#breaking through

—

When two riders broke from the last clutch of trees, the dusk was already slipping into night. Mist rolled up from the river, twining with the smoke from the chimneys, twisting together and sagging low over the rooftops as if the cold had seized it in both hands and forced it down.

The horses came hard from the run, snorting, sides lathered and dark, the reek of sweat lifting off their coats. Their breath spilled into the air in thick, white streams, each plume torn apart by the wind before vanishing.

On the slope above the bridge the little town waited — the keep’s tower, the sharp shoulders of steep gables, a string of windows lit from within, gold against the blue-black. The town of Svetla.

Hans drew the reins only enough to ease them into a walk. Samuel rode on his left, hunched low in the saddle, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Only a few dozen paces lay between them and the day’s end, yet weariness dragged at every motion — as though even their bones had grown heavy with it.

The square lay in silence, broken only by the muted noise spilling from the open doors of the tavern — laughter, a scatter of dice clacking over wood, the slurred rise of a song.

They drew up before it, swung down from the saddles. Hans’s hand lingered a moment on his horse’s neck, feeling the tremor in the muscle beneath its damp coat, before he turned toward the doorway.

When they stepped inside, the heat struck them full-on — folding over shoulders still tight with cold — and with it came the heavy scent of roasting meat, fat spitting in the fire. Smoke hung thick under the rafters, clinging to hair and cloak, seeping into them with every breath.

They paid for a night’s lodging and a meal. Hans reached for his purse without hesitation, merely giving the innkeeper a nod to bring something hot and a pitcher of ale.

Weariness had settled deep — in their shoulders, in their legs, in their very eyes — heavy as a rain-soaked cloak drawn close to the skin.

Hans ate quickly, tearing at the bread, chewing hard, as if each mouthful could scour out not just the hunger but the thoughts gnawing at the back of his skull. His jaw worked like he meant to bite through more than meat. Only when the plates lay bare and the ale had softened his breath — heat coiling in his chest — did he speak.

“We ride early.” His voice came low, flat. “First light. No later.

Samuel dipped his head once. “Ay.”

Hans rubbed his palm along the table’s edge, the pads of his fingers drummed once on the wood.

“How far yet? To Nikolsburg.”

“If we keep the pace…” Samuel’s brow knotted, words measured like rations. “Four days, at the least.”

Hans turned away, jaw clenching, gaze locked on the bare smear of gravy on his plate. Four days. After today, it yawned before him like a road with no end, each mile a weight to be shouldered.

At the next table, two craftsmen laughed over their dice; from somewhere near the hearth a bench let out a long, slow creak. Outside, night had closed its fist tight, and through the windows came only the restless flicker of torches on the green.

Hans kept his eyes fixed on the table’s grain, following each dark line as if it might hold some answer.

“What happened to him?”

The question fell quieter than he had meant, thinned by something he didn’t name.

Samuel stayed in the silence a moment too long, gaze dropped, thumb tracing the rim of his tankard in slow, unbroken circles, as though the motion might coax the words out.

“All of us who were there…” His voice had the edge of something held too long. “We swore never to speak of what was done — or where.”

His eyes slipped away, not to the side but down, as if the words themselves were dangerous to meet.

“It’s not only the King it shields — it shields us. Sigismund’s reach is long.”

Hans inclined his head — slow, heavy, without a word of dispute — as though even that small gesture drew more from him than he wished to show.

For a while they sat in a hush that seemed to gather in the corners, the crackle of the fire carrying the faint scent of oak-smoke. Samuel dragged his fingers across his brow, his gaze fixed anywhere but on Hans.

“To hell with it.”

He leaned in, elbows braced to the table, voice dropping until it was more breath than sound. “On the way out of Vienna… things went to shit.”

A pause. His eyes fell to the table for the span of a breath.

“Henry threw himself into the fight to pull the pursuers off the King. I was just behind him.”

He drew a long breath.

“A man stepped out of the shadows and caught him — a heavy blow to the head.”

Samuel’s hands clenched on the table until his knuckles blanched.

“I took him down — but Henry was already out cold.” His voice had the clipped edge of someone still seeing it play out. “Got him back to the others… then on to Nikolsburg. Liechtenstein’s stronghold.”

Hans shut his eyes tight. His face tightened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose as though it might hold back the surge rising in his chest. He gave the smallest shake of his head.

Samuel leaned back against the bench, his gaze fixed somewhere in the corner’s dark.

“He looks as though nothing’s wrong. The helmet took most of it — thank God. Only… we haven’t been able to wake him.”

His chin dipped, voice thickening. “His breathing’s shallow — more like he’s fallen into a deep, deep sleep. We even brought in John’s physician… but he said there’s nothing to be done. Just wait. And pray.”

Hans didn’t lift his head. His eyes stayed on the table, fixed so hard the grain blurred.

“I prayed for him. Every day.” The words came out low, rough in the throat.

Then he lifted his gaze to Samuel. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Samuel met his eyes, but only for a moment. His glance slipped aside, the corners of his mouth shifting almost imperceptibly.

“John ordered me to stay in Nikolsburg. To keep watch over Henry… and the castle.”

He paused, tracing a finger along the table’s edge.

“But when I saw Henry wasn’t improving… I just got on my horse and rode.”

For a moment, there was only quiet between them.

“I hope John understands,” he added, softer still.

Then his gaze found its way back to Hans. “If only because he’d want to know, if—” The words caught; he drew breath again. “—someone who mattered to him was in danger.”

Hans looked at him for a long moment. A quiet shadow lingered in his eyes. At last, he only nodded — brief, but certain.

No more words passed between them. The fire whispered in the hearth, and from beyond the windows came the muted sound of laughter from the green. They sat there a few more minutes, until weariness finally drew them from the table. They went to their beds, to rise early for the ride.

Hans lay flat on his back, eyes open to the dark — a darkness that pressed down, thick as drenched cloth, heavy in the lungs. The image came again and again, unbidden: Henry lying still on the bed. Peaceful — yes — as if only sleeping… but with a remoteness that made the air around him feel colder. As if he were already on the other side of some invisible line, and Hans could only stand at its edge, reaching for someone who could no longer feel his hand. They set out in the dim before dawn. The cold pressed against their faces; a thin mist drifted over the meadows, and the hooves rang hollow on the frost-hardened road. Rags of hoarfrost clung to the stubble, the air sharp and still.

