#from fire

—

The sound of hooves broke the misty quiet.

A lone rider entered the courtyard of Pirkstein. Steam curled from the horse’s flank, slow and pale. He dismounted by the gate, holding the reins, and cast a wary glance at the guard.

The guard measured him with a stern eye. “What’s your business here, boy?”

The lad hesitated — just for a heartbeat. “Sir Capon sent for me.”

The guard frowned. “Sent for you? And why?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Hans’s voice cut across the courtyard from the stairway.

He stood on the landing, one hand on the rail. Then he descended, unhurried, his gaze fixed on the boy. “I’m glad you made it, Pavel.”

When he reached the cobblestones, he gave the guard a slight nod. “Back to your post.”

The man stepped aside. Hans moved to the horse, brushed its neck with a light hand, then turned to Pavel. “Did anyone see you?”

Pavel shook his head. “I left before dawn.”

Hans nodded once. “Good. First, you’ll rest. Eat. Fill your belly.” He paused. “Then we’ll find you some work.”

He led Pavel across the yard.

Mikush was bent over the records at a table. He looked up as they entered.

Pavel glanced around, wary yet curious. A trace of unease lingered in his eyes, but he stood firm.

“This is Pavel,” Hans said. “He’ll be working here.”

Mikush nodded without a word.

“We’ll settle the details later. For now, take him to the kitchen, make sure he eats well. And find him a clean, dry place to sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Mikush replied calmly.

Hans turned to leave. He took a few steps — then stopped.

He looked back. “When that’s done, come to me.”

Mikush gave a nod. “Ay.”

He turned to Pavel with a faint smile. “Come on, lad. You look as though you could eat a horse.” Hans’s chamber lay dim, silent.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and stood still for a moment. Then he crossed to the table, set down his gloves, returned, and sat on the edge of the bed. His elbows rested on his thighs, his hands clasped together.

He stared ahead, unmoving. Then his gaze drifted — to the hidden passage leading to the next chamber. Empty now.

A quiet sigh escaped him.

His eyes dropped back to his own hands. They were steady. Too steady.

Truth be told, he was almost relieved Pavel had arrived. On this very day. At this very hour. Grateful to have something to do — anything to shift his thoughts elsewhere. Even if just for a moment.

A few hours earlier — at dawn — he had ridden with Henry beyond Rattay’s walls. To the edge of the woods. One last embrace. One last kiss. One last I love you.

And then Henry was gone.

A quiet snuffle beneath the door pulled Hans from his thoughts. Then came a whimper — brief, subdued, impossible to miss.

He rose from the bed and walked to the door.

Mutt stood there, his long tail giving a faint sway, but otherwise still, gazing up at him. Beside the dog stood a guard, looking a touch awkward. “Forgive me, sir. He just—”

Hans waved a hand and crouched beside the dog. “Come,” he said softly.

The door closed behind them.

Mutt padded slowly across the chamber. He sniffed at the corner of the bed, then settled beside the blanket, lowered his head, and gave another quiet whine.

Hans stepped to him. His hand smoothed along the dog’s back. Then he knelt, scratching behind his ears — slow, deliberate strokes.

He sat back down on the bed. Mutt sat on the floor beside him, resting his head against Hans’s thigh, looking up at him.

Hans stroked him again, letting out a quiet, sorrowful breath.

For a while, he said nothing. Then he shook his head faintly. “We’re the only ones left, old friend.”

His hand drifted along the dog’s neck. Mutt’s eyes never left his face.

Hans remained like that for a while.

His hand moved idly through the coarse fur — less for the dog’s sake than for his own. The silence between them was soft, unmoving. Only breath.

He felt the sting of tears gathering in his eyes.

He drew a deep breath and rose. The back of his hand brushed across his eyelids, wiping the dampness on his sleeve. He blinked several times.

He crossed to the wall. Stopped by the window and looked out.

A grey day. Light drowned in mist. Stone battlements. Damp air. Still woods in the distance.

But none of it truly reached him. He simply stood there. Staring.

A knock sounded.

Hans did not turn. “Yes?”

The door opened.

“Sir… Mikush is here.”

Hans gave a brief nod. “Send him in.”

The door closed again. Mikush stepped a few paces into the chamber, then stopped.

“Did you see to everything?” Hans asked, still gazing out of the window.

“He’s eaten. And there’s a bed for him among the staff quarters,” Mikush replied with a nod.

Hans answered with a short nod of his own.

“And what…” Mikush hesitated. “Exactly what is he to do?”

Hans turned to face him. For a moment, he said nothing. “He’ll be your helper. Whatever tasks you require.”

Another brief pause.

“When Master Henry returns, he’ll serve under him.”

Mikush raised his brows slightly. “Master Henry has left?”

Hans looked aside. “He had…” He shook his head a little. “Matters that could not wait.” He walked slowly to the table. “I’ll need you to oversee Pirkstein for now. Most of it you’ll handle yourself — the rest I’ll keep watch over.”

Mikush was silent, turning it over in his mind. Then he nodded. “I understand.”

He hesitated.

Hans turned to him. “Something else?” Hans asked, his tone low.

“May I ask… when is Master Henry expected back?”

Hans looked once more toward the window. He said nothing. Then only shook his head.

“He’ll return when he returns.”

Mikush was already reaching for the door handle when Hans stopped him.

“Wait. I’ll come with you. We’ll go over what needs to be done.”

They stepped out together. Mutt rose from the floor and followed at their heels. Hans soon realised Henry had left nothing undone. Not only had he secured provisions — dry goods, flour, firewood, horse feed, and wine — but he had also set in motion the work to prepare the chamber for Hans’s future bride.

Cloth had been ordered, new furniture arranged, and the carpenter commissioned for the bed. Every detail bore Henry’s touch. Everything was ready to continue.

They halted by the door of the chamber.

“So, will you be speaking with Lady Jitka yourself?” Mikush’s tone held no resistance, only matter-of-factness.

Hans thought for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I can’t think of a better way.”

A brief pause. “Today I’ll ride to the upper castle. I’ll tell her how things stand.”

Hans stayed a while longer with Mikush, going over what needed to be done. When it was clear who would see to what, he set out for the upper castle. He found Jitka in her chamber. She was seated by the window, a small notebook open in front of her. The quill rested loosely in her hand, as though her thoughts had drifted elsewhere. When the door opened, she looked up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

Hans inclined his head slightly. “I must inform you, my lady, that Master Henry had to leave on urgent business.”

Jitka blinked, and for a moment her gaze wavered, like someone who has lost an anchor they hadn’t known they needed. “Oh… I had thought he would come himself. For the wedding.” Her voice softened at the last word. She inclined her head. “Thank you for the message, my lord.”

Hans drew a slow, quiet breath. “That is precisely why I am here. Henry arranged much before his departure — even concerning your chamber. And what remains to be done, we shall settle together.”

She lowered her gaze, fingers brushing over the edge of the notebook as if she sought something to hold on to. A brief silence passed, filled only by the stillness of the room around them. “I understand,” she said, quietly but with effort.

