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? Tane?niki?

  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.

  *

  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.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  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.

  ***

  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.

  *****

  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.