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.

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Sire.69 - Stranica

Chapter VII