When she looked back at him, there was something questioning in her eyes — not sharp, but fragile. “I value that you are taking this upon yourself, my lord.”

Hans held her gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of her unspoken unease. Henry’s absence had left her without the one presence that had begun to make this place feel less foreign.

A pause followed.

“Does this mean… that Master Henry will be gone for some time?”

Hans remained still, his face unreadable, though his throat tightened. “It is possible.”

“Oh…” The sound was barely a breath. Her eyes fell back to the notebook, though the page before her remained blank.

Hans lowered his gaze. “Forgive me — there are other matters I must attend to. But I remain at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” she said, closing the notebook softly, as though to hold her composure in place. Hans returned to Pirkstein and made his way to his chamber. Mutt lifted his head as he entered but stayed curled by the hearth.

Hans crossed the room slowly, arms folded over his chest. His thoughts churned restlessly — shapeless, giving no relief.

Then he stopped. Walked to the chest by the wall. Opened it.

And froze.

His red quilted hood was gone. Inside lay a small scrap of paper.

He picked it up, turned it over in his hand. On one side, in a neat, careful hand — the script of someone who could write, yet shaped each letter with deliberate care — were a few words:

⸻

Don’t be cross, I’ve taken it with me on the road. So I’ll still have a part of you close. AFI

⸻

Hans stared at the note. Read it once. Then again. And again, until his eyes brimmed with tears.

He swallowed hard. Wiped his face with his sleeve. Then folded the paper slowly. Carefully. Precisely. And slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.

He drew a breath, sniffed faintly, wiped his face once more, and stepped out of the chamber. The courtyard lay quiet. Only a few soldiers by the wall, a stablehand pushing a barrow.

Hans noticed Pavel by the parapet, studying the battlements. He looked up at them with a mix of shyness and quiet awe.

Hans allowed himself a faint smile and beckoned him over.

Pavel ran to him. “Sir?”

“How do you like it here?” Hans asked.

“I’ve never been in a castle, sir. So I’m just looking around… But Master Mikush is kind. He’s telling me how things work.”

Hans gave a small nod. “I’m glad to hear that.”

His eyes wandered to the horse standing by the trough — the same one Pavel had ridden. He tilted his chin toward it.

“That’s Havel’s horse, isn’t it?”

Pavel glanced at the tips of his boots. “Yes, sir. I took it. I wouldn’t have made it here otherwise.”

Hans patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right.”

For a moment he gazed into the distance. “We ought to return it to Havel.”

A pause. “I’ll see to that myself.”

Pavel looked at him, slightly puzzled. Hans only smiled. “Off you go. You’ve work to do.”

Pavel nodded and ran off.

Hans stood still, hands on his hips. His gaze shifted back to the horse.

He strode to the group of soldiers by the wall.

“I need two men-at-arms and horses!” His voice was firm, leaving no room for questions.

He turned on his heel and went back to his chamber.

There he donned light armour and buckled on his belt and sword. He smoothed the front of his doublet with one hand, pulled on his gloves, and stepped out once more.

Two men-at-arms with three saddled horses were already waiting in the courtyard.

Hans approached with a brisk stride. He pointed toward Havel’s horse by the stables. “That horse comes with us.”

“Where are we headed, sir?” one of the men asked.

Hans swung himself into the saddle without a word.

He looked at them both. “To Laurenz.” They rode out of Rattay, heading north — the same road Hans had taken many times of late. Today, for the first time, without Henry.

The sky hung low and heavy, a sheet of steel-grey stretching from one horizon to the other. Clouds pressed over the land like a weighty shroud, and now and then a fine, cold drizzle fell.

The horses’ hooves struck the road with muted thuds. Mud mingled with a scatter of wet fallen leaves.

Hans rode at the front. All the way. He never looked back. The others followed a short distance behind.

The men-at-arms exchanged a few quiet words now and then — as though wary of disturbing whatever lingered in the air, whatever they could not name. Hans said nothing. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, unmoving, detached — but it was not indifference.

It was focus. His mind held to a single point, a single purpose. Not because the task was extraordinary, but simply to keep his thoughts from wandering elsewhere.

At the crossroads in Squirnow, Hans pulled the reins and halted his horse.

He sat there in silence for a moment. His eyes rested on the road ahead, then swept around — and he turned his horse to the left. Toward the path to Foxburrow.

The men-at-arms glanced at one another. One shrugged. They followed. The forest road soon opened into a clearing. The hunting lodge emerged as if from another world. Silent, deserted. In the damp grey of the day, it seemed almost unreal.

Hans dismounted.

With slow steps, he walked to the ruins of the aqueduct behind the house. He stood there in silence for a moment. Then he bent down and picked up a piece of the pine-bark channel from the grass-grown bank — perhaps the very piece he had held only weeks ago, when he and Henry built the stream.

He turned it over in his palm for a while. At last, without a word, he turned back, returned to his horse, and placed it carefully in his saddlebag.

His hand gripped the saddle, one foot in the stirrup — but he stopped. Hesitated. Then turned to the men-at-arms.

“Wait here.”

He headed toward the house.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Silence enveloped him. The scent of cold ash. Damp timber. Old dust.

His gaze drifted slowly across the room. The table. The bench by the hearth. A bow hanging on the wall.

Hans walked into the bedchamber. His steps were muted, as if he feared to wake someone who was no longer there.

He walked around the bed to the left side — Henry’s side. Sat down on the edge.

He sat in stillness. Eyes fixed ahead. Somewhere beyond these walls, beyond time.

Slowly, he reached out his hand. His palm moved across the pillow, coming to rest there.

A breath left him, half a sigh. He gave a faint nod, perhaps only to himself. Then he rose.

At the threshold of the chamber, he turned. Let his eyes wander, long and searching.

Then he turned back again and left.

Outside, the rain had grown heavier. Hans mounted his horse and rode toward Laurenz without a word.

The men-at-arms followed. Deep tracks were left in the soaked earth. By the time they reached Laurenz, the rain was falling steadily — fine, cold. No wind. The air was heavy and still.

They rode between the houses. The village lay silent. A lone dog barked somewhere in the distance. People peered out from under eaves, from beneath slanting roofs.

The hooves squelched in the mud. Leather saddles gave quiet creaks.

When they reached the gamekeeper’s cottage, Hans drew the reins and halted. The men-at-arms stopped with him, all remaining in their saddles.

For a moment, nothing moved. Only the rain drummed on the roof.

Then Havel appeared in the doorway. He stepped out a few paces. Stopped.

A look of surprise — perhaps unease — flickered across his face. His eyes moved over the riders. Dropped to the horse tethered to the side.

He froze.

“You have my horse, young sir?” He hurried down a few steps closer. “I thought that bastard who was learning under me had stolen him. Not a trace of him this morning…”

Hans said nothing. He sat tall in the saddle. Rain slid over his face as if carving faint lines into it. His gaze held on Havel — hard, unblinking.

Havel faltered. He blinked. Glanced at one of the men-at-arms. Back at Hans.

“Sir…?”

