#kcd jitka

—

The sun was rising — slow but unrelenting.

Its rays first gilded the crowns of distant trees: some crimson, some burnished gold, some already stripped bare. Then they caught the rooftops of the town and spilled across the walls, as if stroking the stone with an open hand. Rattay had long since stirred.

Above the rooftops, banners swayed in the wind. Long ribbons of yellow, black, and white shimmered in the morning light, flying high above a land rousing to a day unlike any it had known in years. The world itself seemed to draw breath, poised for celebration.

The light pierced the chamber window and fell across Hans’s face.

He knelt on the cold floor — barefoot, clad in a simple linen tunic. His hands joined, his head bowed.

Beside him, Godwin sat in a chair, leaning forward slightly, his hands resting between his knees. His gaze was fixed on the embers glowing in the hearth.

The chamber held its silence like a held breath.

After a while, Hans spoke — his voice low but unwavering.

“Father, I have sinned.”

Godwin said nothing for a moment. “I hear you,” he murmured.

Hans drew breath, but let it settle in his chest. When he spoke again, his tone was composed — too composed.

“I have given way to anger. There are times I can no longer tell what is justice… and what is merely vengeance. And the worst part is — it steadies me. It makes me feel strong.”

He broke off. Then shook his head, slowly.

“But strength is not truth.”

Godwin gave a slow nod, still watching the fire, as if searching its depths for something older than words. “If you mean to fight for truth… don’t feed the things within you that might one day betray it.”

Hans fell silent once more. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a roughness — not from doubt but from the weight of what followed.

“Father… I have spent my life defiling the Lord’s gift of love — without ever knowing what love truly is.”

Silence followed — so deep they could hear their breath. His and the other’s. As if even that faint sound echoed against the chamber walls.

Hans bowed his head lower still.

“And yet the Lord has granted me this gift. The gift of love.”

He swallowed, but did not falter.

“It came. Whole. Honest. And I never knew a thing could be so pure in its simplicity.”

He lifted his gaze — not toward Godwin, only toward the light.

“But if this be sin… then I pray the Lord remembers why He gave it.”

Godwin’s gaze did not leave the fire. “I once said… to the one you love… that if God is love, then He cannot be absent where love is given whole. Without deceit. Without demand.”

Hans bowed his head, silent.

When he spoke, his voice was muffled — not by doubt but by weight.

“Father… I know the vow I take today will not be whole. It will hold truth — and still, an emptiness. For what should stand at the heart of it… I have already given. And I will not take it back.”

He breathed in, steady and resolute.

“All else I can offer her — and shall. Honour, protection, grace. But not this. Love was vowed once. And that vow endures.”

At last, Godwin turned to him. His voice was little more than breath.

“And do you know what that will cost you?”

Hans met his eyes.

“Everything. Except him.”

Hans lowered his gaze and looked for a long moment at his clasped hands. Then he raised his head.

“These are the sins I carry. Not all of them do I understand. But I know this — I no longer wish to carry them alone.”

Godwin drew breath and straightened a little.

“I don’t know what all counts as sin, Hans. Only the Lord knows that. But if the things you fear truly are sinful… then I believe you have already made your peace with God. By what in you remained alive. By what you bore. And by what you have now spoken.”

He paused for a breath.

“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

As he spoke the final words, he raised his hand and traced the sign of the cross above Hans.

“Go in peace, son. And hold fast to what is true in you.”

Hans crossed himself.

Godwin rose, straightened his back, and gave a small nod. “We’ll see each other in a few hours,” he said gently. A faint, encouraging smile touched his face. Then he left.

Hans stayed kneeling for a while. Then he slowly sat down at the edge of the bed and looked at the wedding garments laid out before him. He simply gazed — silent, unmoving.

After a moment, he rose. He stepped through the arch into the adjoining chamber.

It was quiet. Henry’s. Everything stood where it had been left. Hans crossed the room, his eyes passing over the familiar things — breeches thrown over a chest, a dagger hanging from a belt, gloves rolled and set aside.

