him with that same immutable gaze, and tilted it toward his lips.

– Drink.

Her voice was not loud.
And yet it was everything.

He could not refuse.
He could not say no.

The red elixir flowed into his mouth.

Thick.
Sticky.
Sweet.

There was no other taste.

There was no other world.

Only this.

He jolted awake.

Air tore into his lungs like a blade—ripping him apart from within, shattering the silence with the spasms of returning life.
He gasped, greedily, like a man dragged from drowning.
Like a newborn flung into the world.

His body shook.
His chest burned.

He opened his eyes.

*


He rose too lightly. Too swiftly. He should have felt pain—stiff muscles, drained limbs, the dull weight of fatigue. He should have felt something. Anything. But he felt… good. Too good.

The night still lingered. Deep. Unmoving. But not dark—it brimmed with moonlight. Cold, clear light poured over the path and the woods on either side, revealing sharp edges and shadows that stretched into eternity.
Mist drifted low across the earth like smoke, slipping between stones and branches, spinning pale threads along the path.
The sky was cloudless.
Deep, nocturnal—
As if the world were holding its breath.

The hero drew breath into his lungs—sharp, clean, glacial.
Each inhale felt vivid, crisp.
And yet… it brought no relief.
He breathed, but not out of need—more out of memory. As if his body had not yet realized it no longer required the habit.

He lay on the ground, where the path forked near a scattering of stones—remnants of a ruined chapel, perhaps, or a wayside grave.
The stones were slick with dew, cold as tombs.
The soil beneath him was sodden, the dampness soaking his clothes.
He should have felt the chill.
Should have shivered.
But he felt nothing.

Beside him, silent as a shadow, sat a dog.

Dark.
Still.
Watching him with empty eyes—eyes that held no question, no judgment. Slowly, the hero pushed himself up on trembling hands, taking in his surroundings. The forest felt… wrong. Too dark, despite the silver light.
The trees cast long, angular shadows, their branches entwined like twisted fingers—shaped by something foreign, something not of this world. He looked up. Thirty paces ahead, a horse stood in the path. Still. Head bowed. Breathing slow and quiet. Its flanks rose and fell with rhythm, but otherwise, it might have been carved from wood. He frowned. No one else was there. No hoofprints, no scent of riders.

Only himself, the dog, and the horse.

It felt… unnatural. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten here. He remembered a dream. A vision etched into his mind like a heated blade. The sky, crimson, the earth breathing beneath him. He remembered her face. Her voice, when she commanded him to drink.

But that was impossible. Just a dream.

Wasn’t it?

He tried recalling the last thought before darkness fell, but there was nothing. As though someone had torn out a fragment of his existence and replaced it with emptiness.

Shaking his head, trying to dispel his confusion, he looked again at the horse. The animal still stood in the same spot, neither frightened nor anxious, as if waiting.

It made no sense.

He swallowed, glanced at the dog, still sitting silently beside him.

– Alright. – he muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

– What the hell just happened?

The dog did not move. Just watched. Still and quiet, eyes empty of judgment. As before. And the night endured. The hero steadied himself, squinting as the moonlight caught the wet leaves like shards of silver.
He raised his gaze once more, surveying the forest.
Something was… changed.

The birches, usually pale and spectral beneath the moon, now bore scarlet leaves. Their branches bowed with the weight. A breeze stirred the canopy, and leaves drifted down—lazy, deliberate—layering the forest floor in a crimson carpet.

Rowan trees hung low, their branches heavy with fruit the color of clotted blood.
Some berries split open, overripe, their juices ready to burst. Thorny vines of wild roses twisted among them, petals fraying but not yet wilted—flashes of deep red in the silver night. Late autumn here spoke its own tongue. Not of death. But of flame. The hero froze, absorbing the strange beauty—then turned again to the dog. Still it sat. Still unmoving. Still watching.

He cleared his throat, gently—reassuring himself that his voice still belonged to him.

– And you’re still here? – he asked softly.

The dog tilted its head, just a little.

– You waited – he said. – You stood over me… until I woke?

Not a growl. Not a nervous twitch of the muzzle. Something different.

The dog’s muzzle twisted oddly, briefly, as if the ghost of a smile passed across its face.

The hero stared for a moment.

Then, without understanding why, he smiled back. Just slightly. For a fraction of a second.

– What’s that grimace?

The dog barked twice. Short, hollow.

Not joy.
Not alarm.
Only affirmation.

The hero reached out, fingers brushing through the coarse fur.
He felt old scars, rough patches—fur that had never been soft.
The dog didn’t shy away.

– Seems like you’ve decided to follow me. Stick by me, is that it?”

He hesitated.

– A grimace, huh… Fine. Grym.

The dog gave no sign of approval.

The hero exhaled, running a hand across his damp coat.
The fabric was sodden. Heavy. But the cold didn’t touch him. No ache stirred in his limbs. No weariness weighed on his bones. But there was something else. A hollow unease. A sense that something was off—dislocated from the world he knew. He wiped his face with one hand, let out a soft snort.

– Truth be told…– he muttered, more to himself than to the dog – sticking with me right now might be the worst idea you’ve ever had. The words sounded strange. Too real. The dog narrowed its eyes. As if it understood something the hero had not yet uncovered. Grym said nothing. But he did not leave. He remained.

Like a shadow.

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Pain struck him.

Without warning.
No subtle tightening in the gut. No slow fade of strength.
Just a blow.

Like a blade of fire thrust through his temples.
His body folded, knees buckling beneath the weight of something he could not name.

Nausea.

No.

Worse.

His stomach twisted violently, gripped by a fist—hard, unrelenting. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. Only a dry, rasping silence. His spine arched. Fingers clawed blindly into the earth, nails digging deep into damp soil.

The world spun.

Shrinking. Expanding. Swallowing him.

His muscles dissolved. His hands disappeared. His body no longer belonged to him. He was trapped inside his own chest. Locked in darkness. Helpless.

He became a passenger.

He did not exist.

Did not think.

Did not feel.

Had no control.

He became hunger.

He lurched violently forward. Vomiting, shuddering uncontrollably. Only bile. Nothing else. Nothing that could satisfy him.

And then, he sensed it.

Not cold, not heat. Not fear.

A scent.

Not the musk of soil. Not the rot of leaves. Not forest mist.

Something else.

Red.
Wet.
Alive.

Meat.

Blood.

It clung to the air, impossibly clear.
Moonlight poured over the world in a cold tide—and within it, he traced the scent. Trails. Pulses. Invisible rivers, drawn through light and mist. The horse. Still standing. Just as before. But now—he didn’t merely see it. He felt it. Its body. Muscles warm and tense beneath the hide. The subtle ripple of breath. Blood. Sweet. Salty. Thick. Beating beneath skin like war drums. The horse trembled. Not fleeing. Not fighting. But something in it twisted—a primal alarm. The world was not as it should be. Its breath grew shallow. Nostrils flared. Sensing something. Too late.

The heart—

He heard it.

He should not have.
It wasn’t possible.

But the rhythm throbbed clearly:

Thump.
Thump.
Thump.

His mouth opened without command. He drew it in— The scent. The pulse. The life. Into lungs, across tongue, through veins.

It smelled like home.

Like life.

He did not remember moving. Didn’t feel the moment the world contracted, stretched, when mist blurred into silver streams and the moon shattered into droplets. Suddenly—he was there. Beside the horse. His hands clutched its mane. Fingers sank into warm skin. The horse froze. Couldn’t move.He felt its terror.

No scream. No kick.

But the heart pounded harder:

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A drumbeat. A blade. A hammer on anvil.

He did not think.

Thinking was gone.

Only scent.

Only pulse.

Only hunger.

His mouth opened.

He bit.

Explosion.

Not of pain.

Of something else.

Memory.

But not his.

The memories of another.

Something that had never formed a word.

But still remembered.

First breath.

The warmth of his mother’s body.
The shadow beneath her neck.
Her heartbeat—his entire world.
Milk. Sweat. Soil.
Safety.

First step.

Legs unsure, foreign.
She nudged him.
He understood.

First run.

Morning meadow.
Dew exploding beneath hooves.
The sky too wide, the air too light.
Freedom.

First rain.

Cool drops on skin.
Scent of trees awakened.
Earth turned to mud beneath his feet.

First snow.

Silence.
White emptiness.
Frost on muzzle.
No pain.

First rider.

Not understood.
Too heavy.
Strange scent—metal, leather, blood.
Not of the herd.
He tried to throw him off.
Was not allowed.

First spur.

Pain. Sudden.
Brutal.

Until then, all had been motion and light.

Now—obedience.

First blood.

Not his.
A man on the road.

Eyes too wide.

Blood hot—so hot he mistook it for sun.

It was not.

First fear.

Not instinct.
Not flight.

Real fear.

The knowing:
It will never be the same again.

First night alone.

No herd.
A stall.
Cold straw.
Other horses, but not his.
They breathed wrong.

First departure.

And now—

The end.

Silence.

Just warmth.

Like summer rain down the throat.
Filling the hollow.
Completing the broken circle.

No death.

No ending.

Only completion.

Blood flowed downward.

Life passed into another shape.

And then—

Not pain.

Not ecstasy.

But warmth.

Slow.
Seeping.

Like hot wax across skin.

A flame without heat.

A breath that moved through every cell.

Muscles flexed.

Then went soft.

As if the body no longer remembered who it belonged to.

The heartbeat quickened.

Was it his?

Was it the horse’s?

One beat.

Two hearts.

Or none.

And then—

Silence.

***

He was alone.

The horse lay at his feet.

He didn’t know when he’d let go.
Didn’t know when he’d started breathing again.
Didn’t know when the world had returned to what could be called normal. But was anything normal now? He didn’t look down—not right away. He didn’t want to.

But he felt the horse. Felt the final spasms of its body. Muscles contracting. Shudders of pain echoing through it in the last beats of its heart. It wasn’t like looking at a dead animal. It was deeper. He didn’t see a corpse.

He saw memories.

His memories.

Galloping through fields.
Wind battering his flanks.

The first sharp sting of a spur.

The first long, lonely night in a strange stable.

He knew who the horse had been.

He knew about the two scars along its muzzle.
The stubborn wound on its leg—now faded, just a faint line beneath the fur.

He knew it remembered the road to Częstochowa better than most men.

He knew someone had wiped its back a few days ago with a dry cloth—half-heartedly, leaving the dust of the road clinging in the seams.

He knew.

He shouldn’t have. But he did.

His breath came fast. Not with panic, but with rhythm not his own. A breath still tethered to another life, another heart. He looked down at his hands.

Clean.

And yet he felt blood. Not on his skin— but inside him.

He swallowed.

Warmth.

That’s what remained.

Blood now flowing in his veins. A heartbeat now silenced.
A life no longer separate. A vessel emptied, and another filled. He knelt slowly. Unsure why. Perhaps to touch the lifeless muzzle. Perhaps to apologize. Perhaps to give something back. But there was nothing left to return.

This wasn’t death as he’d known it. Not the battlefield’s fury. Not a saber dripping red. Not a scream torn from a dying throat.

This wasn’t killing.

This was absorption.

He held his breath. Clenched his fists until his nails pierced his palms. But no pain came. The air was frigid.
The world pulsed in faint shades of crimson. But inside— Nothing. It was already too late. He didn’t notice what remained— not at first.