Hans turned to the man on his right. Jerked his chin toward the horse. “Untie it.”

One of the men dismounted. Moved silently to the horse, loosened the rope. Led it back to Havel.

The gamekeeper took the reins. They trembled faintly between his fingers.

“I just… I don’t understand. What is—”

“I’ve come to give you a choice. To end your service.” Hans’s voice was calm, deliberate. Each word fell like a blow.

“To leave Laurenz. And the Rattay estate.”

The rain grew heavier. It drummed with a dull splatter into the mud.

Havel drew a sharp breath. “But… why, Sir Capon?”

Hans’s gaze swept slowly around him. To the houses. To the reins trembling in Havel’s grip. To the faces that had vanished quickly behind the shutters.

Then he moved. A rustle of steel as he reached for the saddlebag.

For a moment, he searched inside. Quietly. Then his fingers closed around what he sought. He drew it out — a piece of the pine-bark channel. A scar of what was.

Hans held it in his hand. He looked at it — just for a heartbeat — and then hurled it sharply to the ground.

It landed at Havel’s feet. With a dull, wet smack. Mud splattered. Havel recoiled a step back.

Hans stayed in the saddle, straight-backed. His face unyielding.

“I have lost all trust in you.”

Havel drew a sharp breath. Stunned, robbed of words.

His eyes darted around. To the men-at-arms. To Hans. Down — to the piece of pine-bark in the mud — lying between them like proof. Or like a challenge.

He stepped back again. His boots squelched in the water.

At last, he lifted his head. His expression hardened. “But you do not rule, my lord. The estate is under Sir Hanush’s hand. Only he can release me from service.”

Hans looked at him for a moment. Rain drew narrow lines down his brow, across his temple, vanishing into the soaked collar.

“Indeed.”

A pause followed. Not long — but quiet.

“That is why I offer you this one chance. To leave of your own will.”

Havel gave a short, nervous laugh. “And why in God’s name would I do that?”

Hans’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. But his eyes were ice. His face, stone.

“Because if you refuse this chance… you will never receive another from me.”

Another silence.

Rain drummed against the beams. The horse beside him snorted.

Hans’s hand moved. Rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.

“After the wedding, when I take command of my own lands…” Hans lowered his gaze to him, almost with pity. “…I will see you dealt with as any traitor should be.” The rain did not cease. It fell from the sky without pause — cold, fine, relentless.

Hans rode through Rattay’s upper gate and headed straight for the upper castle. The men-at-arms followed. The hooves squelched in the courtyard mud.

And there stood Hanush. He was speaking with someone — but when he caught sight of Hans, he spun around sharply.

“Where the hell have you been wandering, Capon?!” he roared.

Hans did not spare him a glance. He rode past — straight, calm, his gaze fixed ahead. Out of the castle.

Hanush shouted after him:

“Don’t you dare vanish on me again, Capon!”

Hans rode on a few paces more. Then, suddenly, he pulled the reins.

He halted his horse. Turned it on the spot. His eyes narrowed slightly.

He drove his heels deep into the flanks. The horse reared, whinnied, and lunged forward — at full gallop back into the courtyard. Mud splashed wide as they thundered through.

He stopped right in front of Hanush. So close that Hanush had to leap aside, stumbling — spattered by the thin spray of mud thrown up by the hooves.

Hans reached to the saddle. Took the hunting horn. And flunged it at Hanush’s feet.

“Laurenz will need a new gamekeeper,” he said, calm. Icy.

Hanush stared at him. His eyes burning. Teeth clenched.

“You’ve no right to dismiss him! You can’t bloody do this!”

Hans’s mouth twitched into something that resembled a smile. But there was no joy in it — none at all.

“I did not dismiss him. He left of his own accord.”

He turned his horse, nudged it on. And without another word, he rode off. Leaving Hanush standing — drenched, splattered, frozen — in the middle of the courtyard. A short while later, Hans was seated by the hearth. His doublet hung open, the damp sleeves stretched toward the glowing embers. The warmth rose slowly, yet he scarcely felt it. His gaze was fixed on the fire. The flames danced, their light breaking across the beam above the hearth. He thought of how easy it was to tear everything apart — and how hard it was to hold it together.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Sir… supper is ready,” came the voice of the guard.

Hans rose and stepped into the hall.

Pavel stood beside the table, shyly holding a tray — with game meat, freshly baked bread, and a bit of cheese.

“Set it down,” Hans said quietly.

Pavel put the tray down and stepped back. Hans looked at the food, but did not reach for it.

“I’m not truly hungry,” he murmured.

Pavel said nothing. He stood by the wall, a little awkward, as though unsure if he should leave.

Hans looked up at him. “You’re not hungry?”

Pavel hesitated, then nodded. “I am, sir.”

“Then have some. At least keep me company for a while.”

Pavel shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if… if it’s proper for me to eat with you.”

Hans shook his head. “I doubt there is anyone in this castle with the right to question my decisions.”

For a moment, he fell silent. His gaze grew heavy, as if he slipped, just for an instant, out of the present. “Not anymore.”

Hans allowed himself a faint smile. “Then go on.”

Pavel did not wait for a second invitation. He sat at the table and took a pheasant’s leg. Hans leaned back in his chair, watching him silently for a moment.

“I was in Laurenz today,” he said after a pause.

Pavel stopped, lifting his gaze to him.

“Havel is no longer the gamekeeper,” Hans continued, his voice steady, calm.

Pavel stared at him for a while. “Did something happen to him?” he asked, a little startled.

Hans shook his head. “No.”

Pavel drew a breath, as if in relief. “I’m glad to hear that…” slipped from his lips.

Hans fixed his gaze on him, slightly taken aback. “You ran from him yourself. For what he is.”

Pavel hesitated, bit his lip, and looked down at his plate. “Havel… he’s not a good man,” he said at last, quietly. “But I’m not sure I have the right to judge people. Or wish them harm.”

Hans watched him in silence.

After a moment, he rose. “Finish your meal,” he said softly. “When you’re done, clear the table.”

Pavel lifted his head, as if about to protest, but Hans had already turned away. He stood still only for a heartbeat, his hand brushing the back of the chair — then he walked to the door. Hans stepped outside. The rain had stopped, but the air still carried its damp chill.

He climbed the battlements. Darkness spread over the land — heavy, wet, and unbroken. He stood there in silence, staring into the void, beyond the black shapes of the woods.

His palm came to rest on the stone. Cold and slick. He left it there for a moment, fingers splayed, unmoving.

Then he slowly curled it into a fist. Still in the same spot. As if he wished to draw every ounce of the stone’s chill and firmness into himself.

He drew a deep breath. Released his grip, lowered his hand. Then he turned and made his way back into the corridor.

But he did not go to his chamber. His steps led him toward the castle chapel.

It was empty. Only the scent of wax and stone. And the flicker of a few candles, fragile in the dimness.

Hans stopped. For a moment he simply stood there, hands at his sides, gaze fixed on the altar. He did not move. As if the weight of the place itself held him still.

Then he slowly knelt.