They rode in a pared-down silence, speaking only when needed, shifting the pace to ease the horses for a stretch before pushing them on again. The sun never broke through; the sky hung low, leaden, as if pressing on their backs. The cold kept the horses lively, breath steaming in sharp bursts for almost the whole ride.

By evening, they came to Iglau. Samuel veered from the road Henry and the others had taken weeks earlier — unwilling to set foot in that inn again. He kept half a length ahead, eyes darting over the streets, restless, searching the shadows as if they might shift on their own. They lingered nowhere, drew no notice, and before long took themselves to bed. They rode out early, the air still holding the bite of night.

The streets were empty, doors shut tight, the first threads of smoke coiling from chimneys and drifting low. Wet cobblestones gleamed under the hooves, slick enough to make each step a measured one. Beyond the gate, the road was swallowed in a grey morning mist, shapes dissolving within a few paces as though the world itself ended there.

“Best we keep to the main road,” Samuel muttered as they left the town behind. “Fewer chances for surprises.”

Hans gave a short nod. There was no need to ask what he meant.

The chill of the morning kept them to a brisk pace. The countryside slipped by in the grey and brown shades of late autumn; steam drifted slowly from the fields, and puddles left by the night’s rain caught the light in the hollows of the road.

The road dipped into a shallow fold of land, and the sound came first — a harsh, grating chorus that rose and broke over the mist.

Black wings tore themselves up from the ground ahead, beating the air, heavy and cold, against their faces. The ravens wheeled low, their calls sharp with anger at being driven from their feast. The smell hit a moment later — blood, still warm enough to lift in the damp air, copper-strong in the throat.

A horse lay on the churned grass by the ditch, legs twisted beneath its bulk. A ragged gash split the belly, and the rain had worked the dark blood into the mud, thin pink rivulets threading away through the trampled earth. The exposed flesh still held its heat; faint steam rose from the torn hide.

Hans eased the reins just enough to take them wide. Their boots knocked together once as they passed, both horses quickening to be gone from the place. The muscles under them bunched and pulled taut, nostrils flaring, breath coming fast.

The ravens followed, circling overhead, their shadows sliding over wet ground. When the riders had gone far enough, the birds dropped back to the carrion, and the wet slap of their wings carried down the road long after the carcass was lost to the mist.

By noon, rain began to fall from the low sky, laced with fine flakes of snow. The drops clung to the horses’ manes and to their clothes, cold water seeping down Hans’s collar and into the fabric until the chill had crept down his back.

They didn’t reach Budwitz until nightfall, both of them soaked through, clothes weighing heavy on their shoulders, fingers stiff around the reins. Samuel steered them to a smaller inn on the town’s edge, far from the market square and the eyes that came with it.

Inside, heat wrapped around them, thick with the mingled smells of woodsmoke, ale, and the faint tang of spilled beer in the floorboards. The low ceiling pressed down, its dark beams blackened by years of smoke. Hans felt the pull of fatigue knotting the muscles at the back of his neck, yet he wasn’t ready to rise from the table.

Samuel sat across from him, fingers looped around a clay cup. His eyes drifted past Hans for a moment, fixing on something unseen in the shadows.

“Do you remember, Hans… back at Devil’s Den, when you told me you might not have been entirely fair to me before?”

Hans’s gaze lifted to meet his. For an instant, surprise flickered — quick as a blink — before he let it go and gave a silent nod.

“You know…” Samuel’s smile came, but with a bitterness at its edges. “I had a pretty skewed view of you myself. I’d think in my head, ‘Henry… why Capon, of all people.’”

He exhaled, a short breath through the nose, and shook his head. “But I think I understand now.”

Hans let the quiet linger.

“And what changed it?”

Samuel leaned his elbow on the table, searching for the words.

“These days I’ve seen what he means to you. And these last weeks… I’ve spent more time with Henry than ever before.

Hans watched him in silence, unmoving.

“Every night he’d go off on his own,” Samuel went on, “and I thought he was going to pray. One night I was close — not on purpose, I wasn’t trying to listen — but it wasn’t prayer I heard.”

Hans leaned toward him a little. “Then what was it?”

Samuel met his eyes squarely. “He was speaking to you. As if you were standing right beside him, Hans.”

For a moment his gaze fell.

“Every night.”

Something shifted, still and deep, in Hans’s eyes — a mingling of tenderness and sorrow so tightly woven it could not be undone.

He ran his fingers slowly along the edge of the table.

“How far yet?”

“We’re close,” Samuel replied. “By tomorrow evening we should be in Znaim. And the day after… Nikolsburg will be within reach.”

“So two more days,” Hans said, more to himself than to him.

Samuel’s reply was only a nod.

They stayed there a little longer, silence settling around them again, before finally pushing back their chairs. Without another word, they made for their beds.

In the middle of the night, some indistinct sound — or maybe just the weight of his own unrest — roused Hans from sleep. He lay still, ears open to the creak of the beams, the thin whisper of wind at the shutters, and the faint, unhurried tread somewhere in the hall. After a moment, he rolled onto his side, facing the stretch of cold, empty space beside him.

He realised he could no longer summon Henry in his mind except lying still, eyes closed. Peaceful, as though he slept.

As if every other image in memory had faded.

Hans let out a quiet breath and pressed his face into the old, unyielding pillow. The morning was raw and cold, though the sun already stood high enough in the sky. Steam rose from the horses’ nostrils and the damp earth as they saddled under the shelter. Hans ran a hand down his horse’s mane and gave the buckles on the tack a quick check.

They set out. The land opened into long, slow-rolling fields, broken by narrow strips of woodland. The wind carried the scent of wet grass and the faint smoke of far-off hearths. They spoke little. When words came, they were brief, about the miles ahead.

By afternoon the clouds had drawn in and the wind had risen. The horse beneath Hans lifted its head against the gusts, hooves drumming a steady rhythm into the packed earth. From time to time Samuel’s eyes went to the sky.