He looked again, expecting to see a body.
A fallen beast.

Flesh.
Form.

But everything was there.

The coat still shimmered in moonlight. The skin unbroken. Muscles taut, as though ready to spring into motion. As though it had simply… laid down to rest. But it wasn’t alive. There was no death-stench. No trembling breath.

No cooling of the chest.
The horse was hollow.

Drained.

Not a single drop of blood remained.

None on the ground. None on his hands. None at the horse’s mouth. All of it… inside him. His heart rose into his throat. He lifted his hand—reflexively—wanting to touch his own face. Needing to confirm that he was still himself. But in the moonlight, his skin looked different. Not darkened by shadow— But moving— as though something beneath the surface stirred. Eyes stared back at him from the horse’s lifeless gaze. Not his. Still dark— but now with a glow. Not reflected moonlight. Something internal. Pulsing. A dark crimson shimmer, like embers smoldering in ash. Spilling across the iris. He opened his mouth— But no words came. No thoughts solid enough to shape.

Only breath. Quiet. Too quiet.

Then he saw the shadow.

Cast by the moon. Long. Sharp. Etched across the pale ground. His shadow. But… not his. The silhouette was familiar. And wrong. A figure crouched low—
half-man, half-beast. Something primal threaded through it. Elongated limbs. A hunched frame.

Predatory.

He blinked. As his vision adjusted, the shadow twitched— as if the moon itself had shifted.

A longer neck.

Teeth—

Bare and too many.

His heart stumbled. The shadow stumbled with it. He stared— at what should’ve been his own silhouette. But wasn’t.
Was it even a shadow?
Or something else?

Something more?

He moved slightly.

The shadow followed. But not immediately. Late. Not with the lag of shifting light. No— As though it had just realized it was being watched. He shivered. The shadow trembled. Then— slowly— It opened its eyes.

Two slits of golden fire glowed in the dark.

Grym.

The dog sat still. His form melted into the shadow, becoming one with it.

He stared.

But at whom?

The man?

Or what the man had become?

Not the same.

Not human.

Not known.

Grym did not move.

He remained— wrapped in gloom.

Watching.

A slight shudder passed through his frame. Fur bristled—barely. Then he barked.

Not a greeting.

Not the call of a companion.

A warning.

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His heart hammered in his chest—but he wasn’t sure it was truly his. He took a step back. Then another. Not by will, but by instinct, as if the ground beneath him had turned soft and unreliable, the very earth no longer familiar. He wasn’t breathing. He didn’t need to.

He gasped sharply, out of reflex more than necessity. But nothing changed. The air brought no chill, no clarity. His lungs filled and emptied with the mechanical rhythm of memory, not need. There was no fear. No shock. Only a body that no longer obeyed its master, and a mind that began to slip behind it.

There was heat inside him—but not like fire, nor like blood stirred by adrenaline. This warmth didn’t burn. It settled, slowly, like mist rolling in after rain, seeping through his pores, creeping across the surface of his skin from within.

He looked down at his hands.

Red.

They shouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. But under the sterile glow of the moon, his fingers glistened—wet, sticky, slick all the way to the wrists. Blood. Not just spilled on the skin, but absorbed into it, threaded beneath his nails, running down his arms in thin, shimmering streams that pulsed faintly, like a living web.

Without thinking, he wiped his face—and instantly regretted it. The blood smeared across his cheeks and chin, thick and clinging. A bitter, metallic tang spread across his tongue, as if his very breath had turned to iron.

He still wasn’t breathing.

Then his gaze fell on the horse.

And in that moment, everything aligned.

It had happened. It was real. No dream, no delusion—only truth, thick and red and irrefutable.

The horse was still there. Dead. Yet not in any way he had ever understood death. Its body lay untouched. Whole. Unbroken. But hollowed. As if all that had made it living had been drawn out. As if the shell remained, but the soul had been poured into him.

It was his blood now.

He gasped again, harder, as if his body might still purge something—but nothing came. His stomach twisted painfully, but yielded nothing. There was nothing left to give.

No... It couldn’t be like this.

He raised his hands again.

Still red.

Still wet.

The blood ran in slow, sticky trails down to his elbows, soaking into his sleeves, seeping into his skin like rain into dry soil. Panic seized him. He pulled at his coat, tried to rip it off, scrubbed at his arms, desperate to rid himself of it—but the more he rubbed, the more it spread. The blood was in him now. No gesture could undo that.

Staggering back, he tripped over his own feet and fell hard to the ground. His palms struck damp earth. He should have felt the cold. He should have felt the sting. But there was nothing.

Only blood.

He trembled, though he barely noticed it. His heart raced wildly in his chest—but the rhythm felt wrong, alien, as if something else were pulsing through him now. Something borrowed.

— No… The word came out thin, strangled, not quite his own. He pressed his forehead to his arm, breath quick and shallow, mind grasping blindly for a thought, for a reason, for something solid to hold onto.

But this wasn’t blood on his hands.

And it wasn’t a corpse beside him.

It was something far worse.

It was him.

He clenched his fists, trying to feel pressure, pain—anything. His nails dug into his palms. No response. No blood. No pain. Just silence, and that same consuming emptiness beneath the skin.

His breathing quickened, ragged now, but the air felt foreign—cold, thin, unreal. He raised his trembling hands again, as if he could finally wipe it all away. But the blood clung, smeared deeper, and the metallic taste stayed thick on his tongue. The warmth inside him bloomed, spreading, even as the night around him turned bitter with cold.

He curled in on himself, pulling his knees close, pressing his head between his hands as if to stop it all from spilling out. His breaths came shorter, sharper. Each one felt shallower than the last, as if the act of breathing itself was slipping beyond his reach.

— I couldn’t have…

The words sounded foreign. Not like something he would say. Not in his voice. Not with his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image remained—etched into the dark behind his lids: the horse, motionless. Hollow. He couldn’t push it away. Couldn’t escape what had happened. Couldn’t deny what he had become.

He flinched backward, trying to push himself up, but the touch of his own hands against the ground felt unbearable. Too hot. Too wrong. As though everything he touched now absorbed that same cursed heat radiating from within.

He wanted to tear his coat from his back, claw his skin from his body, rip from himself whatever had taken root inside him.

— What have I done…

No tears came.

No sorrow.

Only stillness.

Only that cold, suffocating emptiness spreading inside him like rot.

Only the blood, and his hands—
still trembling, harder than ever before.

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The forest had not changed. But he had.

His breathing had steadied, his heart no longer pounded, and the tremors in his hands had ceased. His body was returning to something resembling balance—though he couldn’t say whether it was his balance. This new stillness carried no comfort, no relief. Only silence.

The scarlet birch leaves, once uncanny in their color, now seemed natural. The dark, swollen rowan berries, heavy on their branches, no longer struck him as wrong. Even the mist—thick, pale, curling low among the trees—had lost its menace. It was just mist. The world had not shifted. He had simply adapted to it.

With every second, his thoughts returned. Not calmer, not clearer—just ordered. They arranged themselves with cold precision, like stones stacked in a ritual wall to hold chaos at bay. One by one, memories found their place.

The red woman.
The dream.
Her eyes.

The way she had looked at him—as if she already knew him. As if nothing within him was hidden from her gaze. As if everything he would become had already been decided long before their meeting. There had never been a choice. That was the most devastating part.

It hadn’t even been a fight.

She hadn’t struck him down in anger or hatred. She had merely acted—lifting him and casting him aside like a broken tool, a scrap of cloth caught in a gust of wind. He wasn’t an opponent. He was irrelevant.

And she... she was something inevitable.

Something outside of struggle. Something that did not try or plan or justify. Something that simply was.

He clenched his jaw.

He was a soldier. War had taught him to analyze every strike, every fall. If an enemy was faster—you anticipated. If they were stronger—you endured. If they carried heavier weapons—you wore them down. There were rules to battle. Patterns.

But not this.

There had been no pattern, no logic. No anticipation, no defense. No meaning.

She had consumed him without effort.

He had been a spectator, not a challenger.

He remembered falling—mud splattering against his skin, the bite of cold against his back. The distant rattle of a shield rolling over wet ground. Her voice.

Detached.
Flat.
Devoid of contempt or compassion.

„You’re just a dog”
It hadn’t been an insult. Not even judgment.

Just fact.

And when she had turned and left, he hadn’t even tried to rise. He hadn’t been able to breathe. He’d lain there waiting, because death had seemed the only ending left to him.

But death hadn’t come.

Red had come instead.

And now—here he was.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat once more, as if that simple motion might remove what had taken root within him. The blood had dried. It was no longer warm or slick. But it was still there.

And it would never leave.

His breath remained steady.

The mist rolled softly over unseen waters. Nothing else moved. The forest stood in silence, the sky breathless and pale.

The night held its stillness.

And he, no longer quite himself, remained within it.

The world had not changed. Not in the slightest.

He did not look back. Did not dwell on what he had left behind, nor on what he carried forward—even if by accident. The hero kept riding, though he might just as well have stood still. The road stretched ahead, dry and pale with dust, unremarkable in every way. It was simply a road—one among hundreds, thousands—worn down by countless feet, hooves, wheels. A line between here and somewhere else, no longer even pretending to lead to meaning. Just a distance to cover. Not a place. Not a promise. Just space.

Above him, the sky hung with quiet apathy—pale, thin, exhausted. The sun drifted toward the horizon, casting a weak, colourless glow, spreading itself across the landscape like spoiled milk. It neither warmed nor illuminated. Distant clouds gathered near the edge of the world, motionless, brittle, as if they had been forgotten there.

The horse moved on with slow, even steps—each one like the last, devoid of urgency, almost devoid of life. Its breath came soft and steady, as if driven not by instinct but inertia. As if forward was the only motion it remembered. The dog padded alongside him, its gait quiet, resigned. It no longer chased scents, no longer reacted to movement. It simply followed, out of something deeper than loyalty. Perhaps because stopping meant questioning the reason for starting at all.

Up ahead, just beyond a bend in the road, a river appeared.

It wasn’t wide. Or deep. Or fast.

It was simply there—a thin silver thread cutting through the land, flowing onward, indifferent. Stones lined its banks, worn smooth by time. Decades, centuries. But time had not smoothed him. Time had carved into him like a blade—slow, patient, merciless.

An old wooden bridge spanned the water. Weathered beams. Uneven slats. A few newer planks nailed in as though in defiance of decay, not to restore it, but to prolong the illusion that something could be saved. The railings were rough, their paint—once red, perhaps—long since faded, now nothing more than the memory of a time when someone had cared enough to give it colour.

The hero slowed.

Not from caution. He did not fear the river, nor the bridge, nor what lay beyond.

He paused because something here felt... still. Still in a way the world rarely allowed. He gazed into the water. Its surface was calm, flat, undisturbed—but it held depth. Not just physically. There was a silence in it. A silence that did not reflect, did not ask, did not echo.

The shield, strapped to the bundles behind him, caught the last gleam of the sun. A remnant. A symbol. Something that should have been discarded long ago, yet remained. Perhaps because he lacked the will to let it go. Perhaps because letting go had become meaningless. Or perhaps, deep down, part of him still believed there was a reason to carry it.

The river flowed, as all rivers do—without care, without pause, without witness. It did not see him. It did not feel him. His presence meant nothing to its current. It had no use for his burden.