A deep breath left him. He bowed his head. Clasped his hands.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, intercede for him with your Son, on all his journeys, by day and by night. Shield him from snares and peril, guide his steps that he may not stray into shadows. He is just and good, purer of heart than I. Watch over him, Blessed Virgin, and bring him safely home. I beg you — for the love of your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ.”

He lifted his eyes and made the sign of the cross.

Then he rose and left for his chamber. By the hearth, Mutt was curled into a ball, fast asleep. Hans walked over, crouched down, and ran a hand along his back.

Mutt gave a low grunt, lazily opened one eye, and rolled onto his back. He let himself be scratched on the belly, paws sprawled, head tilted to the side.

A faint smile crossed Hans’s lips. He stroked him for a while, fingers sinking into the warm fur. Then he rose.

His gaze fell on the door of the passage leading to Henry’s chamber. He stood still, as though searching for something there. Long, quiet. At last, he reached out and touched the door. His hand rested on it for a moment before he slowly pushed it open.

Henry’s chamber was wrapped in darkness. The candles had long burned out, the fire in the hearth was cold. Hans stood on the threshold, gazing inside. It felt as though not only chill and emptiness lingered there, but the very weight of absence breathing against him.

He stepped in. Stopped in the middle of the room. His eyes tried to adjust to the dark, but the dark did not relent.

And in that moment, it all crashed down on him. Henry truly wasn’t here. He hadn’t been all day. He wouldn’t be here tomorrow either. The feeling of being left alone settled in his chest like a stone.

His hands, hanging at his sides, trembled faintly. He drew a breath. Released it. The sound of his own breathing felt too loud in the room. As though it echoed off the walls. He swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut. Another breath — unsteady.

He walked to the bed. His palm lowered slowly onto the blanket. Henry’s scent still lingered there, faint and warm. He did not pull his hand away; instead, he grasped the fabric, as if holding onto something solid.

Then his hand moved to his chest. His fingers found the small metal pendant, the one Henry had made himself from a piece of his own armour. He clenched it in his fist so hard his fingers stiffened. Only then did he let it go.

He sank to the floor. Slowly, his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. For a while he sat with open eyes, but the darkness offered nothing back. He closed them and remained there.

His breath grew steady, but it was not peace. It was weariness. The kind no sleep could cure.

At last, Hans rose. He crossed the dark room and returned to his chamber. Mutt lifted his head to look at him, then laid it back on his paws.

Hans undressed, folded his doublet and belt over the chair, and snuffed out the candle. He lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over himself. Closed his eyes.

He was tired. Bone-deep exhausted.

But sleep did not come. Only restlessness.

In place of silence came thoughts. Slowly, like footsteps in a dark cellar.

Henry.

Where is he now? Somewhere, on the road. Far away.

Has he found a place to rest his head? Or is he still riding, weary, without pause?

Is he safe? Or is the night as unsettled as his path?

Is he well? He is strong — so strong — but even the strongest may fall.

Hans opened his eyes into the darkness.

Is he…

The thought rose, even as he tried to hide from it. …is he even still?

He clenched his jaw. His hands gripped the blanket. And he lay there, listening to his own breath, waiting.

After a moment, he sat up. Closed his eyes, exhaled deeply. Then reached for the candlestick, lit the wick, and took it in hand.

He walked quietly into Henry’s chamber.

The candle’s flame cast only a narrow, trembling circle of light. Hans stepped to the chest, set the candlestick on the floor, and lifted the lid. He looked inside. His hand slid slowly over the folded garments. Then he drew out one of Henry’s shirts.

For a moment he stood there, the shirt in his hand, his gaze fixed upon it. As if he could not let it go.

He returned to his chamber. Extinguished the candle. Darkness claimed the room again.

And with Henry’s shirt pressed to his chest, Hans curled beneath the blanket.

—

Henry stood with his back against the cold stone wall, watching the quiet rhythm of the courtyard below.

By the gate, two guards spoke briefly before one disappeared into the watchroom. A horse stirred beneath the lean-to, gave a snort, and turned its head into the wind. Everything else clung to the ground — voices, footsteps, even the rustle of treetop leaves, as if the sound had drifted from some distant place.

The sky hung low and close. Grey veils of cloud drifted past, thick and slow. The sun did not show its face.

He stood upright, one foot resting on the worn threshold stone, arms loosely crossed. He looked composed.

But his thoughts had wandered back — to the first time he’d come to Rattay. Just days after burying his parents with his own hands in the scorched remains of Skalitz.

Henry closed his eyes. The scent of ash and death returned as vividly as ever. He knew it would never leave him. And he knew it shouldn’t.

Back then, he’d hardly known how to grip a sword. The wound from the Cuman arrow still throbbed.

And then— Rattay. The first place where it had felt like something might begin again. New faces. New air. And Hans.

A faint smile touched his lips.

He thought of Hans, of what he’d been like back then. An insufferable, arrogant arse, always spoiling for a fight or a contest. Henry’s smile deepened.

Now Hans was somewhere in the upper castle, speaking to the uncle he’d stood up to — for the first time — only yesterday. Henry had let him go alone. The thought still sat heavy in his chest.

Hans had remained there upon arrival — and sent Henry here, to Pirkstein. As though trying to grant him rest, and at the same time, keep him apart.

Henry understood. But if it had been his choice, he would have done it differently.

He let out a quiet breath. He wouldn’t want to be in Hans’s place.

He had long understood that Hans’s childhood and youth under his uncle’s rule had not been easy. What Hans had hinted at over time — and what he hadn’t said, but made clear in other ways — had stayed with him.

And some of it— some of it had torn free in broken cries and gasping sobs, wrenched from memory in the grip of fever. Henry could still remember it too clearly: the way Hans had clung to his hand, breath ragged, eyes wild with things Henry couldn’t reach. How helpless he’d felt. How close he’d come to losing him.

He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair, and steadied himself on the wall.

But ever since Hans had become a man, something between him and Hanush had started to shift. Something in his bearing had shifted — not in defiance, but in quiet. A calm sort of certainty that came not from shouting, but from a choice made long ago and held quietly ever since.

Yesterday, Henry had seen it with his own eyes — the way it had caught Hanush off guard. And he’d seen, too, that Hanush wouldn’t let it go without response.

No — he truly wouldn’t want to be in Hans’s place now. But more than anything, he wished he were beside him. If only so Hans would know he was there. That he could count on him. That he wasn’t alone.

A sudden burst of children’s laughter pulled him from his thoughts. Somewhere beyond the gate, a game was underway. He listened for a moment, eyes drifting across the steel-grey sky.

For Hans, returning to Rattay meant coming home.

For Henry— it meant returning to rules. To watching eyes. To shouts. To silence.

He had no doubt Hans wouldn’t let go of him. But he also knew this world they’d come back to was not made for men like them.

His gaze swept across the courtyard.

No one seemed to be paying him much attention. And yet, now and then, he felt the weight of a glance on his back. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just him. The muffled hum of the town lingered in the distance, but the castle felt submerged — held beneath something colder and deeper than air.