When the first roofs of Znaim rose on the horizon, the church tower behind them, the sun was already slipping low. The road wound gently down past the vineyards, their bare vines quivering in the wind. They rode through the outskirts in silence. The evening light turned the house walls to copper, but the cold was already crawling into the streets.

They found an inn not far from the market square.

Hans swung down from the saddle, the weight of the miles settling into his shoulders — and with it, the heavier weight of thoughts that refused to let him go.

Inside it was warm, but not loud. A few men sat at a corner table, the air carrying the smell of meat and ale. Samuel gave the innkeeper a short nod.

“Two plates. A room. And beer.”

They were brought soup and a cut of meat with bread. Hans ate slowly, his gaze drifting to the window where the darkness pressed against the glass.

“Tomorrow we’ll be there,” he said, voice low, almost for himself.

Samuel nodded. “If nothing delays us.”

Hans drank from his mug.

“Nothing will.”

Samuel looked aside. “Maybe… maybe he’s already woken.”

Hans turned his eyes to him, but gave no answer.

“Or maybe he’s still sleeping,” Samuel added more softly. “Lying without moving.”

Hans set the mug down. “Then I’ll wake him.”

“And if…” Samuel hesitated, as though weighing whether to speak the words at all. “And if he never wakes?”

Hans turned his gaze to the window. “Then I’ll stay with him. As long as he breathes.”

Samuel looked up at him slowly.

“Hans… we have to be ready for anything. Even for—”

Hans met his eyes. Steady. And sharper than Samuel had expected.

He stayed silent for so long it almost hurt.

“No.”

They said no more after that. The air between them was taut, but not hostile — weighted only with what they both knew.

When they lay down, Hans closed his eyes, but sleep did not come quickly. From outside came the stir of the stables, the murmur of distant voices — and between them, his own heartbeat. Before his eyes, always the face he could still lose. Morning found them awake before the city stirred. No light yet in the windows, only the pale glow spilling over the rooftops.

The horses stood ready, breath rising into the cold air. Hans swung into the saddle without a word; Samuel followed.

They left Znaim in silence — without looking back, only the sound of hooves carrying the hours with them.

The road climbed gently at first, between fields and misted slopes. Frost glittered on the grass; the air was clean and sharp. Hans kept the pace quick, with barely a pause.

In every step of the horses he felt an unseen pressure — as if something behind them were pressing them on.

His thoughts ran ahead of him, to the gate of Nikolsburg, to the moment when he would see… what? With eyes shut he led himself through every possible outcome, each one settling heavy in his chest. His pulse had started to hammer, though his horse still kept its steady lope.

For hours they rode without speaking. Samuel glanced back at him now and then, but said nothing. Not until the road opened ahead, straighter, did he urge his horse up alongside Hans’s and raise a hand.

“Wait.”

Hans pulled the reins. “What is it?”

Samuel’s eyes fell to Hans’s hand on the reins — clenched tight, the knuckles white. He studied him for a moment.

“Are you well?”

Hans looked at him, his expression unreadable — not hard, not yielding. A slow shake of the head.

“Let’s keep going.”

They pushed on, the pace sharpening. The road south was calling them — and with every mile, it grew heavier. Afternoon stretched into evening. Shadows drew long across the fields, and the colour of the sky deepened.

When the land levelled into a broad plain, the horizon opened. And there — like the spine of a great beast — a low mountain ridge rose against the fading light. At its foot the town lay huddled. Hans drew in the reins, unthinking. Something clenched in his chest.

Nikolsburg.

The guard at the gate gave Samuel a nod of recognition. “We’re on Liechtenstein land now,” he said over his shoulder as they passed through. “Safe.”

Hans gave no reply. Only tightened his grip on the reins.

On the gentle rise above, the castle stood, its walls cast in the evening light. When they reached the courtyard, Samuel swung down from his horse and turned to him. “We’ll go to Henry at once.”

Hans gave a short nod, his throat dry as ash, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his hands.

Samuel led him through the corridors, their steps muffled on the stone floor. Torches flared along the walls, throwing long, restless shadows. Every arch, every turn, every door they passed felt as though it must be the last.

At one door Samuel slowed. He set a hand to the latch, eased it open, and glanced inside. Then he turned to Hans — a faint crease between his brows — and pushed it wide.

The chamber was empty.

They stepped in.

Hans let his eyes roam, unsure where to look first. The bed. The table. A pair of chairs. A chest. In the hearth, a low flame licked at a few small logs.

“Hans?”

He turned so sharply that it took him a heartbeat to grasp.

Henry stood in the doorway — a little pale, his features drawn with fatigue, but wearing that beautiful smile, that look of sudden warmth. He stood tall. Alone.

Hans moved toward him. Long, decisive strides. Henry came too, straight for him.

They stopped just short, the air between them tight with disbelief — as if neither trusted the sight to be real. Wonder. Joy. Relief — flaring in both their eyes, drawing from each other.

And then they held each other, hard.

They barely noticed Samuel slip out of the chamber with a quiet smile, closing the door behind him.

Hans buried his face in Henry’s shoulder, fingers clenched in the fabric of his tunic, breathing in the familiar scent of him. “I thought…” His voice caught, breaking off when Henry’s mouth found his — quick, urgent — a palm sliding down Hans’s spine to the warm curve of his neck. “…I was so afraid.”

Henry smiled against his lips, but then it was Hans pressing back — mouth, cheek, temple — his fingers tracing the strong line of Henry’s jaw as if he needed to be certain he was real. Henry returned it with a kiss into his hair.

“I’m here,” he breathed, before their mouths met again. “I’m here, Hans.” Henry closed his eyes. “Every night…” he pressed closer, “…I thought about…” — a kiss to his cheek — “…how I’d hold you.”

“Never again…” Hans pulled him in, a kiss to the mouth that Henry deepened at once, fingers sliding into his hair. “…will I let you go Henry.”

Henry nodded and kissed Hans again — and this time it was Hans who answered. One hand at the back of his neck, the other cupping Henry’s face, his thumb brushing the corner of a smile that had forced its way through breath and tears.

Forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. Words broke into kisses, and kisses into words, touches shifting with the urgency of joy and the ache of relief. To feel him. To hold. To know he was here. And never to let go.