The horse resumed its pace, as if to say: there is nothing here. Nothing more.

Hooves met wood. The bridge creaked softly beneath their weight, its old bones groaning into the hush of twilight. Beneath, the river murmured, low and even. He glanced once more into its depth, caught a flicker of his own reflection. A distorted face, stretched and blurred. Not frightening. Not profound. Simply... a shape.

He crossed.

And the moment passed.

Beyond the bridge, the road turned rough again—stones jutting from the dirt like teeth, tufts of dry grass clinging to life. They offered no real resistance, but they reminded him: this path was not meant to be easy.

He did not stop. He did not look back.

Far ahead, where the sun sank lower, the outline of trees emerged—a forest wall rising like a border, like the edge of another world. The light bled across the horizon, long and strange. Shadows grew unnaturally tall, cast at odd angles. A wind stirred at last, sharp against his face, carrying the scent of damp bark and decomposing leaves. It smelled of endings. And of something else. Something old.

The dog slowed.

The hero did not.

The forest awaited.

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The forest accepted him slowly, not with welcome, but with intent.

Leaves murmured overhead, their whispers low and fragmented, like secrets passed between unseen mouths. Rowan trees arched over the path, their slender limbs heavy with clusters of berries—dark red, overripe, glistening like eyes scattered across the branches. They seemed to watch. Not with malice, not with sympathy, but with the distant, unblinking stillness of something that remembers more than it reveals.

The scent deepened with every step—rich earth, fallen leaves turning to pulp, wood long since damp with time. But something else laced the air too, faint but present. Something harder to name. It clung to the skin like a veil and sank into the lungs with a heaviness that had nothing to do with breath.

The deeper he moved into the woods, the more the forest changed.

Or perhaps it had always been this way, and only now did he begin to see.

The bark of trees no longer seemed inert—it looked porous, too textured, too alive. He could not shake the sense that it reacted to his presence, not overtly, but subtly—tightening, contracting, as if drawing breath. The silence was no longer silence, but listening. A stillness too absolute.

Cold coiled around the back of his neck like fingers brushing his spine. Each step became heavier, as if the very ground resisted his passage. The earth was soft beneath the layer of rot, yet it pushed back, made motion difficult. It was as though the forest did not forbid him—but tested him. Paused him. Measured him.

The dog, until now his shadow, slowed.

Its ears pricked. Its tail lowered slightly. Its gaze darted toward the trees—not with fear, but with awareness. It made no sound, did not growl, but the tension in its posture had changed. This was no longer open land. It was threshold.

The horse’s gait shifted too—less sure, more careful. Its hooves struck the leaf-carpeted ground with reluctant weight. It flared its nostrils now and then, catching scents he could not perceive. When the hero gave a light tug on the reins, the animal lifted its head slightly, hesitating before moving on, as though deciding between obedience and instinct. Something in it understood: this place would not allow them to pass unnoticed.

From the dark came sound—not loud, not close, but unmistakable. A shuffle, a crack, a faint exhale between the branches. Not wind. Not random.

Footsteps.

Or memories of them.

The air thickened. Even the leaves seemed reluctant to rustle.

And then he saw them.

Birches.

White trunks streaked with dark scars, like veins, or runes. Their bark seemed almost to move—curling, shifting subtly, like something breathing beneath a thin skin. For a brief moment, he imagined those dark spots blinking. Not illusion. Not hallucination. Something older. Something that watched.

The berries of the rowans swelled, bloated in the half-light. Their red deepened until they looked almost black, clustered like pupils in too many sockets. His mind recoiled, but his body kept moving.

This was no longer just forest.

This was memory made flesh. Land that recorded. That bore witness.

Every breath he took, every shift of leather against cloth, every exhale through his nose—it all felt observed. Not judged. But imprinted. As if the forest would remember. Would store him within itself—his steps pressed into the soil, his thoughts wound into the roots, his fears braided into the bark.

The horse gave a soft, uneasy sound.

He did not slow.

Nor did he hasten.

He continued forward, deeper into a place where light no longer reached, where silence had weight, and where even the trees seemed to breathe beside him.

The dog stayed at his side.

The forest closed behind them, as though it had never opened.

**

The forest thickened around them, and the path, though still visible, seemed to narrow, pressed tighter between the trunks, which grew ever closer together, as if deliberately trying to dominate the space and cut them off from the rest of the world. The air grew heavy, choking the lungs, saturated with moisture, the scent of rotting leaves, and something else—unnamed, lurking beneath the surface, barely perceptible, yet undeniably there.

The birches, which had once seemed like ordinary trees, began to loom larger in his mind. Their gnarled trunks, streaked with black, resembled hollow, rotting eyes that watched their every move. The deeper he ventured into the forest, the more intensely he felt that gaze. It was not imagination—it existed, clinging with a sticky scrutiny to the protagonist.

The horse slowed its pace. It stopped responding to the pressure of his legs and barely moved forward, as if the full weight of the forest had suddenly settled upon it. Eventually, it came to a halt, trembling slightly, flicking its ears, as if listening for something the protagonist had yet to notice. Feeling the tension in the animal, he instinctively gripped the reins tighter, trying to urge the mount forward, but the creature stubbornly remained in place.

A faint rustling sounded in the air, almost imperceptible in the dense silence. Something moved at the edge of his vision, but before he could register it, it vanished, dissolving into the shadows.

The dog, which had been padding at his side, suddenly changed its behavior. It did not growl or bark, but positioned itself so that the protagonist and his horse formed a barrier between themselves and something approaching slowly, unobtrusively, yet inexorably. Its tail tucked, ears slightly back, body taut as a bowstring. It did not flee, but its posture screamed that it wished it could.

The protagonist frowned, struggling with the harness, trying to coax the horse onward. There was a certain indifference to danger in him, one he had carried for years. He did not fear death; he had stared it in the face too many times to treat it as something capable of frightening him. And yet now, in this suffocating, silent space, with every breath sensing the growing presence of something in the darkness, he felt something unfamiliar—an unease unlike anything he had known before. It was not battlefield fear, nor fear of defeat. It was something that transcended ordinary threat.

The horse snorted, shook its mane, and stepped back half a pace. The dog moved with it, maintaining distance between itself and whatever was approaching from the direction of the path.

And then she entered. Smoothly, yet decisively, as if she did not walk in, but simply entered that place, a natural part of the order that had always existed there.

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The hero felt her presence before he even realized she stood beside him. He hadn’t seen her arrive, hadn’t noticed her entering this fragment of reality. She simply was. Like a river, like the wind, like everything eternal.

They passed each other. He didn’t turn his head immediately, sensing the weight of her presence as if the landscape itself had gained a new dimension, another level of density. Her red hair floated around her, untouched by shoulders or breeze.

“Blessed be the Most Holy Virgin Mary, ever Virgin,” he said, more reflexively than consciously.

“Blessed be…” she began, but stopped mid-sentence. She stood sideways, gazing toward the void of the horizon, as if seeing beyond what eyes could reach. Silence took on a new weight between them.

She did not rush her response, did not raise her voice or tilt her head toward him. As though this encounter were nothing extraordinary, and yet she allowed it to unfold.

“What brings you here, my lord, at such a dark hour along these shadowed paths?” she asked calmly, almost casually.

“Heh…” The involuntary smile that touched his lips felt almost absurd. “I could ask the same of you, my lady…” he replied slowly, testing the weight of the words. Though reflexively respectful, he realized immediately that “my lady” felt inadequate. She was not merely a woman. She was something beyond human roles, something apart from ordinary definition.

He hesitated before adding, “I seek redemption.”

A barely audible sigh escaped her lips—not fatigue, not disdain, but a quiet, silent smile, as if she had heard it all too often to care deeply.

“Redemption…” she echoed softly, stretching the word as if examining its shape, its weight, its worth. “So you believe it exists, my lord?”

The hero felt that this conversation teetered on a narrow edge, between what was real and what was barely outlined in reality. He swallowed.

“You seek…” Her voice was quiet, almost melodic, yet disturbingly certain. “You seek, but can you truly see?”

He did not answer. The forest had grown too silent; the dog had quieted, and the horse held its breath.

“You won’t understand until you look truly—not while you gaze only where you’ve been told.”

Her tone shifted—not mocking, not compassionate, but something far more intricate, subtle yet dense, like the pressure of an impending storm.

****

The silence grew heavier, almost tangible, as if reality itself had frozen, holding its breath, waiting for the outcome of this encounter. The forest seemed dead, yet something within it breathed—hidden, observing, waiting. The air thickened, saturated with moisture, decay, and something else, something nameless, instinctively repulsive.

“Ah… if only I could show you everything, my lord…” Her voice was deep, almost warm, yet threaded with something that did not belong to this world. She spoke like someone who knew secrets no one else could even name. There was no childishness, no empty flirtation, yet her words seeped into his senses, scattering thoughts, weakening his will.

The nobleman remained standing—perhaps no longer immovable like stone, yet still certain of his footing. Tension rose around him, reality subtly fraying at the edges. He was a ship on a stormy sea, still afloat, still in control, yet bracing for the inevitable strike.

The wind stirred the branches; shadows danced, merging into impossible shapes. For a moment, everything seemed alive, pulsating, reshaping itself around her voice, around her presence.

“Maybe… perhaps you could take a look…” she whispered, soft, almost tender, yet in her tone lay something unavoidable, something he could not ignore. It was not a command, yet every fiber of his being reacted, as if compelled. Space itself seemed to bend, reality whispering against his skin. His heartbeat quickened; his fingers tightened on the reins, seeking something solid in this suddenly fluid, elusive world.

She stepped forward. Silent, effortless. His heart pounded harder, breath shallow, hands trembling.

Yet he endured. He did not yield. He did not look.

The air shuddered with an invisible blow. Something snapped in the very fabric of reality, as if the world itself strained and quivered under a force that should not exist.

“Look at me, dog!”

Her voice was no voice—it was pure will. No resistance was possible, no thought of defiance. There was neither anger nor emotion, only a raw, primal power, older than fear itself.

The nobleman collapsed like a puppet, limp and speechless. He had no chance to fight, no time to breathe. His neck twisted involuntarily; his eyes lifted from the ground, meeting hers.

And then he fell.

There was no gradual transition, no gentle immersion. One moment he stood on solid earth, the next he plummeted into an endless abyss.

Her eyes were bottomless, gates through which dreams and nightmares poured. An abyss into which one could fall forever, never reaching the bottom, feeling every layer of reality tear apart around him, leaving him exposed, utterly vulnerable to a void that consumed every cell it touched.

His mind fractured, thin glass shattered by primordial madness. Images flooded his thoughts at impossible speed:

Red stars pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Endless voids filled with sleepless eyes. Exploding suns, worlds born and dying in an instant. A scream slicing through the very essence of silence. Particles tearing apart, colliding in an eternal dance of creation and destruction.

It was all real. All existed. All had been hidden—and now it consumed him completely.

He had no shadow, no body, no thoughts. Only quivering fear. Only pulsating existence. Only agony.

And then one thought pierced through the maelstrom of madness:

This was not everything.
This was only the beginning.

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Pain had no limits.

His body buckled, bones cracking beneath an unseen force. The impact hurled him to the ground like a ragdoll, ribs shattering against his own lungs. Air escaped in a trembling gasp, the world swirling in pulsing darkness beneath his eyelids. Movement was impossible. He tried to breathe, but his lungs filled with warm, metallic blood.