He raised a hand and rubbed at his brow. Let him be back soon, he thought.

And then, through the gate, a familiar face appeared.

Captain Bernard was striding towards him, hands behind his back, gaze fixed directly on him. As he drew near, he gave a short nod.

“Henry.” “Bernard.”

Their greeting was brief, stripped of ceremony — the kind of understanding shared by men who knew each other and had no need to posture. But where Henry’s voice was calm, Bernard’s held a quiet urgency.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said at once. “I need you to ride with a patrol. Three men, heading out along the Talmberg road. Someone spotted suspicious figures — seems they’ve been lurking there since yesterday.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “I’ve only just arrived…”

There was no resistance in his tone, only mild surprise.

Bernard gave a shrug. “Order came down from the upper castle.” He said it without edge — but with the weight of finality.

Henry nodded.

He lingered a moment. Nothing came.

“All right. I’ll head out now.”

Bernard gave another nod, turned on his heel, and made for the gate. Henry watched him go for a few heartbeats, then moved.

He crossed to the stables, where someone was already saddling the horses. He buckled on his belt, checked the stirrups. One of the younger guards fell in beside him without a word. Then another. And a third.

They exchanged short nods.

And rode out.

The courtyard, once again, sank into the slow rhythm of a grey day. And stayed in it until the young lord’s arrival.

Hans dismounted just beyond the gate. He let the horse stand for a moment and stayed by its side, as if expecting a familiar face to appear nearby.

He scanned the courtyard — searching, not idly, not out of passing curiosity, but with the look of someone who meant to find what was missing.

Then came a joyful bark, and Mutt bounded toward him from somewhere out of sight. Hans knelt and rubbed behind dog’s ears with both hands.

"Where’s your master, you little beast?"

Mutt gave a cheerful yap and licked his face.

Hans straightened and made for the main building. At the door to the lower hall, he paused and peered inside. Empty. With a frown, he climbed the stair. His shoulders were tense, his steps swift.

He was back a short while later. The door to his wing closed behind him with more force than it had opened. There was a shadow on his face that hadn’t been there before.

He stopped at the top of the steps and swept a sharp look across the courtyard — then made for the nearest servant.

“Where’s my companion?”

No anger in his voice. Just that calm — the kind that felt worse.

The man hesitated, blinking. “I— I’m not sure who you mean, my lord…”

Hans’s jaw clenched, his voice sharpening. “Rider. Arrived a few hours ago. In armour. On a loaded horse. Where is he?”

The man swallowed and nodded quickly. “Ah… yes. I think Captain Bernard sent him out with a patrol — toward Talmberg.”

Hans’s face didn’t move. But something in his stance shifted. For a moment, it seemed something had tugged at him from within — and he barely held it back. He drew a breath — something sharp on the verge of breaking free—

But stopped himself.

The frightened man wasn’t to blame.

“Where’s Bernard?”

“Went… up the hill, my lord. He’s gone.”

Hans stood motionless. His eyes fixed somewhere beyond, focused and cold.

Then he turned sharply, crossed to his horse, mounted, and without thinking, his hand slid across the hilt of the sword at his hip.

He spurred the animal forward and rode up through the heart of Rattay. In the great hall of the upper castle, the torches crackled softly. The air smelled of wine, meat, and grease.

Hanush sat in a chair at the long table. The plates before him still bore scraps of game and fruit. His fingers glistened with fat; crumbs clung to his beard, and his cheeks shone. He was just slipping the last bite into his mouth when the doors flew open.

Hans stood in the doorway. His face was stone. His gaze, direct and cold.

Hanush looked up without the slightest trace of surprise.

He wiped his hands on the hem of his doublet — leaving dark smudges — and reached for his cup.

He took a sip, set it down with exaggerated calm, and gave a faint smile.

“So soon?” he said lightly. “I thought you’d at least stop for a drink. Or are you here to report your patrol’s success?”

Hans didn’t move. “This will not happen again.”

Hanush poured himself more wine. Slowly — unbearably slowly. “The patrol is for security. I don’t need permission for that.” He lifted the cup. “Least of all from you.”

“No,” Hans said sharply. “But you won’t do it behind my back.”

“I’m still your regent. Still ruler of Rattay,” Hanush snapped.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

Hans glanced around the hall, then fixed his gaze back on his uncle. “I want Pirkstein placed under my sole authority. Everyone there — the guard, the staff — will answer to me.”

Hanush let out a loud laugh that broke into a cough, splashing wine across the table. “And why, in God’s name, would I do that?” he asked, eyes boring into Hans.

“Because in return, I won’t make trouble about your promise concerning my marriage, Uncle,” Hans said slowly, brushing an invisible speck from the front of his quilted coat. “And you know,” he added after a beat, “that if something goes wrong, you’ll be the one with the most to lose.” “I offer you my word as a nobleman.”

Hanush took a long sip. For a while, he said nothing — just looked at him, weighing what had just unfolded. Then he gave a short, dry laugh.

“Well then… fine. Keep your lower castle,” he said at last, the words leaving him sour and stiff.

Hans didn’t move. He didn’t thank him. He didn’t smile. He simply turned and walked out without a word.

The door closed behind him. Hoofbeats thundered across the courtyard of Pirkstein.

Hans dismounted in one smooth motion and cast a sharp glance around.

“Call the garrison,” he said to the first guard he saw. “All of them.”

The man hesitated. “But, my lord—”

“Now,” Hans cut in.

The guard gave a short nod and hurried off.

It wasn’t ten minutes before the courtyard filled with familiar faces. Men of the lower castle — some older, some young. Most knew Hans, but few had ever heard him speak like this.

He stood on the wooden gallery above, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared. His gaze, fixed on the courtyard below, was calm — and hard.

“By agreement with Sir Hanush, I am now taking full command of Pirkstein,” he announced. “The running of the lower castle is from this day forth mine alone.”

His eyes moved over the gathered men.

“Captain Bernard remains in charge of the upper castle. I take charge here. Whatever happens in this place — training, supplies, patrols — everything — goes through me.” He paused, seeking the next words. “Or through my right hand — Master Henry.”

A faint murmur stirred across the courtyard.

“His word is mine,” Hans said, his tone quiet but firm. “He has my full trust. And I trust he’ll have yours as well.”

A brief silence followed. Hans shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“For my use, I’ll be taking the chamber by the great hall. It’ll be arranged as needed. And my companion…” He paused, but only for a heartbeat. “…will remain in my old quarters. Have them ready for his return.”

No one spoke.

Hans straightened again. “That’s all. Dismissed.”

The courtyard thinned as men dispersed. Hans leaned on the railing and looked down, his expression unreadable.

The anger he’d carried from the meeting with Hanush still lingered. And perhaps a trace of it clung to Bernard, though Hans wanted to believe the captain had only followed orders.

He crossed the courtyard. His eyes drifted over the stones and walls, unfocused.

Near the stables, one of the grooms straightened when he noticed him. “My lord,” the man said cautiously. “Shall I ready your horse?”

Hans stopped. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he shook his head, barely, his brows drawn.