Then he halted. Something stirred in him — a thought, sudden and clear.

He turned on his heel and strode back into his chamber. With quick, practised movements, he pulled on his doublet and breeches, laced his boots, and left.

Moments later, he was descending the stair to the courtyard.

“Ready my horse,” he said.

Several heads turned — surprised, hands still full of morning tasks. One held a pail of flowers. Another was stringing garlands. Someone was sweeping the steps.

Hans turned slightly, just enough for them all to hear.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

He mounted and rode out from Rattay. The path slipped quietly beneath his horse’s hoofbeats. He rode to the place where, weeks before, he had parted from Henry — to the edge of the forest, where the road ends and the shadow begins.

There, he stopped. His eyes searched the trees.

Then he dismounted and sat in the grass. He looked back toward Rattay, where banners flew and the sun bathed the rooftops. The wind stirred his hair. He felt no cold.

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he’d come for. Perhaps… perhaps he’d hoped to hear hoofbeats. To see a figure appear between the trees. That figure. To know the shape of the shoulders, the way he held himself.

In his mind, he saw it — the moment. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to lift. Felt how his eyes would brighten. How his heart would leap.

But all around him, in grass and fallen leaves, only the wind whispered.

Hans rose, brushed the dust from his breeches, climbed back into the saddle, and rode toward Rattay once more.

On his way back, Hans — just as he had done on the way out — steered clear of the upper castle.

He knew Jitka’s procession was likely beginning to gather there by now. Noble guests, family, handmaidens… The groom riding through that assembly would cause a stir no one needed. There was no need to be seen.

Hans’s own procession was to depart from Pirkstein. The church of Saint Matthew was only a few steps away, of course — but Hans would ride there on horseback. And he would not be alone.

His friends would walk with him. And for that, he was more grateful than words could ever reach. Even just by their presence — by silence, by their footfall beside his — they had given him more than if they’d shouted to the hills that they stood with him.

At the head of it all would walk Hanush.

Hans had known that for some time. It had been clear from the start that Hanush would stand as his witness. No one else had ever been considered. And yet, he could not shake the feeling that Hanush would not be there to witness the joining of two lives — but rather as the one who had come to ensure the agreement he had made would be fulfilled. And that no one changed their mind along the way.

Perhaps that was the one thing Hans envied Jitka. Her witness would be her father. He didn’t know what bond they shared — but he doubted it could be so cold, so taut and bitter as what had grown between himself and Hanush over the past few weeks. When Hans returned to Pirkstein, he gave a brief nod to Pavel, bidding him follow into the chamber.

There, Pavel helped him dress for the wedding. His hands were sure, his focus sharp. One motion after another.

As he fastened the doublet, Hans grew thoughtful.

“Pavel…”

He hesitated. Then offered a faint smile.

“Not long ago, you asked if you might watch the wedding. If you could be there.”

Pavel nodded.

“I’d be glad if you walked in my procession.”

Pavel froze. The surprise on his face was unmistakable.

“May I ask… what moves my lord to such kindness?”

Hans’s smile deepened, soft and brief.

“It feels right.”

When the dressing was done, Hans straightened and glanced down at his garments.

“Go and dress yourself,” he said warmly. “Wear the cleanest thing you own.”

Pavel hurried off.

Hans stood a moment longer, squaring his shoulders, his eyes tracing each part of the attire to be sure all was as it should be. The doublet, the houppelande, the fastenings all neat and secure. The belt. The breeches. Everything in its place. The ring. The chain.

He passed his fingers lightly over his chest.

Beneath the layers of cloth, his hand found the pendant. That pendant. It hung against his skin — and it would remain there.

Hans drew a breath and stepped out of the chamber.

In the great hall, he paused for a moment. His eyes settled on the head of the table — on his own chair, and then the one to its right. He walked to it, laid his hand on the backrest. Then he lifted the chair, carried it into his chamber — and turned toward the door. The courtyard was already alive with motion.