He lay there.

Unable to move, limbs twitching convulsively, his body fought even as his mind faded. His empty eyes gazed into the night, seeing nothing but a shadow slowly creeping across the landscape.

She paid him no attention.

He heard her muted footsteps in the damp earth. She didn’t lean over him or spare him a glance. As if he were already dead, his fate sealed and unworthy of further notice.

She picked up the shield.

Turned it thoughtfully, assessing its worth, its forgotten meaning. She scoffed softly, almost contemptuously. Not anger—indifference.

“Your emblem isn’t the bull... you’re just a dog,” she said slowly, savoring each word.

The nobleman struggled to focus, vision blurred, heavy eyelids barely open. Her words pierced deep, sharp as blades.

“Ego, nobility, pride... All these trappings you’ve feasted upon. Man always sees himself as creation’s crown.”

Her voice remained calm, devoid of condemnation or anger. Only cold, bitter recognition.

“Now you lie in mud, choking on your blood. Still think you’re more than carrion that still moves?”

She ignored the dog. It was irrelevant, curled trembling in shadows. The horse, statue-like, unmoving with fear.

She tossed the shield.

A careless gesture, yet it sliced past his face with terrifying closeness, echoing loudly as it landed.

He had no time to think.

“I’ll leave the horse. You’ll need it... for a while.”

Then she moved away. Slowly, confidently, without urgency. She didn’t need to hurry.

******

Time slowed.
Each motion, each heartbeat, every whisper of the night stretched and distorted—unreal, suspended in a fevered instant of awareness. He lingered on the edge of life and death; every breath, every cell fought desperately for another moment.

Footsteps approached. Unhurried. Uncertain. Certain.

The dark silhouettes of trees loomed taller, awaiting his final breath. His heartbeat thundered in the emptiness of a March night. She didn’t pause; she stood above him, and he couldn’t lift his gaze—too weak even for that.

Her face was carved from stone—no triumph, no superiority, only cold destiny.

She raised her left hand, tracing her forearm with slow precision. Her skin split beneath her nail, dark blood welling up, heavy and deliberate.

She bent over him. Her shadow covered him like a shroud.

She pressed her bleeding hand to his lips.
“Drink.”

It wasn’t a request. Nor a command. It was necessity—an inescapable truth.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t.
His mind had begun to unravel at death’s edge, leaving only instinct. His body screamed—begging for life, for blood, for salvation.
Warm liquid filled his mouth: thick, metallic, yet oddly sweet. Like earth after rain. Like the echo of a memory he never had.

Her fingertips brushed his jaw—an almost tender touch.

A crow beat its wings above; another cried somewhere in the dark, solemn and final. Red blood and black night merged in his vision. He saw her—and didn’t. Saw forest and void, death and something worse.

“Drink. Drink, dog. And search... search for your redemption.”

Her whisper left no room for refusal.

Everything collapsed into darkness. Reality fractured—

and he fell into the abyss.
He was dying.

The first pale light of dawn spilled across the horizon, seeping gently through the cool, motionless air of night. Like a golden thread woven into velvet darkness—at first almost imperceptible, then steadily growing, dissolving the gloom with each passing moment. The world awakened slowly, hesitantly, suspended in that fragile space between sleep and waking. Mist stretched low across the earth like the silent breath of night, rising gradually, then dissolving into nothing. Clouds gave way to a clear, cold sky—first silver, then soft shades of blue, until at last a delicate gleam of gold shimmered in the east.

In the valleys, tangled among branches, draped over tall grasses and stones, dew had gathered. Hundreds of tiny droplets sparkled like scattered shards of glass across the land, catching the first sunlight. They glimmered like lanterns guiding the path toward the day—fragments of proof that something new had been born from the night.

The silence of morning was different from the silence that had accompanied him through the long hours before. It was not heavy or oppressive, not filled with specters or burdened by restless thought. It was clear, gentle, soft. Like the first deep breath after being held underwater. Like warmth returning to frozen fingers. The air smelled of damp earth, wet wood, and fallen leaves soaked in dew, rustling softly beneath the horse’s hooves.

The hero was nearing his destination.

The stone path curled gently among the hills, climbing slowly toward a peak. And there, rising from the mist like a sentinel, stood the monastery. Jasna Góra - Clarus Mons. Its whitewashed walls stood firm against the ages, a sanctuary untouched by time, reaching upward as if yearning for something beyond the world. A slender tower pierced the horizon, vanishing into the last wisps of cloud like a finger pointing to heaven.

Here, the world felt different—not of the earth, not of men, but filled with something else. Something deeper. The air seemed lighter, as though every blade of grass and every drop of dew carried a hidden grace. Even the wind had changed, whispering softly of a presence not seen, but felt.

The horse gave a quiet snort, sensing the shift. The hero slowed his pace, holding his breath. For a moment, his thoughts fell silent. No fear clung to him, no bloody echoes followed. No footsteps in the leaves, no stains on the path, no red clouds looming overhead. For the first time in a very long time, nothing reminded him of the past. Not a mark. Not a shadow. Not a sound. Everything was clear. Simple.

And then he noticed the dog had stopped.

There was no reason—nothing visible, no sudden noise or gesture. It had simply slowed, then sat beside the low trunk of a fallen tree. Its black fur melted into the shadows beneath the trees, its eyes catching the light for just a moment before fading into the dark, as if they had never been there at all. It didn’t look at him. Didn’t follow. It simply crouched in silence, as though there had never been a reason to go any further.

The hero turned to look behind him.

Nothing had changed.

The dog was there. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t.

He didn’t call to it. He didn’t wait.

He no longer expected anything.

He accepted it—as one accepts the end of night, and the coming of day.

He took a few more steps and passed through the gates of Jasna Góra.

Behind him, the world remained as it had been.

Ahead, something new awaited.

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The stone beneath his feet was cold, but he paid it no mind. His body was weary—not from the journey itself, but from everything it carried within. He stood still, letting the first breath of morning wash over his face, filled with the scent of damp earth, incense, and the ancient stone that had absorbed centuries of whispered prayers.

Before him, veiled in thick mist, rose Clarus Mons. The sacred hill, a refuge for those who sought something beyond themselves. Fog moved slowly across the monastery’s walls, wrapping them in an ethereal shroud, as if nature itself bowed before the sanctity of this place. The towers rose gradually through the haze, like gates into something timeless. Their slender shapes pierced the clouds, tearing open the horizon, bridging the earth and the infinite.

The silence here was unlike any other. It wasn’t empty. It was full—dense with meaning, saturated with prayers, vows, confessions, and the echoes of battles once fought beneath these walls. The air was crisp, chilled by the morning dew, but it carried something deeper: the scent of old books, melted wax, and rising incense that had, for generations, drifted toward vaulted ceilings and unseen ears.

Time slowed.

There was no war here. No battlefield. No blood on his hands. No screams. Only this moment. The first step toward penance.

Near the gate stood a statue of the Virgin Mary—quiet, unmoving, carved in stone, yet somehow watching everything. Rain had traced soft wrinkles into her face over the years. Moss crept along the folds of her robe, as if nature sought to reclaim her. Her expression was serene, but not indifferent. She neither judged nor offered mercy. She simply was. Like a mother who never forgets. Who never turns away.

His fingers tightened unconsciously around his belt. Something twisted inside him—something unnamed.

Did he have the right to be here?

Could someone like him, who had carried more death than hope, cross this threshold?

Would sacred ground accept a man who had stood too often among killers?

His heart beat steadily but quietly, as though afraid to disturb the stillness around him.

Enough thought.

He took a step. Then another.

The gate to Jasna Góra stood open.

Monks moved quietly across the courtyard, their dark silhouettes gliding among pilgrims like shadows long accustomed to silent passage. Someone murmured a prayer. Another raised his eyes to the sky, aged hands gripping rosary beads as though they were the last thing tethering him to this world. Somewhere deep within the walls, a bell tolled—slow and low. Not a summons. Not a warning. Merely presence.

There was no room here for haste. No place for loud voices or traces of the outside world. Every sound had its place in the stillness. Every movement held weight.

With each step, he passed deeper into silence.

The world beyond the walls faded.

The chill of the stone beneath his palms, the moisture pressing through the fabric of his cloak—these sensations became clearer, more vivid. As if this moment had more substance than any before. As if everything that came before had been a dream. And now, at last, he was waking.

And then he felt it—that gaze.

A monk stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching him. Not with suspicion. Not with judgment. Just watching.

There was no condemnation in his eyes.

Nor was there pity.

There was something else. Something wordless, that held him still for a breath longer than expected. Something that asked no questions, but allowed none to be avoided.

His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his saber. But there were no enemies here.

Only memory. Only habit. The echoes of war still clinging to his bones.

He let go of the weapon.

*

The monastery gate closed behind him with a dull echo, severing him from the world he had, just moments ago, thought inseparable. The line between what lay outside and what was within felt suddenly real—tangible. Beyond the walls: chaos, unrest, the clash of steel, and blood soaked into the earth. Within: another dimension entirely, where time moved slower, where every thought carried weight. The world beyond the gate ceased to exist.

Before him stretched a courtyard, wide and cobbled, enclosed by cloisters whose shadowed depths seemed to guard generations of secrets. The monastery walls rose high and austere, not simply strong but unyielding—radiating not just power, but permanence. An immovable presence that wars had battered, but never broken.

Pillars cast soft shadows over the stones, creating a mosaic of light and dark—like an ancient script inscribed in silence, legible only to those who had come to listen. The air was thick with incense, almost sweet, woven into the scent of melted wax, dry wood, and cold stone—the kind of stone that had absorbed centuries of whispered prayers and barefoot pilgrimages.

Pilgrims moved slowly, as if each step were part of an inward journey. Their faces were worn and solemn, eyes heavy with burdens they could no longer carry alone. Some knelt at the walls, some touched the faces of saints carved in stone, others simply looked up toward the sky above the towers, searching for something they could not name.

Monks drifted soundlessly in their robes, their movements quiet as breath. Some carried books, others lanterns that flickered against the darkened halls. They did not walk like individuals, but as fragments of something larger—a living mechanism of faith, continuing through the centuries, untouched by time.

The hero walked slowly, part of this silence, yet still apart from it.

He drew no attention. No one stopped him. And yet he felt like an intruder.

Did he have the right to be here?

Could a man who had so often stood among the dead now stand among those who sought forgiveness?

He felt a gaze settle on him.

He looked up and saw a monk standing at the edge of the courtyard.

The monk said nothing, made no sign. And yet his eyes made the hero pause.

There was no judgment in them.

Nor was there pity.

There was something else—something unspoken, something that turned from the past without denying it. Something that neither demanded confession nor offered absolution.

The hero looked away and moved on.

He had not come here to be judged.

He carried enough judgment of his own.

He passed beneath a stone arch and paused in the main cloister, letting his eyes adjust. High arcades rose above him, supported by columns polished smooth by the hands of countless pilgrims. Stone reliefs adorned the walls—saints worn down by centuries, prophets with stern eyes, Christ lifting a hand in eternal blessing.

From deep within, Gregorian chant echoed softly through the halls.