“…I don’t know,” he murmured. “Perhaps. I’ll let you know.”

The groom gave a nod and stepped back.

Hans lingered there a breath longer, jaw tight, breath shallow. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to do. It wasn’t protection he wanted to offer. It was just— the simple, stupid need to be near him.

Hans exhaled and turned away — the blanket of restlessness still clinging to him, heavier than the wind.

He set off for the ramparts, pacing them in slow, thoughtful strides. After a time, he stopped, turned, and made his way to the living wing of the castle.

He entered what was now Henry’s chamber.

For a moment, he just stood there, letting his eyes wander across the walls and furniture — checking, it seemed, that all was as it should be for the one who mattered most.

He stepped to the chest, knelt, opened it, considered for a moment, then closed it again.

He paused beside the bed and gave the room one last look.

Then drew a breath and stepped back outside. Evening shadows stretched across the battlements of Pirkstein. Hans stood with his arms resting on the cold stone, staring out into the distance. Below him, the land faded into a haze of grey — fields, woods, winding paths. His face was calm, but his gaze distant.

So much had happened today that he hadn’t yet fully grasped the weight of it. What he’d done. What he’d said. But his thoughts were fixed on a single muddy thread of road, winding up the slope toward Rattay.

And then— A group of riders moved along it.

At first, their shapes were little more than shadows. But as they drew closer, their outlines sharpened.

Hans straightened.

At their head rode a man in fine armour. Even from a distance, Hans knew exactly who it was.

He turned without a word and made his way down the stairs.

The courtyard was quiet. A few guards lingered near the horses, and when they saw him approach, they straightened and stepped aside. He passed without a glance.

He stopped at the centre of the yard, just as the riders reached the gate.

Henry was the first to dismount. There was dust on his armour, weariness in his face — but his eyes were clear and fixed on Hans.

Hans took a step toward him, then paused.

In the end, it was Henry who spoke first. “We rode the road, didn’t see a soul. If Captain Bernard wants to know.”

Hans’s voice stayed low, flat. “He’s not here, Henry. If he ever meant to ask.” He held his gaze steady. “But we’ve more important things to discuss anyway.”

His attention shifted to one of the servants. “Take Master Henry to his chamber.”

The servant gave a nod.

“Hans, I just need somewhere clean and dry—” Henry began, but Hans cut him off.

“It’s already seen to. Once you’ve settled and had a breath, come find me. We have urgent matters to speak of.”

With that, he turned, climbed the steps, and vanished into the depths of the castle.

Henry gave a small shrug and handed the reins to one of the guards. He nodded and followed the servant up the stairs.

The servant opened the door and stepped aside.

“This way, sir. If you need anything, I’m at your service.”

Henry crossed the threshold. The door closed softly behind him.

He stood still in the centre of the room.

This wasn’t an unfamiliar space. He’d been here before. He’d stood just there, waiting to be called in. Sometimes he’d lingered by the wall while listening to Hans. Back then, Henry had been a squire — and Hans merely his lord.

But now Henry stood here alone.

He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his palm over the coverlet. The fabric was soft, heavy. For a fleeting moment, he thought he caught Hans’s scent in it, and without thinking, drew in a quiet breath.

A memory surfaced: he had come here once with a message. Hans had been asleep, lying just there. And Henry had stood, watching the peaceful stillness of his face. Now the recollection made him smile — remembering how startled he’d been by his own reaction, or perhaps afraid that his lord might wake and see him staring.

He let out a quiet sigh. He adored watching Hans’s face in sleep, when dreams flickered behind his closed eyes. He loved holding him close and feeling the slow rhythm of his breath. And he hated not knowing when he’d next get to hold him like that — to feel him, to kiss him, to be near.

He stood, crossed to the chest, lifted the lid partway. Inside were fresh shirts and other garments, neatly folded. He closed it again. Walked to the window and braced his hands against the frame, peering into the dark.

I should go to Hans. Hans sat at the small table by the wall. Two candles burned on the surface, their flames flickering in the draught that occasionally slipped through the chamber. Beyond the windows, the wind moaned now and then.

An open book lay before him. One elbow rested on the table, fingers tangled in his hair, his gaze long since drifted from the page. He registered the words only vaguely, his mind elsewhere.

A knock broke the silence.

He didn’t move. Only when it came again — knuckles lightly tapping wood — did he lift his head.

“Yes?” he said.

The door opened a crack. “My lord — Master Henry,” the guard announced.

Hans didn’t look up from the book.

“Let him in,” he said. “And see that I’m not disturbed — by anything or anyone.”

The door opened wider. Henry stepped inside, silent.

When the door closed behind him, Hans was still seated, head bowed.

“Henry,” he said, a little louder this time — as if reminding himself that now was the time to speak aloud. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He rose — slowly — and turned to face him.

“We need to speak about my meeting with Sir Hanush,” he said, his voice clear.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other.

Their expressions shifted subtly. The weariness began to melt. A smile settled in their eyes — then on their lips. Quiet, a little incredulous.

Hans stepped forward.

He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space between them and pulled Henry into a firm, sudden embrace. And kissed him — before Henry had the chance to say a word. There was only the briefest pause — then Henry answered him. Drew him closer. Their mouths met again, slower, steadier this time.

They held each other for a long while — hands on backs, arms, the curve of a neck — as if needing to feel, to confirm, You’re here. This is real.

“I missed you,” Henry whispered, barely audible.

Hans leaned his forehead lightly against Henry’s shoulder. His breath came warm and slow.

“I was this close to riding after you,” he murmured. “Down that bloody Talmberg road.”

Henry smiled and gave a soft shake of his head and kissed him again — while Hans’s fingers slipped gently through his hair.

They stayed like that a little longer, arms wrapped around each other. Their lips brushed now and then — a cheek, a throat, breath shared in passing.

Then Hans pulled back slightly, took Henry’s hand, and nodded toward the bed. “Come sit with me,” he said quietly. “Strictly honourable,” he added, with a faint laugh.

Henry drew him close again.

“Pity,” he murmured into his ear, trailing a hand along the inside of Hans’s thigh.

“Henry, for God’s sake,” Hans mock-scolded.

“All right, all right,” Henry grinned.

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed.

“What’s going on here, Hans?” Henry asked softly.

Hans stared ahead for a moment. “A great many things,” he said under his breath, then slowly turned toward Henry. “I had no idea they’d sent you away. When I arrived and you weren’t here…”

His voice faltered. In the end, he just shook his head.

Henry gave a small shrug. “I didn’t know what to make of it either. But when Bernard said the order came from the upper castle…” He shrugged again, eyes falling to the blanket between them. His fingers drifted across it without thinking.

Hans leaned closer and laid a hand over his. The touch was firm — but careful.

“I didn’t know a thing,” he said. “Hanush went behind my back.”

Henry looked up at him, his expression calm — but something darker stirred in his eyes. He placed his other hand over Hans’s, more firmly this time, as if to say, It’s all right.

“What’s he playing at?” he asked.

