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.
*
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.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
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.
***
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.
*****
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 ?yjem.
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.