The kisses slowed, little by little. What stayed were hands roaming — over his back, over shoulders, into hair — not tugging closer, but tracing the lines of him like a map, making sure they matched the memory.

Hans closed his eyes. He heard only Henry’s breath and the slowing beat of his own heart, as if at last he could breathe into his lungs without restraint.

Henry’s face rested against his neck; he didn’t move, save for the light touch of his fingers now and then along Hans’s back, over the fabric of his doublet.

They stood so long that the world beyond them seemed to fall away.

Hans set his palm to Henry’s cheek, his thumb running along the line of his cheekbone, guiding him to meet his gaze. Henry’s eyes were bright.

Hans felt the sting of tears rise in his own. He smiled. “I love you. So damn much,” he breathed. “And I don’t think I’ll ever let you go.”

“Don’t let me go, love,” Henry murmured back with a small, certain smile, kissing him softly on the mouth.

Hans brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and nodded once. They stayed in that close embrace until their breathing steadied.

Henry drew back just slightly — enough to look at him, leaving his hand on Hans’s shoulder. “You’re tired,” he murmured.

“Me? I could run to Iglau and back right now.”

That small, private smile found Henry’s mouth — the one Hans had never seen given to anyone else.

Hans’s gaze searched his, a flicker of worry breaking through. “What about your injury, love… are you truly all right?”

Henry nodded, slow and deliberate. “I think so.” He glanced toward the bed, tilting his head in quiet invitation. “Come. Sit with me.”

The bed creaked faintly beneath them.

Hans let his arm slip around Henry’s back, drawing him closer so he could lean against him. Henry rested his palm on Hans’s thigh, his thumb stroking lightly.

For a moment they only sat, eyes on each other. Henry’s lips curved in a small smile; he closed his eyes halfway and brushed his cheek gently against Hans’s.

With the tips of his fingers, Hans combed through the hair above his ear — light, almost hesitant in its touch. Then he folded his arm around him again, pulling him closer still.

Henry’s gaze wandered ahead, brows drawing in slightly.

“Week… maybe a bit more. Ten days at most since I woke.”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “They said I’d been out cold for more than a day. When I finally came to—Christ, my head felt like it might split clean open, and I was so thirsty I could’ve drunk a pond dry.”

He rubbed at the side of his forehead with two fingers, then let his hand fall to his knee. “For some time after, it still ached, and I’d get dizzy now and then…”

Hans didn’t answer, but the tightening of his jaw and the way his hand moved — slow, deliberate strokes along Henry’s side — left no doubt what he felt about it.

“But every day it got better,” Henry went on. “Now I feel like myself again. Maybe just a little weaker… but that’s likely from all the time I spent lying abed.”

Hans bent his head toward him, closing his eyes, his cheek resting against Henry’s temple. “No one gets the better of my Henry,” he murmured, pride and relief woven together in his voice. “Not an injury, not anyone.”

Henry gave a soft snort of laughter, then looked at him. “How is it you’re here at all?”

Hans’s glance flicked toward the door. “Samuel…” Then back to Henry. “He rode to Rattay straight away — just to bring me to you.”

Surprise sparked in Henry’s eyes, his brows lifting.

“There’s more to Samuel than meets the eye,” Hans said, his voice thoughtful, low. Then the edge of a smile pulled at his mouth. “And me? I didn’t think for even a heartbeat. I came straight here.”

Henry leaned in, and their lips met in a long, unhurried kiss. It was neither rushed nor fierce — they simply held each other, tasting each other as if they had all the time in the world.

When they parted, Henry’s gaze dropped, the shadow in his eyes soft but unmistakable. “And… the wedding?”

Hans let a breath slip out, quiet and heavy. He caught Henry’s hand in both of his, holding it as though it carried his whole life in the palm of it. “It went exactly as planned,” he said, little more than a murmur.

A weighted silence settled between them. Hans lifted his hand, fingers curling gently under Henry’s chin, guiding his face back to meet his own. A small, tired smile. “You know it changes nothing — absolutely nothing — between us?”

Henry’s eyes closed, the faintest smile touching his lips as he nodded. “That’s the only thing I needed to hear,” he whispered.

Their lips met again — firmer now, carrying the solid truth that neither time nor the world could wedge itself between them.

Hans’s smile was quick but full. “Word reached me you freed the King. All of Bohemia is on its feet.”

Henry gave a short, dry laugh. “They told me when I woke… but I’ve only scraps of those last days. Blurred flashes. I don’t even know how I caught the blow to the head.”

Hans shook his head. “Samuel could tell you — he was there.” He stilled for a beat. “Samuel — we’ve all but forgotten about him.”

“You’re right, we should find him,” Henry agreed, then smiled, softer. “And you and I? We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the road back.”

Hans arched a brow. “You’re sure you’re ready for several days in the saddle?”

Henry’s hand came to rest warm and steady on his thigh; he nodded with quiet certainty. “With you I can manage.” He leaned in, breath brushing Hans’s skin. “And there’s nothing I want more than to ride home with you.”

And he pressed a gentle kiss just behind his ear.

They stepped out of the chamber, and a few paces down the corridor, at its far end, they saw Samuel sitting on a bench, elbows braced to his knees. The moment he saw them, he was on his feet and moving toward them.

Henry drew him into an embrace. “Thank you, Sam… thank you for everything.”

“The important thing is that you’re all right,” Samuel replied.

Henry nodded. “I feel well again.”

Samuel then turned to Hans, a touch apologetic. “I’m afraid I don’t have a spare chamber to offer you at the moment.”

Hans waved it off. “That’s fine. I’ll stay with Henry—” his glance flicked briefly toward him “—and in any case, we’re riding back in the morning.”

Samuel hesitated. “So soon?”

Henry gave a small smile. “I’ll manage. We’ll take it easy.”

Samuel’s smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I imagine it’ll still be a gentler pace than the one I had, riding to Rattay and back with Hans.”

Then his expression shifted to something more serious. “But I won’t be riding with you this time. I need to remain here until John returns.”