Hans was quiet for a beat. His thumb moved gently across Henry’s knuckles. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said at last. “But I think he wanted to remind me he still holds the reins.”

Henry said nothing. He looked down at his boots, then back at Hans. “Suppose we should’ve seen it coming,” he murmured.

Hans drew a breath. “I confronted him straightaway,” he said calmly.

Henry turned to him. “You did what?”

Hans gave a faint smirk and lifted one shoulder. “Went to have a word, let’s say.”

Henry leaned in slightly. “You didn’t have to,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing lightly over Hans’s wrist.

Hans met his gaze. His features stayed composed — but there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment before. “I did, Henry. For your sake. And for mine.”

He paused. “For ours,” he added softly.

Henry stroked his hand. “How did it end?”

Hans gave a low, humourless laugh and looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to read the answer in the beams overhead. “To tell you the truth… I’m not entirely sure.”

His eyes wandered around the room, like he was only now settling back into it. “But he agreed to hand me command of Pirkstein. Immediately.”

Henry stilled. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Truth be told…” Hans raised his brows. “Neither did I. Which is why I don’t trust him.”

He exhaled audibly, as if trying to shake something off. “In return, I gave him my word the wedding would go forward without interference.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. The words came out softer than they should have.

Henry reached out, slipped an arm around his shoulders, and gently drew him close. Hans let his head rest against Henry’s chest, and Henry pressed a kiss into his hair.

“We’ll manage,” he whispered.

Hans let out a soft breath and wrapped his arms around him. “We will,” he echoed — almost voiceless, but with a resolve that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

He shifted, lifted his head, and their eyes met.

“The wedding…” he began, then paused. “It’s meant to happen before the end of October.”

Henry said nothing. His jaw tensed, just barely, and he gave a small nod. His gaze didn’t waver from Hans’s.

“Tomorrow,” Hans went on, even quieter now, “I’m to meet with the Kunstadt family.” He hesitated. “And with Lady Jitka.”

Henry lowered his head and pressed his fingers briefly to the bridge of his nose. Then he looked back at Hans.

“Do you want me there with you?”

Hans shook his head. “It’ll be just them, and Hanush—”

“I understand,” Henry said before he could finish.

“—I’ll need you here more, Henry.”

A slight furrow crossed Henry’s brow. “What do you mean?”

Hans nodded toward the door.

“When I took command of Pirkstein today, I named you my official second here.”

Henry looked up. A flicker of surprise touched his face. Hans smiled.

“I’ve made it known to everyone here — your voice carries the same weight as mine.”

Henry lowered his gaze. Silence settled between them for a moment. Then he looked back at Hans.

“You’re sure about that?”

Hans’s lips curved into a quiet, steady smile.

“Absolutely, love.” He leaned in and kissed him.

Henry pulled him close again without hesitation and kissed him once more. Their lips met. Tongues brushed. Breath quickened. Fingers found familiar places— the nape of the neck, the line of a shoulder, the curve of a back.

Hans broke away suddenly. He drew back, slightly out of breath, his eyes half-lidded. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — almost shy.

“We have to be careful,” he said quietly, with a hint of apology in his voice.

“I know,” Henry breathed. “But it’s hard, Hans.”

Hans arched one brow.

Henry tilted his head.

“Not that.” Though he snorted. “Well — that too.” Then he let out a laugh — dry, a little bitter.

“I meant it’s hard not to be able to touch you. Not the way I want. Not when I want. Not at all.”

Hans drew a breath. “You don’t have to tell me,” he murmured, his hand sliding along Henry’s thigh. “That’s why,” he added, glancing around the chamber, “I moved.”

His eyes locked with Henry’s. “So I could have you as close as possible, Henry.”

Henry smiled — then glanced toward the door.

“You’ve still got a guard outside.”

Hans pursed his lips. “That too can be arranged,” he said after a moment, smiling faintly. “You remember what I told you a few days ago? That we’ll always find a way?”

Henry nodded.

Hans held his gaze for a moment.

“I’ve already started walking it,” he said quietly.

Henry didn’t speak. He simply reached for Hans’s hand — gently, as if holding something rare. He bent down and kissed it — not with heat, but with care. Slowly. As if what he held needed to be protected.

Hans held his breath. When Henry looked up again, their eyes met.

His fingertips traced the line of Hans’s cheek.

“Shall we get a bit of air?” Hans asked softly.

“To where?” Henry asked, surprised.

“Just the battlements,” Hans said with a smile. They stood side by side, the silence broken only now and then by the faint crack of timber in the distance. Down in the town below, a handful of lights flickered — hearths, lanterns, tiny sparks of life.

High above it all, on the battlements, there were only the two of them.

Henry rested his hands on the cold stone. The chill seeped into his arms, but he didn’t mind. He said nothing. There were too many words in his head to choose even one.

Then he felt a touch — tentative, testing. Hans’s fingers brushed his hand, as if asking permission. Henry said nothing. He simply let his palm drift down to meet them and laced their fingers together. He shifted his weight and leaned gently against Hans’s arm.

“It almost looks like a city,” Hans said quietly, after a while. “Like we’re standing over something far greater than it is.”

Henry nodded.

“And all of it will be ours to look after, Henry,” Hans added with a smile. “Doesn’t that frighten you?”

Henry drew a slow breath in, then let it out. “I’ve been through worse shite, I think.”

Hans laughed. “Ay, I’d say I’ve seen some of it too.”

Henry’s smile faded.

“What worries me more is that we haven’t even been here a full day, and already…” He trailed off. “Already there are things in the way.”

Hans gave a tired sort of smile. “Ay… it caught me off guard too.”

They fell silent again. Then Henry spoke. “There’s always going to be something else, isn’t there. It’ll never be easy.”

“No,” Hans replied simply. “But we’ll be in it together. Even if it means a thousand lies. And one truth we’ll never speak aloud.”

Henry leaned toward him. His forehead brushed Hans’s cheek.

“That’s enough for me.”

Hans let his eyes drift over the battlements. Then he smiled at him and brushed a soft kiss to his lips.

He let out a breath. “We should probably get some sleep, Henry.”

Henry gave a small nod. Though a little reluctant. “Ay.”

Hans hesitated for a moment. “I have the meeting with the Kunstadts tomorrow. I’d like you to take the time to settle in here. Get a sense of Pirkstein.”

A faint smile touched Henry’s lips. “I know. Master Henry.”

Hans’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of Henry’s hand. “Someone’s got to keep watch over our home.” Hans lay awake in the unfamiliar bed.

The fire had burned down to cold ash. The room held stillness in every corner — the kind of stillness that made the darkness feel closer, thicker, heavier.

He shifted. Turned onto his side. Waited. Turned again.

Sleep didn’t come. It didn’t even come close.

For a while, he gave up on movement. Just lay there, eyes open, staring into the black above him. Listening to the wind as it moved past the shutters. There was nothing strange in the sound. Nothing new.

He wasn’t sure what kept him awake. The weight of the day, maybe. The words left unsaid. The pull of thoughts that circled too tightly to escape.