The sound was steady and low, not loud, but vast. It filled the space like mist fills a valley—gentle, intangible, and yet inescapable. Within that chant lived the voices of the past—monks who had long since died, but whose breath still lingered in these stones. The rhythm of shuffling feet blended with it, footsteps becoming part of something older, something unbroken.

The hero took a breath.

It was unlike what he knew.

It did not carry blood or fire. It bore no stench of corpses, no scorched wood or iron. It was pure. Cool. Threaded with incense and quiet.

And though peace had not yet found him, he knew this was a place where no questions were asked.

And no answers required.

Here, he could be silent.

Still, his body remained tense.

Each step required effort.

This was no battlefield, and yet his thoughts felt like enemies. Here, in the stillness, he would face them all.

Jasna Góra had endured war.

It had survived Swedish sieges, bombardment, desecration. And still it stood—unyielding.

Just like the sacred icon it protected.

Its face was marked with sabers. Scarred. Profaned. And yet people still knelt before it. Still believed it bore something beyond its wounds.

Could he, too, carry his scars and still be worthy of light?

His hand moved to the hilt of his saber.

A habit, nothing more—a reflex etched into his bones. The instinct to reach for a weapon, even here, where no threat waited.

But now, the gesture felt foreign.

Out of place in this silence.

His fingers tightened around the scabbard—then slowly released.

He glanced again toward the monk.

The monk was still there.

His gaze was not on the man, but on the blade he carried.

The hero turned and walked deeper into the monastery, knowing the moment was near—when he would have to let it go.

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The stone corridors of Jasna Góra were wrapped in twilight. The air was cool, thick with moisture, carrying the scent of old incense and wax from hundreds of candles. The echo of his footsteps rose gently toward the vaulted ceilings, but could not disturb the deeper stillness—one not merely of space, but of history. A silence of memory. A silence of those long gone, yet never truly absent.

He turned into a long corridor. Stained-glass windows, tall as gates to another world, pierced the dimness with brilliant shafts of color.

Red. Blue. White. Gold.

He knew those colors intimately. Red—hot, alive, defiant, pulsing like a heart that refused to die. White—pure, stark, untouched, as if capable of washing away guilt by gaze alone. They were opposites, yet they belonged together. Red was blood, was fire, was sacrifice. White was silence, holiness, the promise of something beyond.

But there were others. Gold—once the emblem of enduring power, now dulled beneath the shadow of passing time. Blue—the sky’s hue, the color of the Mother to whom he had prayed when nothing else made sense. What did it mean to him now? Hope? Or only the echo of a childhood belief, long extinguished?

And black—the color behind all others. The color in the cracks. The shadow on the window, the corridor, his soul.

In those colors, everything lived. Honor and disgrace. Strength and fragility. Prayer and death.

And then he saw it.

The Gallery of Kings.

A painting that covered an entire wall—centuries collapsed into a single vision, a litany of those who had carried more upon their shoulders than he ever could. The faces of kings, each enclosed in an oval frame, lined up in quiet procession. Bathed in faded gold, their gazes varied—stern, contemplative, unreadable. Time had sealed them in paint, preserved and distant, yet somehow still present.

He stood before them as though standing trial.

They had once been everything. Now they were memory. Yet still, they looked upon him. And he, upon them.

Did they know?

Had they understood war before they had faced it? Did they grasp the weight of the crown before it rested on their brows? Did they realize that power was never theirs, only borrowed from time—and that their moment to carry the fate of others was always brief?

Their eyes showed neither pride nor pity.

Only a quiet understanding.

The knowledge that history does not belong to kings. That names inscribed in stone are fragments only—shards of something greater and unknowable.

He understood that now.

He had been a soldier. He had been born into nobility. He belonged to that lineage, that history. He was the sword passed down by ancestors. The shadow of those who came before. As he looked into those painted faces, he felt it. These were not strangers. He didn’t see monarchs.

He saw men who had stood where he now stood.

He was one of them.

But who was he now?

He had no portrait. No place in history. No throne. No cause.

He was no longer a warrior for kings. He had left his sword in blood and ash. He did not know if he would ever lift it again.

And still—here he was.

They were not just kings on that wall. They were men who had carried beginnings. Who fought not merely for land or power, but for the fragile idea of belonging. For something unspoken, yet rooted in every heart they had sworn to protect.

But what had they begun?

Had their battles served justice? Honor? Empire? Or merely tradition—passed down and accepted without question?

And him—did any part of that struggle still echo in his bones?

The shadows in the corridor stretched longer. The stained glass cast its colored light across the kings’ faces, until at last all were awash in red.

Blood and soil.

Life and death.

Memory and forgetting.

And he?

He felt nothing.

The only color his soul could see was black—endless, infinite, consuming.

He stepped back. The cold crept into his limbs. He turned away.

The painted eyes remained behind him—forever watching, forever asking.

But for him, there were no answers there.

*

The hero paused briefly before the low door leading to one of the monastery’s side chambers. The air here was colder than in the courtyard, touched by the scent of aged wood, candle wax, and incense—but also something else. Something sterner. Something not merely sensed, but felt, almost absorbed. It wasn’t just the smell of the walls. It was the weight of the place itself. Its stillness. Its solemnity. Its history. It pressed into the skin like cold stone, quiet but unyielding.

This was where his purification would begin. At least, that’s what others believed—those who thought the soul could be cleansed as simply as the body immersed in cold water. Who believed guilt could be brushed away like dust from a coat, or like dried blood wiped off a soldier’s hands. That sin could be washed clean with tears, so long as the heart could still produce them.

But was it true?

Could anything truly cleanse him?

Could the deaths he had brought be redeemed? Could the marks they left in his mind, his flesh, his sleep—could those ever be erased?

The door opened silently.

A monk stood there—shoulders slightly stooped, robed in simple dark fabric that nearly blended with the shadow behind him. His face was lined, yet ageless. His eyes calm, attentive, and still. They did not judge. They merely saw.

He looked at the hero not with authority, nor with suspicion—but with a different kind of discernment. As though weighing the presence before him not by name or title, but by the weight of the soul that bore it.

– Weapon – the monk said softly, extending his hand.

The words were neither command nor request. They were necessity.

The hero didn’t move at first. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his saber—the way it always had. He felt the familiar chill of steel, the smoothness of worn leather beneath his fingers. The weapon had been with him through everything. It was part of him. An extension of his will. To give it up now felt like peeling back skin.

He lowered his gaze.

Then slowly, carefully, he unfastened the belt.

The leather creaked softly. The blade slid free from its sheath. Even dulled by time, it still caught a faint gleam—as if it, too, waited to know what would become of it next.

He hesitated.

Then, after a moment, placed it in the monk’s hands.

The monk received it gently. Not as a tool of war, but as something sacred. A relic of a life carried far too long.

A silence followed—deep, final.

“Does war ever end?” the hero asked, more to himself than to the man before him.

The monk was not startled. He stood quietly for a time, then replied, “No. But a man can choose to stop fighting. And that is the greater struggle—against himself. Against what lives in his blood. For though the weapon is laid down, the battlefield remains within.”

The hero did not answer. He simply watched as the saber disappeared into a wooden chest, its lid closing like the end of a long chapter. He couldn’t say if he felt lighter, or more hollow. Perhaps both. Or perhaps nothing at all.

The monk gave a quiet nod, acknowledging the silence. Then he turned and walked away into the corridor, his robes brushing stone with barely a sound.

The hero stood alone in the dimness.

He could feel the walls breathing with him—centuries of stone exhaling slowly, as if the monastery itself had paused to bear witness.

He inhaled deeply.

The chill of the place filled his lungs. Wax. Stone. Silence.

With every breath, something inside him shifted. Whether it was lightness or emptiness, he didn’t know.

It no longer mattered.

He stepped over the threshold.

The door closed behind him.

Shortly after, the monk guided him to a basin carved from stone, filled with still water. The surface shimmered faintly. He submerged his hands. Then splashed water over his face, letting the chill run down his skin in narrow rivulets.

This was meant to be purification.

But when he looked into the basin again, he saw the same face.

No change.

After a long pause, he took the simple garment offered to him. Undyed, unmarked—without crest, without brass, without memory. It was meant to be a symbol of humility. To him, it felt like a mask. Not of shame, but of absence.

As if he were becoming someone who did not exist.

Was that what he wanted?

He walked forward slowly. The cold of the monastery pressed in around him like a familiar thought. His footsteps echoed faintly, guiding him toward the place where the Holy Mother waited.

Silent. Still. Scarred.

Just like him.

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The chapel received him with a silence as dense as fog and just as difficult to pass through. It wasn’t mere quiet—it was a presence in itself, a kind of breathless stillness layered with centuries of prayers that had never needed to be spoken aloud. The air was thick with the breath of those who had knelt here before him—those who had begged, confessed, wept, broken.

Shadows of saints clung to the walls, outlined by flickering candlelight. The flames quivered delicately, unwilling to disturb the solemn hush that hung over the sanctuary. Light shimmered off gilded icons and the smooth, cold metal of candleholders, dancing over the gems and silver offerings left by generations of penitents. It cast fleeting reflections on bowed heads and clasped hands, breaking across the soft curve of a shoulder or the wet glint of tears barely held in.

Incense hung heavy in the air—bittersweet, fragrant, full of longing and silence. It mingled with the scent of wax and cold stone, wrapping around him like memory, like ritual, like breath itself. And every sound—every step, every creak of wood, every sigh—echoed as if magnified by the walls themselves, as though the very stones remembered every word ever spoken here, and whispered them back in silence.

He stepped forward.

Cautiously.

As though crossing into a world that did not belong to him.

His boots brushed against the stone floor, smooth and worn by generations of passage—saints and sinners, kings and beggars, each having left something behind. The ground remembered. It bore their weight still. He felt it in the heaviness of each step. A weight not only of stone, but of all the pain and hope pressed into it over the centuries.

And then he lifted his eyes.

And saw her.

The image of the Mother.

He had seen her likeness before—in churches, on banners, on noblemen’s crests—but none of those copies could prepare him for this moment. No painting, no prayer, no engraving could match the gaze that now fell upon him from the altar.

The Black Madonna.

Her image was surrounded by gold, by jewels and silver, by the delicate glow of candles and the offerings of the faithful—but none of it mattered. None of it dimmed the quiet power of her eyes, the carved severity of her mouth, the wounds that marked her cheeks. Not hidden. Not healed. There, still. Visible. Eternal.

Wounds from blades.

From men.

From centuries.

Unhealed by choice.

As if she had chosen to keep them as testimony. As if holiness did not mean perfection, but endurance. Not the absence of pain, but the willingness to carry it. Her scars were not shame. They were sacred.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

There was no pity in her eyes. No soft invitation. No absolution. But neither was there condemnation. What he saw in her face was something far more profound—more terrible, more merciful. Truth. A gaze that stripped away every mask. A knowing that required nothing spoken. She saw it all. What he had done. What he had endured. What he still could not forgive himself for.

She did not forgive.

She did not demand repentance.

She simply looked.

As a mother looks upon a child who has wandered too far into shadow, and no longer knows how to find the way home.

He stood motionless.

The light of the candles flickered across his face.

He felt the weight of every sin he had carried, not grow heavier, not fall away, but settle. As if it no longer needed to be hidden. As if, before her, all burdens were visible anyway.

His hand trembled.

He could have stepped forward.

Could have touched the cold edge of the frame, as others did—those who bowed their heads and wept and prayed. He could have leaned against the icon, whispered something desperate, begged—tried to believe.