Hans nodded. “I have a favour to ask — could you send a messenger to Pirkstein with word that Sir Capon and Master Henry are safe and will return soon? And if Sir Radzig isn’t there, have the messenger ride on to Prague to the court and find him with the same message.”

“I’ll see to it,” Samuel said with a nod. In Henry’s chamber, Hans set his doublet over the back of a chair, the fabric draping with a soft rustle. He tugged off his boots, one after the other, and drew off his hose, left in nothing but his shirt. Running a hand back through his hair, he shook it out as if casting off the last dust and tightness of the road.

Henry watched him with a faintly amused look, eyes following the motion. “I can offer you either a night in the chair,” he said with a roguish curve to his mouth, “or, if you don’t mind a bit of a squeeze… we could share the bed.”

Hans gave a short, amused snort, his own mouth curling into a smirk. He closed the space between them in two easy steps, his hands coming to rest firm on Henry’s hips before drawing him in.

“Now I’m certain you’re all right,” he murmured, and kissed him — brief, yet weighted with that solid, unshakable pressure where joy met sheer relief.

Henry stepped back to the door, turned the key, and the room fell into the hush of safe privacy.

When, a short while later, they were together in bed, Hans lay on his back with Henry curled along his side, his head resting on Hans’s chest. Hans’s arm was firm around his shoulders, his fingertips resting in a loose curve against the warm skin of Henry’s forearm.

For a long time they said nothing. They simply felt each other’s warmth, the peace denied them for so long. Steady breath, the slow beat of two hearts.

Then Henry shifted slightly, raised his hand, and brushed it over Hans’s cheek. His eyes were utterly calm, his lips curved in a small smile. Hans leaned in until skin met skin — the briefest touch before a kiss, soft and lingering, passed between them.

“Good night, love,” Henry murmured, his breath warm against Hans’s lips.

Hans’s eyes closed. Instead of answering, he gathered Henry in, his hold tightening as if to keep him there against the miles and days that had tried to tear them apart. He exhaled long and slow — not just air, but the ache he’d carried since the moment they were torn apart. The morning was cold and misted, steam rising from the horses’ backs.

After what he’d faced on the road to Nikolsburg, Hans wouldn’t hear of riding out lightly dressed — he pulled Henry’s cloak into place himself, fingers brushing the curve of his neck. Henry gave a token roll of his eyes, but the faint smile that followed said he’d already surrendered.

Samuel brought them a sack of provisions: bread, dried meat, and a few apples. They stood together for a long moment in the courtyard, the muffled snort of a horse the only sound.

Hans stepped closer to him. “Thank you. For everything.”

He looked at him for a moment.

“I know your present plans may lie elsewhere, Samuel… but if you should ever want or need it, Pirkstein will be open to you.”

Samuel nodded. “My thanks as well, Hans.”

He looked between them, a faint, knowing smile touched his mouth. “I hope we meet again under calmer circumstances.”

After that, nothing more was said. Hans mounted his horse. Henry embraced Samuel firmly, then swung into the saddle as well.

They touched their heels to the horses, the iron of their shoes striking sparks from the cobbles as they passed through the gate.

The grey morning took them in. The road dipped gently, then rose again. The horses kept an easy pace, their breath rising in pale clouds into the cold air. The leaves had lost most of their colour, and the trees had lost most of their leaves.

From time to time Henry turned his head — sometimes glancing back over his shoulder, or letting his gaze roam far ahead. His eyes were calm, but alive, as if he were drinking in every form and hue to store it away.

Hans caught himself watching him, the faint lift of his mouth giving him away.

Henry noticed, and his own lips curved. He gave a slight shrug. “It’s just… I haven’t moved from one place in a while. I’m enjoying being out here.” He tipped his chin toward the pale horizon. “And even those weeks ago, when we rode to Nikolsburg, I didn’t take in much of the countryside. We kept our pace cautious, rode much of the way after dark.”

The quiet between them settled, warm despite the chill. Henry looked back at him after a moment, eyes steady. “I’m glad we’re riding together again.”

Hans’s nod was slow, deliberate — and in his gaze there was an open, unguarded joy that spoke louder than any word could.

After a while Henry realised Hans had let his horse drift back, just far enough to watch him without drawing notice. He slowed to a halt, waiting until Hans’s mount drew level with his.

“Don’t you want to ride next to me?” he asked, his mouth curling into a half-teasing smile.

Hans’s gaze flicked up, and a slow smirk tugged at his lips.

“Just admiring your arse.”

Henry gave him that soft, affectionate look. He laid his hand on Hans’s thigh. “You don’t have to keep watch over me, love… I’m all right.”

Hans dropped his gaze, his fingers coming to rest over Henry’s, pressing gently, as if to hold him there. He held on for a beat, then looked back up — something in his eyes still shadowed.

“I know, Henry… but it’ll take a while before I can just let go.”

Henry leaned across the space, their knees brushing, and kissed him — not long, but close enough for Hans to taste the breath he drew. Then he pulled back with a glint in his eye.

“Then by all means, keep looking… but you’d better ride beside me for a while.”

He gave him a quick wink. “And I might drop behind you now and then, so I can have a look too.” They reached Znaim late in the night. The streets were empty, the lights in the windows long extinguished, and the chill rising from the cobblestones. The inn was bolted shut; they had to pound on the door until a light flared inside. The innkeeper shuffled out, face sour and puffed with sleep — but Hans’s heavy purse loosened both the bolts and his mood.

They were given cold food — smoked meat, a little bread — and a modest room with two narrow beds and a hearth in the corner. They coaxed a fire to life, and the crackle and glow soon pushed back the damp night air.

They ate quickly and slaked their thirst. Boots came off, belts unbuckled, shirts loosened. Then they lay down — each to his own bed, but facing one another.

Lying on their sides, heads propped in their hands, they looked at each other through the dark.

“We’ll need to leave early tomorrow,” Henry said softly. “If we’re to reach Budwitz before the day’s gone.”

Hans gave a slow nod, eyes never leaving him.

Henry’s mouth curved. “In this hard bed without you, there’s nothing to keep me in it anyway.”

Hans was quiet for a moment, letting the thought take shape. “Henry…” His voice had softened. “Would you mind if we didn’t ride to Rattay?”