At the front stood two servants holding Hans’s horse — a dapple-grey with a gleaming coat, well-saddled, its mane brushed and loosely braided. A silver rosette adorned its brow, and a dark blue cloth draped the saddle, embroidered with the family crest. The servants kept the horse calm, steadying it gently against the rising noise around them.

A little off to the side, the friends stood in quiet conversation. Dry Devil was saying something to Janosh, who chuckled and shook his head, while Kubyenka circled the horse, looking at it as if it made more sense to him than people ever did. He seemed unusually sober — and colour had begun to return to his cheeks.

Godwin stood apart, speaking in low tones with Radzig. Not far from them, Hanush and Zizka were conferring as well, both dressed in full regalia, both deeply present — and yet neither drew attention. Katherine was gesturing cheerfully, and a short distance away, Pavel stood, a little out of place — freshly scrubbed, wearing a borrowed doublet slightly too large for him.

Hans stepped in among them. His stride was sure, his eyes calm. He gave a small smile toward Dry Devil, who stepped up at once.

“Ever cross your mind,” Hans said with a faint grin, “that as a Kunstadt, you ought to be marching in the bride’s procession instead?”

Dry Devil burst into laughter — harsh and full-throated.

“Not unless someone in her family’s got the balls to invite old Hynek!” He clapped Hans on the back, firm and loud. “Nay, lad. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

At that moment, the first bell tolled from the upper castle.

The sound cracked across the courtyard like a faultline. All ears turned. Conversation stilled. Some looked upward. Others turned toward Hans.

Godwin, standing nearby, gave him a slow nod.

“The bride’s procession has begun,” he said. “It is time.”

Hans swung into the saddle.

Beneath him, the dapple-grey tossed its head gently but remained calm. Hans looked around — then over his shoulder, at those who had come with him. He smiled.

Then he gave a nod to the standard-bearer standing at the head of the procession.

And the column began to move.

A hush fell over the courtyard, broken only by the first soft footfalls of hooves, the whisper of fabric, the muted clatter of iron on stone. Locals stood along the sides — curious, expectant, some waving, others merely watching. Their faces held all manner of things: respect, anticipation, wonder.

The procession descended from Pirkstein and made its way toward the church.

It did not take long to reach its gate.

Some of the guests were already entering. Others waited outside in small clusters or on their own. Hans remained in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the road from which the bride would come.

And then he saw her.

Jitka approached at a measured pace atop a tall white mare, adorned with ribbons in white and gold. Across the horse’s back draped an embroidered cloth, bearing lilies and vines. The bride herself wore robes of pale, near-pearl silk — light, flowing, embroidered with delicate patterns. Her hair was braided into a wreath mingling pearls with wildflowers.

She looked resplendent — and calm.

Before the church, they both came to a halt.

Hans dismounted. Jitka did the same, with the help of her maid. Then she turned toward Hans, and they greeted each other with a slight, formal bow.

At Jitka’s side now stood her father, Erhard of Kunstadt, who took her hand and raised it gently in his own. At Hans’s side stepped Hanush.

In that moment, the space before the church fell into silence.

From within, the first notes of the chant began to rise. Veni Creator Spiritus.

At that moment, a bell rang out — steady and deep — from the tower above. Its sound echoed across the rooftops of Rattay, as if to call the heavens to witness.

The high voices of the boys, brought from the Sasau monastery, drifted into the air like silk. Pure. Unadorned. Quiet yet strong.

Hans and Jitka moved forward, side by side. Slowly. They entered the church.

Golden light poured in through the windows. The glow of the candles mingled with daylight. Stillness filled the space.

Hans kept his gaze fixed ahead — toward the altar, where the abbot from Sasau stood waiting, clothed in full vestments. Out of the corner of his eye, Hans sensed his friends standing in quiet witness, and the other gathered guests.

In that chant — that sound that seemed to come from somewhere beyond — they reached the altar.

There, they stopped.

Hans to the right. Jitka to the left. Just behind them, a single step away, stood their witnesses — Hanush and Erhard.

The chant faded into silence.