But he did not.

He remained still.

Let her look.

Let her see.

And in that gaze—he felt nothing like peace. No absolution. No miracle. But something else. Something very small. Something very quiet.

He was not alone.

Not entirely.

Not completely.

And perhaps that was enough.

For now.

Perhaps that was the only thing he could count on.

*

The penitential cell was modest, almost barren. Stone walls—raw and cool like distant mountain ranges wrapped in mist—reflected the light of a solitary candle, whose fragile flame wavered with every invisible gust of air. Shadows danced across the rough surface, intertwining into shapes the mind preferred not to name. Nothing here distracted his thoughts, nothing softened his loneliness, nothing allowed him to escape from what lay within. A wooden bench, a simple table, and a crucifix on the wall—nothing more. Yet in places like this, one felt most exposed.

The shadow of Christ, elongated by the flickering candle, seemed to move—as though the cross itself breathed, as if hidden within its silence was an answer he wasn’t yet ready to hear. The gaze of wooden eyes, shrouded in half-light, held the same quiet, timeless understanding he had already encountered—in the eyes of the Madonna, in the weary faces of pilgrims, in the looks of those he had sent to the other side with a stroke of his blade.

The monk sat across from him, face obscured by the hood’s shadow. He was calm, unmoved, as if he had seen many like him before. His posture carried no judgment, nor comfort either—only readiness to listen, to open the path that the hero must walk alone. A path whose end held not absolution, but further searching.

– You are here for penance – the monk said softly. – What do you seek?

The hero hesitated. He thought he knew the answer, but now he wasn’t so sure. Did he seek redemption? Was he only looking for relief? Or perhaps he wanted confirmation that his sins were not random, that they served something greater? That everything he had done had meaning, even if distant, even if incomprehensible to human minds?

– I’ve killed many – he finally said. The words sounded strange, as if spoken by someone else. – In the name of the country. In the name of the king. In the name of God. But I no longer know if God was ever there.

The monk didn’t reply immediately. Silence stretched out, filling the space between them like a heavy, invisible curtain.

Suddenly, the hero felt a deep urge to confess, to spill out everything he had carried for years. It felt as though if he did not speak now, he might never find the courage again.

– I remember their faces – he continued, eyes fixed on the stone floor. – Those I couldn’t save. Those I left behind. And those whose lives I ended myself. I no longer feel their weight in my hands, but it remains in my soul. Every day.

Is that enough?
Is that penance?

The monk sighed softly.

– Penance isn’t about erasing sins – he said after a moment. – It’s not about removing the burden. It’s about learning to live with it.”

The hero raised his gaze.

– And if I don’t want to carry it? – he asked, his voice bearing something he couldn’t quite name—not anger, not rebellion, but exhaustion that went deeper than flesh.

The monk shrugged slightly.

– Then it will carry you.

Those words struck the hero harder than he anticipated. A sudden chill crept into him, as if the cold of the stones beneath him had seeped through his skin, settling deep in his bones. This reply held no escape, no promise that someday all pain would cease. It offered only truth, harsh and unforgiving.

– Can a man like me ever be redeemed? – he asked softly.

The monk regarded him carefully.

– That is a question without a single answer – he replied.

– God’s grace isn’t something visible, like a light at the end of a road. It’s not rain after drought, suddenly bringing relief. It’s something sought throughout life, never certain if it has truly been found. We do not know God’s plans. We are like dust in the wind, carried where it wills, never knowing our destination or even if a destination exists. If God watches us, he doesn’t give answers plainly—only clues, faint signs we must learn to interpret ourselves. Perhaps grace already surrounds us, and we simply cannot see it. Perhaps there is none, and we search only for the sake of searching.

The hero remained silent. These words brought no comfort, yet he knew they were true.

When he knelt in the confessional, the wood creaked softly beneath his weight. The grate separating him from the confessor cast shadowed lines across his hands, like a net ready to entangle him. Behind the wooden partition he saw only the shadow of a priest, a figure without a face, merely a presence.

He closed his eyes.

– Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Then he began to speak.

Words flowed from his lips, one after another, like drops of blood trickling down a sword’s blade. He spoke of battles, of blades driven into bodies, of eyes that pleaded for life. He talked of those he abandoned, of those who stood no chance. He spoke of the war still raging within him.

The priest never interrupted. He listened carefully, as though weighing every word, understanding that these confessions wouldn’t change anything yet needed to be voiced. When silence fell again, he spoke gently.

– I cannot lift your burden from you – he said quietly. – But I can tell you that you are not the first to bear it. Nor will you be the last.

The hero nodded. He heard the words of absolution, heard the prayer, but felt nothing besides coldness in his chest and the burden still present within. He didn’t expect miraculous relief. He no longer deceived himself with such hopes.

Yet, as he stepped into the corridor, still breathing in the raw scent of wood and wax, he understood one thing clearly:

He had to go on.

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Night had folded over the chapel in a darkness so deep it felt almost physical. Vaulted ceilings soared far above, swallowed by blackness, as though the space had no end—like a bottomless well suspended between earth and something far beyond human grasp. The stone walls absorbed every sound, distilling it into a silence so dense it took on weight and presence—a silence that lived.

Only the candles gave light—tall, slender, organ-pipe sentinels burning in the still air, offering illumination not to be seen, but to be felt. Their flames shimmered against the golden frames of icons, danced across the cold metal of candlesticks and votive offerings, and mingled with the slow, curling incense smoke that rose toward hidden heights, as if reaching for the unseen heavens.

The hero knelt. His knees touched the cold stone, but he felt no chill. He was suspended—poised between this world and another, between flesh and spirit. His gaze fixed upon the face of the Black Madonna, her earthy features marred by ancient scars, her countenance haloed in flickering gold that seemed, for an instant, to breathe.

Her expression was severe, unmoving—but not cruel. She looked as though she had seen all suffering and grown silent beneath its weight; as though she had listened to every plea uttered within these walls, felt every weeping breath caught in the throats of penitents. Her eyes—dark, unreadable—held no absolution, no condemnation. They were a mirror. A still, unblinking mirror in which every soul must meet itself.

He didn’t know how long he remained there. Time loosened its hold in this space. Seconds became minutes, or hours—perhaps even the whole night passed and folded itself away, unnoticed.

His lips moved, but not in prayer—not in the way of learned verses and empty recitations. What escaped him was something quieter, more desperate. Not a request. Not a bargaining. A kind of inward dialogue with no one on the other end. And perhaps that was its purity.

– Do you see me? – he whispered at last. – Do you see how far I’ve gone? How far we all go?

The candle flames stirred. Wax fell—slow, steady, like the bleeding of time.

– I carry sins– he said. – Sins that don’t fade. They stain the ground. They echo in the air. They remain in those who come after. I can’t erase them. I can’t even ask that they be erased. But still… I came

The Madonna did not change. Her gaze remained, deep and absolute, offering neither solace nor rebuke. Instead, she stripped him bare.

He bowed his head. Exhaustion crept into his bones—not of body, but of spirit. Not like after a battle, or nights in the cold, but deeper. Older. Heavier.

– I don’t ask for peace – he whispered. – Only a sign… that the weight is worth bearing.

The flames flickered. Shadows along the walls twisted and leaned, shifting the features of saints into new, unknowable shapes. And then, something. Not warmth, not light. But the faintest sense that he was no longer alone.

Not unburdened. Not forgiven. Merely—accompanied.

And perhaps that was enough.

He rose, slowly. The chapel remained unchanged: candles dancing, incense curling, silence unwavering. But something within him had altered—minutely, imperceptibly, and irrevocably.

He turned back once more to the image. To the face that had witnessed centuries of human anguish.

Let her watch.

Let her see.

*

Daylight seeped gently through the stained glass, painting the cold stone in quiet hues of pale gold and soft blue. Unlike the flickering candlelight of the night before, this light did not waver. It flowed slowly across the walls, a patient river of morning breaking upon the stillness, awakening the chapel without haste. High above, the vaulted ceiling seemed to breathe with it—as though the ancient stones themselves surrendered to the slow unfolding of dawn. Darkness did not vanish; it withdrew, inch by inch, unwilling to relinquish the sanctuary it had kept.

The hero rose with care. His body, stiff from long kneeling, bore the ache of more than mere time. His bones felt hollowed by weariness, his joints burdened by a weight not entirely physical. It was as though the cold of the stone had etched itself into him, just as years of war had carved themselves into the quiet chambers of his soul.

He turned once more toward the Black Madonna.

Her face had not changed. The same steady gaze, the same silence. Last night—his presence, his words, his confession—it had left no mark. And perhaps that was the point. She was not there to respond. Not to alter fate, nor to offer resolution. She endured. That was all. She had seen countless men like him—kneeling, breaking, reaching—and still, she remained.

Outside, the monastery stirred. The courtyard met him with cool air laced in dew and stone. Somewhere, a bell rang faintly—distant, hesitant, as if even it were reluctant to speak too soon. Leaves rustled softly, a monk’s sandals whispered along the cobbles, and the sky warmed to the colors of quiet resurrection.
The monastery walls caught the morning light, shifting from ash-grey to the ochre of ripened wheat, and then to a soft orange brushed by the sun’s first touch. The shadows of monks moved across the cloisters—long, slow, as if still tethered to the night they were leaving behind.

He paused.

He let the scene settle in him—the light creeping over weathered stone, the slow drift of robes, the hushed devotion of pilgrims. Each of them bore something invisible. Each of them carried it in silence.

And he? He carried questions. None answered.

The monk from the previous day approached. He said nothing. He did not ask what had changed. He did not offer comfort. He simply stood there—as present and immovable as the walls around them, as the sky above, as the morning light that neither judged nor promised.

They exchanged a silent gaze.

Then the monk raised a hand and blessed him, gently, without solemnity.

– May the Lord guide you to where you must go – he said.

The hero didn’t respond. Not from ingratitude. But because he had no words. Did such a path even exist? Did God still chart roads for men like him?

He did not reclaim his saber.

There was no need. No cause left to fight for. No flag left to defend. His hand, so long shaped by the grip of a weapon, now hung weightless at his side—as if only in letting go had he remembered it was his own.

But the shield...

Somehow, it had found its way onto the horse’s packs. He hadn’t placed it there consciously. Couldn’t recall the moment. Perhaps it was reflex. Or reluctance. Or perhaps he had taken it without knowing why—because to cast it away had seemed too theatrical, too final.

It didn’t matter anymore.

The horse waited beneath the shadows of the wall, calm, unmoving. The saddlebag was nearly empty, save for the burden that couldn’t be seen.

He had sold what he could. Left behind what no longer served him. Yet he felt heavier than ever. As if his own shadow clung tighter now, aware of how far it had traveled with him.

The dog awaited.

Silent. Waiting. Just as it always had. No one knew from where it had come, or why it stayed. Perhaps it, too, carried some secret weight. Or perhaps it followed simply because someone had to.

He turned once more to the monastery—those white walls on the hill, those spires that had watched so many come and go. The gate yawned open.

Beyond it stretched the world.

Still brutal. Still dishonest. Still full of questions too vast for any one man to answer.

He stepped forward.

The dog stood and followed, wordless.

He did not know his destination. Perhaps Lviv. Perhaps Cracov. Perhaps wherever the dust led him. The road cared little.