Henry raised his brows, the question — and a hint of a smile — in his eyes.

“I think we’ve both earned a measure of peace,” Hans said. “And if we spend a few days at Foxburrow… the world can damn well wait.”

Henry held his gaze, the silence stretching like a held breath. Then he pushed back the blanket, padded barefoot across the floor, and leaned down over Hans. The heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and horse, reached Hans before their lips met. He kissed him.

“I love you, Hans Capon,” he murmured against his mouth.

Hans smiled into the kiss, took his hand, and gave it a light squeeze. Henry slipped back to his bed, but their eyes stayed locked, the fire’s glow sliding over them both, until sleep finally claimed them. They set out early, the morning sharp with frost creeping under their clothes — but the sky was clear, and with the first rays the world began to glitter, as though even autumn had, for a moment, forgotten its chill.

They knew they had a long stretch ahead and urged the horses on, their pace shifting to a brisk canter. The cool, dry air gave them space — and the sense they might cover a little more ground today.

“I was thinking we might take the road through Jaispitz,” Hans called, turning his head just enough for his voice to carry. “Make it a two-day ride. But if the weather holds—” He grinned over his shoulder, eyes bright. “—we could reach Budwitz before nightfall.”

Henry considered. “Jaispitz… that’s where Dry Devil’s from, isn’t it? Imagine running into him there.”

Hans’s laugh came sharp and sudden, almost startling in the still air — enough that Henry instinctively drew his horse up short. Hans hauled on his own reins, shoulders still shaking, breath fogging the air as he grinned like a man who’d been waiting to spring a surprise. “Henry… you might get your wish. Devil’s not in Jaispitz — he’s camped at Pirkstein right now.”

Henry’s eyes widened as Hans leaned toward him in the saddle, grin turning almost smug. “Oh, yes. The whole pack’s there. You’ll have them all on your heels the moment we ride in.”

Henry shook his head with a faint grin. “So — what’s been happening in Rattay while I’ve been gone?”

Hans slowed his horse to an easy walk. “More than enough…” His voice carried an unmistakable edge. “Hanush and I have locked horns a couple of times.”

Henry’s smile faded as he studied him.

Hans dismissed the look with a small shake of his head.

“It was going to happen sooner or later. And I don’t see it improving any time soon.”

“Why not?”

Hans’s gaze stayed on the track ahead, jaw tight. Then he reined in, turning his horse toward Henry.

“At the wedding feast, in front of half the nobility, he as good as said he’d hand over my inheritance whenever it pleased him.”

Henry froze. “But he said after the wedding—”

“Yes,” Hans cut in. “He said it. And still…”

He let the words trail off, then forced a shrug and a crooked smile. “But to hell with that for now. I’ve got you riding beside me, and that’s worth more to me than any word from him. So — ride.” He kicked his horse back into motion.

“Oh — and Pavel’s at Pirkstein now,” he added with a sudden grin. “The little poacher.” The weather had favoured them — enough that they reached Budwitz before the sun dipped. They found an inn, paid without haggling, and exchanged only a handful of words. Exhausted, they soon retired; both knew that tomorrow would take them over the hardest stretch of the road, where the ways turned rougher than anywhere else.

When morning came, the way forward promised nothing good.

The sky hung low and heavy, dark as wet stone. A fine, needling rain drifted in the wind, worming into every seam of their clothes. Each gust cut like a knife, promising a day more fight than ride.

Henry tugged his cloak tight at the throat, watching the road vanish into the grey. “Not sure we’ll make Iglau today.”

Hans gave a single nod.

“We’ll go as far as we can,” Henry went on. “And if the day beats us, we’ll sleep where we fall.”

Hans gathered the reins, his shoulders squaring into the weather. Without another word, they turned their horses into the rain — two dark shapes swallowed by the wind’s raw breath.

The road dragged them into a deep, looming forest. The trees pressed close, their trunks dark and slick, branches knotted overhead like a cage shutting out the day. Here and there a blade of light pierced through — only to gutter out in the wet gloom before it could reach the ground.

The land rose and fell without mercy. Hooves strained on the climbs, slipped on the slick clay down the slopes, and in the valleys the earth turned to sucking mire, clutching at each step until the horses could only slog on at a walk.

The rain was relentless — a thin, icy thread that found its way past collars and cuffs, creeping along their skin. It mixed with the heat rolling from the horses, turning into a clinging mist that smelled of soaked leather and sweat. Water tracked down their wrists, seeped into gloves, chilled their fingers until they ached.

They rode with shoulders hunched, heads low, speaking only when they must. In that sodden silence, words felt almost obscene.

By the time the forest began to sink into dusk, there was still no hint of a roof or fire ahead. Only the endless ranks of black trunks, and the hiss of rain against leaves.

Through the dark lattice of trunks, a jagged outcrop of rocks broke the monotony. Henry lifted a hand, drawing Hans’s gaze, and turned his horse towards them. At the base of the tallest stone, he swung down, boots squelching through the sodden earth, and began pacing the weathered blocks with the eye of a hunter.

“Hans!” His voice carried, sharp against the softened hiss of rain.

Hans urged his horse closer. Henry stood before a broad stone overhang, its flanks guarded by two massive walls of rock. Beneath the jutting lip lay the blackened bones of an old fire, the ash damp yet still carrying the faint scent of smoke.

“Someone camped here before,” Hans said, scanning the shelter.

Henry nodded, rain dripping from his hair. “And tonight it’ll serve us.”

As Hans led his horse to the overhang, he noticed a small stack of dry wood at the back. Before long, they had a fire going. Beside it, they laid an armful of damp brushwood from the surrounding woods, letting it dry in the heat.

They huddled under the rock’s shelter, shoulder to shoulder, palms held out to the flames. Heat crept in slow, seeping through the rain-heavy fabric until it found skin, loosening the deep ache in their muscles. Wisps of steam curled off their coats, catching the firelight before fading into the night.

Beyond the stone’s lip, the forest had vanished into a black wall, and the whole world had narrowed to firelight, the sharp bite of smoke, and the steady rhythm of crackling wood.