Or maybe— maybe it was the room itself. The unfamiliar walls. The bed that didn’t know him.

Or maybe— it was simply the absence of Henry’s warmth. The absence of his breath, soft and steady, and that faint sound Hans had come to know by heart — the quiet snore Henry made when he was too tired to fight it.

After a while, Hans drew a slow breath and sat up.

For a moment, he just sat there, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the door. Then he stood. Pulled the blanket from the bed and draped it over his shoulders before moving softly across the floor.

The door gave a faint creak as he eased it open. He paused, peered out into the dim light of the hall.

The guard sat slumped against the wall, head bowed, fast asleep.

Hans watched him for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes — maybe amusement, maybe weariness — then he stepped silently past, the blanket trailing behind him.

When he reached Henry’s door, he stopped.

The corridor lay empty around him. He stood still, as if listening — for a sound, a breath, anything. His eyes drifted to the door. He hesitated.

For a moment, his hand lifted. Then lowered again.

A quiet sigh left him. He glanced once more down the hallway. Then stepped away.

The courtyard lay hushed in the night, broken only by the distant clatter of a restless hoof. Hans crossed it without a sound. Climbed the steps to the battlements. And there— against the dark sweep of the sky— a silhouette.

Henry.

Henry saw him and, after a moment’s pause, stepped forward.

They met halfway along the battlements, the wind brushing softly past. For a moment, they simply stood — face to face, close enough to see the breath rise between them, close enough to catch the faintest smile on the other’s lips.

Both of them looked, for a heartbeat, almost surprised. Then Hans’s mouth curved. He gave a soft huff of breath, half a laugh.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low, the edges of a smile still in it.

Henry’s eyes held his. He gave a small shrug, exhaled softly, shoulders loosening a fraction. “Figured I could ask you the same thing.”

Hans exhaled softly. He shifted his weight slightly closer. His hand drifted — casual, slow — and the back of his finger brushed along Henry’s knuckles. Light as breath. Barely there.

“I think,” he murmured, “if I had you beside me, I could sleep anywhere. Even here. On these bloody walls.”

Henry’s eyes dropped for a moment, the corner of his mouth tugging into something softer. He let out a quiet sigh and when he looked back up, his gaze was gentle. “Funny how you start taking things for granted without meaning to,” he said, his voice little more than a breath. “And then you feel them twice as much the moment they’re gone.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The wind stirred the hem of Hans’s blanket. Somewhere below, a horse shifted, its hoof striking stone.

Hans let out a soft breath, the corner of his mouth tugging higher. “Maybe I should head to the kitchens. Find a wineskin and drink until I finally pass out.”

Henry breathed a soft laugh, the sound low and warm. But after a moment, his eyes shifted. He grew thoughtful. His gaze lingered on Hans.

Hans tilted his head slightly, uncertain. “What?”

Henry’s brows drew together faintly. “Did anyone see you leave?” he asked softly.

Hans gave a small shake of his head. “The guard’s asleep.”

Henry exhaled through his nose, then glanced away for a beat. “No one comes to wake you in the morning, right?”

Hans’s smile returned, a little puzzled. “No. Not unless I ask.”

Henry’s mouth quirked. A small, knowing grin tugged at the edges. “Then maybe,” he murmured, voice soft but playful, “Sir Capon would care to pay Master Henry a visit.”

The words were light, but something in the way he said them — and in the way his eyes held Hans’s — made the meaning clear.

Hans’s lips curved wider. He didn’t answer aloud. He just nodded. The door clicked softly shut. Henry slid the bolt into place, the sound barely audible in the stillness.

When he turned, Hans was standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, smiling faintly.

Henry crossed to him without a word and pulled him into a firm embrace. Their mouths met — slow at first, but quickly deepening. Quiet, but hungry. They kissed. Touched. Fingers trailing, breath catching, moving closer until there was barely space between them.

Hans had already let the blanket slip away. He wore only his thin linen trousers, the fabric soft against Henry’s hands. Without breaking the kiss, Hans pulled Henry’s shirt over his head, dropping it aside. Their bare chests pressed together, skin to skin, save for the feel of leather cords and the small pendants each of them wore at their throats.

Henry let out a breath — sharp, shaky — when he felt Hans’s arousal against his thigh. He shifted, without thinking, pressing forward — their hips grazing, both of them already too far gone to pretend otherwise.

They stilled at once. Breathless. Eyes meeting.

A soft, guilty smile curved Henry’s lips. “We really should sleep,” he murmured.

Hans let out a quiet laugh, the faintest edge of regret in his eyes. But he nodded. “Ay,” he breathed. “We should.”

They lay down together, the mattress dipping beneath their weight.

Henry settled on his back, head resting against the pillow, breath easing out slow. Hans curled in beside him — his head on Henry’s shoulder, one arm draped across his chest, their legs tangled loosely under the blankets.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They just breathed. Soft. Steady. Bodies pressed close, warmth shared, the familiar comfort of skin against skin. The steady rise and fall of Henry’s chest beneath Hans’s palm. The scent of him — sweat, leather, and something clean and faintly sharp that Hans had long since come to crave.

Henry’s fingertips traced light, absent circles along the bare line of Hans’s waist. Hans shifted slightly, his breath soft against Henry’s throat, and let his thumb graze gently across his chest. Back and forth. Slow. Without thought.

The quiet settled over them.

Hans pressed a soft kiss to the skin just beneath Henry’s ear, the barest brush of lips.

Henry smiled faintly. “Feels less like my chamber now,” he murmured. “With you here… it feels more like ours.” He let the words hang for a moment, then gave a soft huff of breath. “Though I suppose, until tonight, it was still your room anyway.”

Hans gave a quiet sound of amusement.

Henry’s lips curved into something a little more playful. “You know—” and here he let out a soft laugh— “if I count Suchdol, Devil’s Den, that ruined farmhouse, and Foxburrow… this might be the only bedroom of yours where we haven’t done that.”

Hans let out a soft breath of amusement. “Technically, it’s not my bedroom anymore. And you’re forgetting Maleshov.”

Henry gave a quiet snort. “Right. Maleshov.”

A pause.

“Not sure Brabant would’ve appreciated that, though,” Hans murmured.

And that was it— The laughter broke. Breathless. Muffled. Shoulders shaking. Faces buried against each other, breathless with the effort to stay quiet. The more they tried to stop, the worse it got. Helpless.

Slowly, the laughter ebbed. They caught their breath, still grinning, foreheads nearly touching. Their eyes shone — bright, soft, alive.

Henry let out a quiet breath, still smiling. His voice barely more than a whisper. “I love you so damn much, Jendo.”

Hans’s smile deepened. His eyes softened, lids lowering as he leaned in and brushed a kiss — slow, warm — against Henry’s lips.

“I love you too,” he murmured, the words low, steady, certain.

They shifted a little, settling. Their bodies eased into stillness, warmth pressed close, breath slow and steady again.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“Feels the way it’s meant to,” Hans murmured at last, his voice thick with sleep.

Henry smiled, his eyes already slipping closed. “Ay,” he whispered. “It does.”