But he carried with him what mattered now: a hollow saddlebag, a burdened heart, the memory of silence, and the quiet loyalty of two creatures who asked for nothing.

And something else.

Something unnamed. Something that had no weight but pressed upon him just the same.

The days were growing shorter.

And the road ahead was long.

So they moved on.

The light sank slowly toward the horizon, drowning in the weight of a russet sky. Autumn had not yet yielded, though it faltered. It lingered like an old warrior, weary from a long campaign, still gripping the hilt of his sword—poised for one last stand against the inevitable. Every gust of wind whispered of defeat to come.

The trees stood still, bare limbs raised skyward in a silent, desperate plea. Others, still clinging to leaves on trembling arms, quivered in the chilled air—brown, red, and gold like worn insignia from forgotten glory. Each breeze stripped them further, sending them spinning downward in their final descent, a slow, somber dance. One breath more, one blink of space—and they would lie scattered below, fragile and soaked, like the bodies of unsung heroes after a battle no bard would ever recall.

Stretched shadows tangled on the wet ground, forming chaotic patterns that pulsed with uneasy meaning. They flickered and shifted with each waning ray, uncertain whether they still belonged to this world or were already reaching into the void. The distant forest shimmered faintly, its edges trembling in the dying light—not merely trees, but something alive, a vast and slumbering thing, breathing slow as a dying giant.

Vilk inhaled the air. It carried more than cold—it was dense, heavy with presence, as if time itself had not yet fully dissolved in this place.

The road beneath him was still sodden from recent rain. Mud clung to the horse’s hooves, piling at the rims of puddles where daylight flickered—splinters of sky shattered into a thousand shards. Peering into one for just a moment, he thought he glimpsed something else— something dark, outlined only in shadow, like an echo of a long-lost shape. He turned his gaze away.

In the distance, at the edge of the road, the village waited. Its cottages hunched low into the earth, as if burdened by years, as though trying to return to the raw matter from which they had been born. Roofs sagged. Walls leaned. Moisture blanketed them like a second skin. They looked lifeless—yet their stillness was more unsettling than emptiness. It was as if they remembered. As if the voices of those who once lived here still echoed within the beams, as if shadows still lingered on worn thresholds. The wind passed between the timbers, moaning softly through narrow gaps, trying to mimic a presence long gone.

He did not stop the horse. He rode on slowly, breathing the same ancient air as the stones, air thick with histories no longer told. Moisture crept beneath his cloak, settled into his skin, sank to the bone. It was not yet winter—but its breath was near. Quiet, inescapable—like footsteps noticed only when already too close.

The water in the puddles trembled beneath the wind, breaking into ripples that fled in all directions, like unfinished words lost on the tongue. Had he closed his eyes, he might have believed they were voices—voices still hovering over this land. And somewhere among the trees, at the edge of the horizon, the first stirrings of night took shape—darkness not yet whole, but already present, folded into the land’s own breath.

And he? He seemed made of it.

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He could not recall when the dog had first appeared. There was no clear moment when he noticed it—it was simply there, as if it had always existed at the edge of his awareness, hidden in the silence between two heartbeats. It didn’t come out of the woods, didn’t crawl from a ditch, or trot up to him like some farm dog craving a friendly hand. No. It merely sat—black as night, gaunt as death’s own shadow.

Slender, but not delicately so—sharp, angular, like a dagger honed to a killing edge. Too thin, as though it had long since renounced the will to live. Its fur, coarse and patchy, did not reflect the moonlight but swallowed it whole. And when the low-hanging moon traced its outline, he saw not an animal, but absence—an incision in the world, a place where light had no dominion.

Its eyes—dark, fathomless, despite flickers of gold—held nothing of the living. Yet they watched.

For a while, it remained still. Then, without urgency, it rose—slow, deliberate, as if the moment meant nothing. It circled the spot where it had lain, sniffing the grass with a ritual precision, purpose known only to itself.

And then, as though it had always meant to, it followed the rider.

It did not beg. It sought no affection, no command, no glance. It was a shadow that required no light to persist.

Its paws glided through the mud without sound, leaving no trace. It was weightless, scarcely grazing the ground, its presence more suggestion than substance. Puddles did not ripple at its passing. Dry leaves did not stir. It was not dead—but it was no longer truly alive.

The pilgrim saw it all and said nothing.

He recognized the condition.

He walked a road without end—a path suspended between what had been and what might come, each step leading only to the next. He had long known that the destination he pursued would offer no answers. It was not a place to arrive at, merely the only direction left.

So they traveled together—man and dog, bound by the same darkness, severed from a world that no longer held them.

He was a soldier. But he wore no armor now.

Not this time.

Perhaps never again.

Gone were the hussar wings that once sang in the wind. Gone was the heavy fur cloak, the signet ring with which he sealed decrees and letters. All of it—symbols, now hollow—meant only to those who still believed some truths could never be broken.

All he had left was a grey cloak—worn, frayed, riddled with holes where the wind slipped in. He carried a saber, its blade engraved with more names than he could remember. And a shield—a golden field upon which a black aurochs reared, pierced through the skull by a sword. He had once honored it. Now it simply weighed upon his back.

He carried something else, too. Something heavier than steel, and far less visible.

Conscience.

Heavier than the armor he no longer wore. Heavier than the sword gripped in his hand during those final battles. Heavier than the corpse beside him on that night he chose to abandon it to fate.

For war never ends. Never. It does not vanish, nor recede into the past—it simply moves on. To new fields. New names. New reasons to die.

And he?
He no longer wished to fight.

The dog kept walking. Its shadow entwined with the pilgrim’s, until the two became indistinguishable—merged, as if they were one and the same. As if the dog was something the hero could never cleanse from his soul. As if it was war itself. Eternal.

He had not summoned it. He would not banish it. He held no power over it—just as he held none over his past.

He could hasten his pace, veer from his path, stop entirely—yet the dog would go on. Silent. Soundless. Like an echo that refuses to fade.

Or perhaps… perhaps it was he who followed the dog?

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The earth yielded beneath the horse’s hooves as if reluctant to bear its weight any longer, dragging it down into a damp abyss—impatient, eager, thirsty. Mud clung to the horseshoes, each step echoing with a long, fetid squelch, as though the land itself were trying to hold on to the traveler, unwilling to release yet another pilgrim. The moist scent of rotting vegetation mingled with the cold air, creeping into his nostrils—thick, cloying, invasive. It did not simply touch him; it entered him, and stayed.

The grey world around him faded. The borders of reality dissolved into mist that hovered, unseen but present, vibrating through the air. Each breath he took tasted of earth—not just its scent, but its essence. Its hushed murmur pulsed within the moisture, pressing against his skin, pushing behind his eyes. He didn’t notice when the mud began to breathe.

At first, it seemed like nothing more than soggy ground—wet and heavy beneath the hooves. But then, at the edge of his mind, something shifted. Movement—subtle, slow, unnatural. As if the land beneath him were not quite dead. He looked down.

Within the slick, brown muck, something trembled. No, it wasn’t only mud. Something else. A distorted shape. Faint outlines.

A face.

A mouth, open in a silent gasp for air. Eyes—clouded, fixed on him, as if they knew him. As if they called to him.

The puddles that moments ago had mirrored only the bruised sky now darkened, thickened, transformed. They grew black and viscous, turning inward. Within their shallow depths, something stirred—pale shapes, ghostly and featureless, like shadows torn from forgotten bodies, now moving of their own will.

Then he heard the voice.

“Don’t leave me.”

It wasn’t an echo.
It wasn’t a trick of wind or memory. It was real. It split the air with a weight that was neither scream nor whisper—something between. A sound that crawled from inside his own memory, wrapping itself around the present like ivy around a tomb. He knew that voice. He didn’t need to ask.

And then the earth gave way beneath him once more.

There was no mud.
No road.
No horse.

It was Kamianets-Podilskyi.
1672.
Mud.
Death.
Defeat.

The hands of his comrades clenched in spasms. Smoke coiled above shattered walls. Screams pierced the air, tearing at it like claws—so near, it was as though the earth itself was still exhaling them. One by one. Cry by cry.

And then...
Jacek.

He lay in the mud, just as he had that day. Not a memory. He was there. His hand rose slightly, as if he still wished to stand, though his strength had already fled. Water rippled around him. The puddle beneath his body reflected the sky above, imprinting his silhouette within its depths like a dying prayer.

That day had never left him.

They had fled. The city was lost. The Ottoman tide had surged through the ruins like a living flood. The hero had trudged through a mire of blood and earth, each step sinking deeper—as if the world itself were trying to pull him under. He saw men dying, choking, torn apart—and he could not stop.

Then Jacek fell.

He crashed into the muck, his body slamming against the ground like a bell tolling the end. The hero looked back. Their eyes met. And Jacek knew. He knew that if his friend reached for him, both would be lost. His eyes held no blame. No plea. Only silence. Black. Heavy. Final.

The hero could look away.

And so he did.

He turned.

He lived.

But only in body.

The mud had been everywhere—filling his mouth, stealing breath, clogging his nose with the stench of death. It suffocated him then. It suffocates him still.

Now, the puddles stirred once more, breathing memory, pulling it into their depths. Visions rippled across their surface, waves of what once was, returning only to disappear again.

The dog lunged—snarling, snapping, teeth bared against the shadow. It leapt wildly, eyes glowing like gold-fire in the dark. For a moment, it became the night itself.

There was no turning back.

Its jaws closed on nothing.

Jacek was gone.

The dog landed hard, flinging mud into the air. Its growl trembled and vanished.

Nothing remained.

No corpse. No ghost. Only silence. Only wind. Only the cold twilight, thick and impenetrable.

The puddles trembled, as if for a moment they remembered what they had shown. Then stilled. And in them—only the torn sky.

The hero tightened his grip on the reins.

He knew it wasn’t over.

The mud and the shadows had not left.

They were waiting.

Like everything unresolved.

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He passed near another village as the landscape gradually sank into the flowing colors of autumn. Here and there, clusters of amber birches rose—slender, pale, shivering softly in the wind. Their golden leaves flickered like flames, fluttering in one final dance before falling to the ground.

The world became steeped in warmth. Forests faded into copper and carmine, treetops undulating like waves of fire rolling toward the horizon. The sun, slowly descending behind the hills, cast a soft amber glow across the land, painting long golden streaks of light over damp paths and through reaching branches. Everything seemed to pulse in hypnotic harmony. Within the stillness of this place lingered a suspended moment, a natural symphony awaiting its final note.

He felt dusk settle onto his shoulders.

Aside from houses, trees, a few hills, and the rider himself, the world seemed open—almost as though it invited him to vanish within it. To let it overtake his thoughts, wrap itself around his body, and drown him in beauty. He breathed in the scent of damp soil, fallen leaves, and distant smoke rising from the huts where light was fading.

But he could not give in.

Memory clung to him, its dark fingers winding through his thoughts, squeezing tightly. Something stirred in his chest. The beauty of autumn felt suddenly unreal, almost dreamlike—a fragile illusion woven by a weary mind. The colors of the dying day shimmered before his eyes, pulsing behind his eyelids: flickering reds, rusted browns, burning orange.

The sky caught fire.

He didn’t look.

He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.

He knew this sight.

A vision. A memory.

Smoke—biting, thick, filling his lungs and pressing into every breath.