Rain murmured in the trees, pattered softly on leaves. The fire’s warmth sank into them; the wine from the skin worked lower, coiling through their chests and settling in their bellies — slow, heavy, sweet. Under their cloaks they pressed in close, thighs touching, the heat between them almost as fierce as the blaze before them.

Hans’s mouth curved to a small, private smile. “Almost like the hearth at Foxburrow.”

Henry chuckled, leaning until his breath brushed Hans’s cheek.

“If we were at the hearth in Foxburrow right now… you wouldn’t have a single stitch left on you.”

His lips found Hans’s neck, warm and damp, lingering there as his hand slid down the inside his thigh, fingers firm through the rough, drying cloth.

Hans’s breath hitched; a shiver rolled through him, not from cold but from the sudden surge of heat that pooled low and urgent. He angled his head, his voice low at Henry’s ear. “Careful, love… or I’ll strip you bare right here, with the forest for our witness.”

They both laughed. For a while, there was only the sound of fire and rain. Then Hans looked into the flames.

“Speaking of Foxburrow — we’ll need to pick up some supplies on the way.”

Henry glanced at him. “Why?”

“I threw Havel out.”

Henry sat up straighter, the humour gone from his face.

“Havel the gamekeeper? Why?”

Hans’s eyes slid past him into the darkness beyond the firelight. “Because he’s a rat. He betrayed us.”

Henry shook his head slowly.

“And Hanush agreed to that?”

Hans kept staring into the night. “I didn’t ask him.”

The pause that followed seemed to press in from the trees, the weight of the dark sinking between them. Rain tapped faintly on the stones overhead.

Henry’s breath left him in a long, measured stream.

“Hans… haven’t you, at times… acted rashly?”

Hans turned his head, a crease carved deep between his brows. “Rashly?”

The pause stretched — just the spit and hiss of rain on the fire.

“Maybe you should’ve been there to advise me, Henry.” His tone was low, steady, but carried a weight that hit harder than a shout. “I was left to handle everything alone — Hanush, the wedding preparations, the running of the castle…”

He flicked a hand towards the fire, but his eyes stayed fixed on it, and in them was the kind of weariness he almost never showed. “It was all coming down on our heads.”

For a moment the flames painted his face with restless gold.

“I only regret snapping at Mikush,” he said at last, quieter — but without a hint of softening. “We were already stretched thin.”

Henry’s gaze dropped. The heat from the fire suddenly felt too close, too heavy on his skin.

“I’m sorry, Hans,” he murmured. “I didn’t realise…”

Hans stared into the fire for a moment longer, unmoving. His jaw stayed locked, his shoulders rigid.

“You had your tasks. And I had mine. I may not have been saving a king… but don’t judge me when you weren’t in my boots.”

Henry lifted his eyes to him, soft and sad in the flicker of the flames. “I would never judge you.”

Hans still didn’t look away from the fire. He gave a short, stubborn shake, as if to ward off something he didn’t want to feel.

“Hans…” Henry’s voice was low, coaxing. He reached out, brushing the back of his fingers over Hans’s sleeve, down the line of his arm, slow enough for the heat beneath the fabric to seep into his skin.

Only then did Hans breathe in, deep and deliberate. Some of the tension in his frame began to unwind.

“And through it all, I was thinking of you,” he said, his voice lower now.

He turned at last, the hardness in his gaze eased to something steadier, warmer. His arms came around Henry, sure and strong. Henry pressed close, holding on as if the warmth between them might fend off more than the cold.

“From now on, we’ll face it all together,” Henry whispered — and knew, in the hollow of his chest, that he needed to hear it just as much as Hans.

Hans’s mouth curved — this time without shadow. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, kissing his hair.

Under the overhang, with the fire dying to embers, they lay beneath their cloaks, chest to back, the weight and heat of each other sinking deep, their breaths falling into the same slow rhythm until sleep took them both. When the first light of morning filtered between the trunks and revealed that the rain had stopped, they lit the fire once more for a short while, pulling its warmth into their chilled hands. Then they saddled the horses again and rode on.

In time they passed through Iglau. The town swallowed them for a moment with its bustle and the sound of hooves striking cobbles, but they did not stop — the day still had hours to give, and the road was calling.

Beyond the town the land began to change. The woods thinned, the hills took on familiar shapes. With every mile, home drew nearer, and despite their fatigue, it gave them strength.

They spent the night in one of the larger villages along the way. The horses were fed and dry in the stable, and Henry and Hans allowed themselves a roof over their heads and a steaming bowl of soup.

They set out early in the morning. The cold air stung their faces, and road-weary muscles protested — but the low sun shone clear, and even the horses seemed to quicken on their own, sensing how close they were. Before their next night’s rest they had covered a good distance. By the following day they reached Janowitz. On the square they bought provisions, refilled their wine-skins and sacks of food. Then they mounted again and rode the last stretch home.

They passed through Laurenz, and the familiar forest closed around them. The quiet between the trees felt almost solid. The air smelled of damp leaves and wood.

Rounding the final bend, the clearing opened — sudden, bright after the gloom of the path. Henry reached out as they rode, his glove brushing against Hans’s knee.

And there, at its heart, as if it had been waiting for them all along, stood Foxburrow.

They dismounted, leading the horses into the stillness of the stable. The air was cold enough that steam curled in slow, ghostlike tendrils from the animals’ backs.

Crossing the threshold of the house, Henry stopped. His eyes moved slowly, searching each beam, each familiar shadow — making sure nothing had shifted, that it still held its shape, waiting for him.

Hans shed his cloak without a word and went to the hearth. He knelt, laid the wood, coaxed the tinder to take flame. Dry twigs cracked sharply; a thin flame trembled into life, then began to feed on the logs.

“Have you been here… while I was gone?” Henry’s voice, low and close behind him.

Hans straightened a little, but didn’t turn.

“A few times.”

He hesitated, then lowered his head.

“Sometimes… without you, it was harder than I could say.”

Henry’s hands found his hips — warm, grounding. A heartbeat later, Henry was kneeling behind him, his chest against Hans’s back, his lips brushing the line of his neck.

“I’m sorry, love… for leaving you here.”

Hans let his eyes fall shut for a moment, drinking in the warmth and the scent of rain still caught in Henry’s hair, before he slowly turned to face him. They rose, still held fast to each other.