For a moment, the stillness was such that a pin dropping might have been heard.

The abbot stepped to the altar, raised his hands, and spoke.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Brothers and sisters, we are gathered here in this holy church to witness the union between Hans of the house of Pirkstein and Jitka of Kunstadt.

May this marriage, blessed by God, be steadfast, faithful, and truly sacred.”

He paused briefly, then motioned to the bride and groom.

“Step forward.”

Hans took a step. Jitka did the same. They stood side by side, facing the altar.

The abbot turned to Hans.

“Lord of Pirkstein — do you take this woman to be your wife, according to the rites of Holy Church?”

Hans turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder. His gaze swept over the gathered guests. He saw the faces of his friends — warm smiles, quiet encouragement, calm solemnity.

And yet… the one face that mattered most was missing.

Hans slowly turned his eyes back to the abbot. But they didn’t rest on him. They lingered just past his shoulder — on the stained-glass window behind, where golden light played upon coloured glass.

His lips began to move. “I, Hans, take you, Jitka, to be my wife…”

The words came smooth and clear — carefully learned, perfectly spoken. But to his own ears, they were distant. Hollow.

Before his eyes: Henry’s face.

That soft, knowing smile. And the way he’d roll his eyes, just a little — every time Hans was being impossible in a way he loved.

He raised a hand to his chest. Beneath the layers, he felt the pendant — the small, steady weight of it, the touch that had become part of him. For a moment, he closed his fingers around it.

And inwardly, he whispered: Jindro… I don’t know, and never will know, what I did to deserve you…

His voice continued without pause, obediently reciting each line. “…and I promise to be faithful to you, in joy and in hardship… in sickness and in health…”

But within him, another vow was being spoken. In silence. In memory.

Spoken into Henry’s eyes, when they lay tangled together, warm and breathless in the hush of night: I love you. I will love you still — until the last breath leaves my body…

The church echoed with the final words of the vow: “…to love you and to honour you all the days of my life.”

But Hans was no longer wholly there.

In his thoughts, he had returned to that quiet road — the one where they leaned toward each other in the saddle, and kissed, as if the world itself had fallen away.

And no cunning, no burden, no scheme — not even this — will take that from me, he whispered within, and let his eyes drift closed for a heartbeat.

Then he swallowed, and looked to the abbot.

The priest gave a small nod and turned to Jitka.

“Lady of Kunstadt — do you take Lord Hans to be your husband, before God and this assembly, according to the rites of Holy Church?”

Jitka looked up at him. Her voice was quiet but sure.

“I, Jitka, take you, Hans, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you in good times and in hardship, in sickness and in health, to honour you and follow you all the days of my life.”

The abbot joined their gaze with his own, and drew a slow breath.

“Before the face of God, and in the presence of this sacred assembly, you have pledged yourselves to one another. What God has joined, let no man divide.”

He brought their hands together. Placed his own over them and bowed his head in prayer.

“Lord our God, Almighty, bless these hands joined now before Your face. Grant them faithfulness in trial, patience in troubled days, and grace in days of joy. Let their hearts remain as one, as one is the bond You have created. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

He raised his hands and traced the sign of the cross above their heads.

“Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper vobiscum. Amen.”

He straightened.

“This marriage has been made before God. May God be with you.”

Hans released her hand — only to reach into the pouch at his belt, and draw out a plain gold ring. He took her hand again without meeting her eyes, and slid it onto her finger with slow precision.

“This ring I give you,” he said, the words dry and even, “as a token of our bond.”

Then he let go.

The first note of the Te Deum rang out.

Sound swept through the church, rising beneath the vault like a wave. Outside, a bell began to toll. Then another. And another. One by one, every bell in Rattay joined in.

Hans turned to Jitka. He offered her his arm.

And led her down the nave, back toward the doors.

From beyond the walls came cheering. Applause. Voices calling out.

But Hans’s steps were unhurried. He walked slowly, with a faint smile. Like a man who knows exactly what this day is meant to be, and feels none of it.