He tried to steady his breathing, but every inhale struck him like a blow. That same smell. That same bitter taste of burning.
1674.

A scream.

His pulse jumped, thudding unevenly in his chest.

Too close.

Far too close.

He couldn’t stand it.

He opened his eyes.

The village was in flames.

Whoever had screamed was already gone.

But that didn’t matter.

He stood in the heart of the inferno. Fire howled through the birch trees, climbing skyward. Sparks spun like furious insects—golden and wild—swarming one another in a frantic, mindless dance. Flames mirrored themselves in puddles; broken surfaces of water shimmered with orange light, trembling as though they reflected the same terror pulsing inside him.

He knew it was only a vision.

That village had long since vanished.

But it made no difference.

Every cell in his body remembered. Every nerve still lived that moment.

He saw flames devouring thatched roofs, saw them sag and collapse beneath the weight of fire. He saw faces—faces just like before—twisted by pain, blistering in the boiling air.

Tatars darted through the chaos like shadows. Sabers sliced through bodies, tearing through final breaths lost beneath the ashes.

And then...

She stood there.

In the center of the village.

A young girl.

Her rain-soaked hair now ablaze.

She didn’t scream.

She looked straight at him—her face blackened, her eyes empty, burned clean of hope. She wasn’t waiting to be saved. There was no time. The day he should have arrived had passed.

They hadn’t made it in time.

Some hetman—may a dog foul his grave—had delayed the order for reinforcements. Pleas had meant nothing. The distant borders of the Commonwealth were deemed unworthy of urgency.

But he had to witness it.

He had to stand in the slaughter, breathe the stench of burnt flesh, and listen to the silence left behind by extinguished screams.

Politics. Nobility. Lives wasted.

Utterly unnecessary.

The dog lunged at the vision. It attacked the ghost of a Tatar invader, jaws snapping at flesh that wasn’t there. It hurled itself into the fire like a creature possessed.

The pilgrim closed his eyes, drew a long breath, and fought to calm the trembling in his mind.

The hallucination faded.

But his fingers were still clenched around the reins.

His entire body was shaking.

Breathe. Steady.

The horse shifted beneath him, uneasy—sensing the residue of something that refused to vanish.

He moved on, leaving the haunted village behind as it slowly faded into sleep.

He would not sleep for some time.

There was still much road ahead.

He patted the mare’s side.

The horse gave a soft whinny, vapor curling from her nostrils.

Hoofbeats counted out the path.

The air filled again with chill and moisture.

He felt only sadness—measured and vast—but couldn’t name its weight. It was the one emotion that never left him. A single, unchanging state. There was no contrast anymore, no range of feeling. Only this.

And yet something drove the pilgrim onward.

It wasn’t endurance. It wasn’t submission.

He simply rode.

Because he had to.

He no longer managed alone.

He kept going, hoping the monastery ahead might still offer peace.

Redemption, if such a thing could exist.

The land unfolded before him with weary patience.

Birches gave way to willows.

The sun dipped lower, pouring scarlet into the sky.

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The sky still smoldered in fading hues of fire, but its glow was steadily dimming, darkening with each passing moment. The orange that had recently painted the horizon in warmth now gave way to deepening purples. Red began to dominate—not vivid or bright, but heavy, saturated, as if the very blood of the sky were seeping downward, soaking into the land below. The world seemed to hold its breath. The trees cloaking the hills no longer shimmered with autumn’s fiery reflections. They had ceased to pulse like living flames and became instead stiff, dark clusters frozen in place—rigid, heavy, almost lifeless. The leaves, though still clinging to the branches, looked drained of life, as if waiting in silence for the final gust to sever them from existence.

The pilgrim rode slowly, letting his horse choose the pace. The animal, attuned to its rider’s stillness, did not rush. Their movement felt suspended in inevitability, as though the space around them had ceased to be scenery and become something alive, breathing with them. The dog, though still following, now stayed closer, its head lowered, its steps more cautious. Something had changed in the air—something even the animal, instinct-bound to the rhythm of the world, could feel. The wind, which not long ago had carried the scent of smoke and ash, was beginning to shed its bitterness. It turned cooler, wetter, as though the earth, still steaming from fire, now began to accept its offering.

The puddles scattered along the path like shards of shattered mirrors no longer reflected tongues of orange flame. Instead, they darkened—dense, bottomless crimson. The surface trembled and distorted beneath the wind’s breath, shadows flickering inside as though something within the sky had begun to shift, too heavy now to stay still. Red streaks drifted overhead, like bruises on battered flesh. And the silence—once peaceful—grew thick. It was no longer the hush of calm, but a silence drawn tight, stretched to breaking. A silence full of waiting. As if the world itself knew something was coming, and had chosen to stop breathing.

He straightened in the saddle, tightening his grip on the reins. The road, once flat and wet, now sloped upward, leading toward something unseen, something waiting beyond the crest. He didn’t yet know what it would be, but he sensed it. The land, swallowed slowly by twilight, stretched out endlessly ahead of him. Then he felt it—a tremor in the air. Faint. Like wings fluttering far off. He didn’t look. Not yet. He knew this sensation. A fine thread of awareness brushing the edges of his vision, undeniable and real.

The dog stopped first. Its fur rose along its spine, its body tense, golden strands catching the fading light and vanishing just as quickly. It didn’t look at the pilgrim. It stared straight ahead.

And the pilgrim had no choice.

He raised his eyes.

Something stood in the road.

Not human. Not animal. Nothing born of this world.

At first, it was only a shape—a long shadow stretched across the damp earth, like a wound on the skin of reality. Then the shape shifted. It didn’t walk or slither or step. It drifted, as if its movement were not motion, but thought taking form in space. The puddles reflected something new—not sky, not clouds, not even light—but it. The pilgrim felt his heart stop for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. The thing didn’t move, and yet it came closer.

The dog growled—a low, resonant sound, just above silence. It wasn’t a warning bark. It was something deeper. A recognition. A primal rejection of something that should not exist. The air rippled.

The pilgrim’s hand slid instinctively toward his saber.

Not yet.

The shadow moved again.

Its face… it had no face. And yet, within the hollow curve of its outline, there were eyes—or the imitation of eyes. They looked at him. They did not exist, but still, they saw.

The world narrowed. Puddles began to ripple as if stirred from beneath. Reflections twisted—red, violet, distorted, stretching space into impossible shapes. The pilgrim drew breath. He blinked.

Nothing remained.

The road ahead was empty.

Leaves rustled softly in the wind.

The sky was still red.

But the shape was gone.

No trace. No presence. No imprint of what had been.

Only the dog continued to growl.

The pilgrim nudged the horse forward. It obeyed without hesitation. Hooves broke the surface of puddles, scattering them into fragments. But the water no longer reflected anything. No trees. No sky. No horse. No rider.

Nothing.

As if he no longer existed.

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The horse’s hooves struck stones that only hours ago had shimmered under the warm glow of the setting sun. Now, the red sky had darkened into a thick shade of purple, as if the very fabric of the heavens had absorbed blood. Reflections scattered across the puddles along the path, forming surreal gleams, spreading like lifeblood from open wounds over the wet ground. The air was dense, clinging to the skin, saturated with the metallic sweetness of iron and the scent of damp earth. He breathed in deeply, and each inhale left the taste of blood on his tongue.

Solitary willows lined the roadside, twisted by wind, their crooked branches stretched upward like the hands of the dead, reaching for the heavens in mute appeal. In the dusk they seemed almost grotesque—some like knotted entrails, others like the broken bodies of warriors frozen mid-scream, limbs twisted by agony, unable to rise. Their blackened silhouettes, soaked in the red light of the sky, stood as grim monuments to those swallowed by madness.

With each passing moment, the landscape slipped further from reality. The puddles no longer reflected sky or tree, but pulsed like wounds, as if the earth itself bled beneath his horse’s hooves. When he looked into them, he did not see himself—instead, he saw stains of blood, shattered spears, and scattered bodies. The surfaces quivered as though touched by invisible fingers, blurring the line between memory and the world around him.

Vienna.

That day returned without warning, like a quiet executioner needing no introduction. The charge. The thunder of hooves rising into a singular roar. Air thick with the sweat of horses and men, the shouts and groans, the tearing of armor, the splitting of flesh, the dull impact of bodies crashing to the earth. He could feel it again—the hot breath of war against his face.

He remembered the triumph. Remembered the surge of thousands of hussar wings breaking over the battlefield like a storm. He remembered the first impact, an unstoppable force that crushed enemy lines into chaos, into death. Blood flowed freely, as though the coronation of a new king required it—throats opened, skulls cleaved, bones shattered beneath hooves.

But war did not end with triumph.

War left marks that never faded.

The bodies of the fallen never lay in peace. Their limbs twisted unnaturally, hands clenched as if still gripping invisible weapons. Their mouths moved even in death, as though speaking curses, calling for mothers, begging forgotten gods. Once he believed these were illusions. Now, he knew: one does not escape the gaze of the dead.

And then he saw him.

A boy. Perhaps fifteen. Too young to die. Too young to be here. Too young to know nothing but war.

Captured, maybe, during an earlier raid. Offered in tribute. Fed into the grinding machine that turned children into weapons, into tools. A Janissary. Raised in a foreign tongue, his soul uprooted and repotted in alien soil. Fed a stranger’s faith and taught to swing a stranger’s blade until he forgot he had ever known anything else. Perhaps, once, he had played beneath the same trees where now his kin were dying. Perhaps, long ago, his mother had cradled him in a mud-brick hut somewhere far beyond the steppe—before they tore him from her arms.

Perhaps his name was Jan. But now they called him Yusuf.

Perhaps.

Perhaps he was one of those whose childhood had been burned in the furnace of the god of war.

His eyes were wide, unblinking, trembling—but tearless. They fixed on the pilgrim, taking in every line of his face, every detail of the hand gripping the saber.

He spoke—but the words never reached him. They were drowned in screams, in steel, in the wail of wind over blood. Maybe he begged for mercy. Maybe he cursed his name. Maybe he prayed for death.

There was no time to wonder.

The saber cut downward.

He felt it all—the blade slicing through skin, meeting muscle, snagging on bone. He felt the spray of blood. The warm splash across his fingers. The boy fell to his knees. He did not die instantly. He breathed. He stared. He trembled.

Life was slow to leave him.

It lasted forever.

The pilgrim watched the light fade from his eyes—millimeter by millimeter—until only emptiness remained. Glassy. Still.

“And for what?”

A droplet landed on his cheek. He didn’t know if it was rain or blood. Instinctively, he wiped it with the back of his hand. The metallic scent filled his nose. The horse beneath him snorted, tossing its head, sensing its rider’s storm.

He blinked.

There was no battlefield. No bodies. No boy.

Only a barren field scorched by sun, and a sky slowly darkening into the deep blue of night.

The horse shifted, uneasy, picking up the tension that still clung to his breath. The dog crept closer, nostrils twitching, sniffing the air. Maybe it sensed remnants of smoke and sweat, though long gone. Maybe it smelled what men could not.

The pilgrim breathed in. The air was clean now—rain, soil, distant trees. No fire. No blood.

But that didn’t matter.

Memory carried its own scent.

Night was falling.

Shadows grew along the road, creeping outward, slow and formless, wrapping the world in silence.

He rode on.

This time, the puddles reflected him.