He searched Henry’s face, then gave a faint, steady smile. “That’s over now.”

Their kiss was unhurried, deep — a quiet claiming, as if they both needed the proof of it, the certainty that they were here, flesh, breath, and heartbeat.

At last, they were in Foxburrow. Home. Together. And nothing, no one, between them.

When Hans began rummaging through the stores for something to make for supper, Henry sat on the bench, emptying his pack.

His fingers brushed against something familiar — and stilled. He rose, crossed to Hans, and held out the neatly folded hood with a quiet smile.

“Here. Yours.” “I swear it still smells of you,” he added after a moment.

Hans took it, passing his palm over the fabric to be sure it was real. Then he smiled faintly, set it aside, and reached for his doublet. From a pocket he drew a small folded slip of paper.

He returned to Henry, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I kept your note on me the whole time.”

Henry laughed under his breath, catching him by the hips and drawing him close enough for their thighs to press.

“We are… utterly hopeless.”

Hans smirked, kissed him — not quickly, but with the weight of the days apart — and stayed close, his hands warm and firm at the small of Henry’s back. His gaze didn’t just linger — it drank him in, tracing every line of his face as if committing it to memory, as if the rest of the room had been swallowed into nothing.

Henry’s smile softened, tinged with a trace of uncertainty. “What?”

Hans’s head shifted by a bare inch, lips still curved. “I still can’t quite believe I’m holding you… here, in Foxburrow.” His voice was lower now, almost reverent.

Henry’s eyes didn’t waver. He hauled him closer, their chests colliding, and crushed their mouths together with such raw need that Hans made a sharp sound into the kiss before breaking for breath. His lips were wet, parted, when Henry smiled against them.

“Now do you believe it?”

Hans arched one brow and swatted him on the arse.

“Almost.”

“Almost?” Henry echoed, mock-affronted — and in the next breath seized him again, mouth hot and unyielding against the ridge of Hans’s collarbone. His hand slid lower, fingers spreading over the firm curve of his arse and gripping hard — hard enough to tear a hiss from Hans’s throat that broke into a breathless laugh.

“Henry! We still have to eat!”

“Is there something you’d rather have?” Henry’s voice was low, rough, the words grazing his ear, his grip unrelenting.

“You can be damn sure there is,” Hans growled into him — pressing close until Henry could feel, through the fabric, every heated curve and contour of his groin. And Hans, in turn, could feel the answering throb of want against his own.

“But before that, I did mean actual food,” he said. He shot Henry a look. “Don’t forget where we left off,” he added with a laugh.

They dropped onto the bench, still laughing. When the breathless edge had faded, they turned to their food and wine — unhurried, content in the knowledge that there was nowhere left to rush to.

Afterwards, they stayed by the hearth. The wine in their cups fell in slow sips; the fire cracked and sighed, folding the room in a deep, amber hush.

Hans sat astride the bench, his thighs bracketing Henry’s hips, the heat of his chest firm against Henry’s back. Every rise and fall of Hans’s breathing stroked over Henry’s hair, warm and steady, until he could almost melt into it.

Hans’s hand hung loose at his side, palm resting on the strong line of his thigh. Henry’s fingers traced over it without thought — following the ridge of bone, circling each knuckle, touching each finger in turn as if counting them.

Neither spoke. Outside, the wind prowled around the walls, but only a muffled hush slipped in, swallowed by the low, steady crackle of the fire.

The heat bled into them — from the flames, from the firm, grounding weight of Hans’s arm, from every point where their bodies touched and pressed. It sank deep, loosening every stubborn knot of muscle, seeping into tired sinew, easing the dull ache in joints worn by the road. The weariness wrapped them thick and close, not as a burden but like a pelt pulled over their shoulders, coaxing their thoughts into quiet.

And with it came the truth neither had to name — the fire between them still burned, but tonight, after all the days and all the miles, its heat was banked beneath something quieter, slower.

The long road had settled into their bones, and the nights of too little sleep had begun to press on their eyes, their limbs, even the pace of their thoughts. Movements slowed without their meaning to; glances lingered, touches held. The urgency they’d teased and promised before supper had melted into one bare need: to have the other close enough to touch, to know in the dark that they were warm, breathing, and here.

Now and then Hans bent, his mouth brushing Henry’s hair, letting his breath warm the skin beneath. Each time, Henry tipped his head the barest fraction — opening the way for him, offering himself to that touch.

Time dissolved. There was no evening, no night. Only this place, this fire, and the two of them.

After a long while they stirred, moving as though the air itself had thickened around them. They rose slowly, as if even walking had become a kind of luxury. Their steps on the wooden floor were muted, everything around them steeped in a soft, shadowed warmth.

They left the bedchamber unlit. Only shadows, and quiet laughter as their shoulders and hips brushed as they passed. Fingers grazed a buckle, a palm slid over a hip — not with the urgency of conquest, but with the unspoken relief of finding each other whole after the road. The air was cool, but bare skin found bare skin quickly, curling close not to ignite, but to rest in the steady heat they made.

Beneath the blanket, Hans drew in behind Henry, pressing his nose under his ear, his arm draped over Henry’s side. His hand smoothed over the firm, warm muscle of his thigh, thumb circling lazily against his skin. After a moment, Henry turned to face him, their legs tangled, chest to chest. Their breaths mingled, warm and damp in the cool air, every exhale brushing the other’s lips.

They kissed — slow, lingering, their mouths finding each other again and again as if they’d been starved for the taste. Hans’s palm slid the length of Henry’s spine, fingertips pressing just enough to pull a shiver through him. He brushed the back of his fingers along Henry’s jaw, his thumb lingering at the corners of his mouth as if to keep the shape of his smile there. Henry’s hand tangled in his hair, the other roaming the breadth of his back until it found that tender spot above his waist — and felt the faint, familiar arch that always answered his touch.

Between kisses came quiet murmurs, barely more than breath, soft against each other’s lips. Their hands moved in slow, absent arcs — a thumb stroking the line of a cheek, knuckles brushing along a jaw, fingers tracing the slope of a shoulder before coming to rest there, warm and unhurried.