He was numb. Empty.

And within that dead, soundless hollow inside him, a single thing remained. True. Alive.

His feet moved of their own accord. His lips held the quiet, polite smile without asking.

Outside the church, they were met with jubilation.

The townsfolk had gathered round — calling out, waving, some tossing flower petals into the air. Music played — bagpipes, flutes, dulcimer, drum — and the bells of Rattay still rang out in full force. They were now joined by bells from the surrounding villages, distant and muffled, as if the whole countryside were lending its quiet assent.

Hans and Jitka paused for a moment.

Guests filed out of the church behind them, greeting them with small nods, smiles, the touch of a hand to the arm, or a pat to the shoulder. Godwin offered a quiet smile and a nod. Janosh gave a bow. Kubyenka did his best not to cry. Katherine smiled at Hans and kissed him softly on the cheek. Zizka stopped beside Jitka and spoke a few solemn words of blessing.

Then Dry Devil stepped forward to meet the bride.

He bent so low it might’ve snapped another man’s spine.

“My lady,” he intoned, with absolute theatrical flourish.

Jitka didn’t flinch — only smiled faintly. “Hynek… I’m glad we finally meet in person.”

Dry Devil grinned. “Thank your husband for that.”

Jitka laughed. Hans only shook his head — but the corners of his mouth lifted, just barely.

Then his gaze drifted to the crowd. From time to time, he returned a call or a wave with a small nod. His face was calm. Steady. The public mask he now wore with ease.

Suddenly, he felt a small hand clutch his thigh.

He looked down.

A little boy. Two years old, perhaps less. His hair tousled, cheeks ruddy and a bit smudged, eyes glowing like lanterns. He clung to Hans as if he’d known him all his life.

Hans smiled, then bent down and lifted the boy into his arms.

The child pressed close — utterly at ease.

Hans glanced around — and spotted a woman, her face apologetic, trying to push her way through the crowd. She reached them, dipped a small curtsy.

“Forgive us, my lord. He…”

Hans looked at the boy. “And what do they call you, lad?”

“Hal!” the toddler chirped.

The mother laughed, a little flushed, a little embarrassed. “His name is Henry. Forgive us, my lord.”

Hans smiled.

“It’s quite all right.”

He handed the boy gently back into her arms. Brushed a hand over the child’s hair.

“You’ll make a fine man one day, Henry. And your mother will be proud of you.”

The woman lowered her eyes, visibly moved.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Hans turned.

Jitka had mounted in the meantime.

The music played on, the people still cheering. The procession began its slow return from the church to Pirkstein — step by step, solemn and celebratory at once.

Hans cast one last glance around — then walked to his horse. He mounted.

And rode to the head of the procession. The courtyard at Pirkstein was already alive with festivity.

The tables were full — townsfolk and villagers seated together, mugs of beer and wine lifted, laughter spilling freely. Wooden boards groaned under pies, loaves, and fruit. A little farther off, two rams turned slowly over glowing embers in a stone firepit — their scent heavy in the air, mingling with the smoke, the straw, and the shrieks of children dashing between benches, playing bride and groom.

As the procession arrived, all attention turned to the new arrivals. Most eyes sought the woman riding beside Hans.

Jitka sat tall in the saddle, composed — yet her eyes were keen, watchful. She greeted those nearby with a nod and a smile — courteous, but unforced.

Hans dismounted and walked to her side.

“My lady,” he said, and offered her his arm.

Jitka took it without a word. Together, they stepped toward the keep.

They climbed the stairs into the main wing of the castle. The door of the great hall was opened before them.

Behind them followed the nobles — the honoured guests, the witnesses, the heads of families. The music from the courtyard faded. It was replaced by the measured sound of footsteps striking stone.

The great hall was richly adorned in the colours of both houses. Fabrics of black, silver, and gold hung in gentle waves from the beams; flowers rested on the window ledges; tall candles burned in the corners. The tables were laden with roasted meats, cheeses, cakes, fruit, mead, wine, and fresh bread. In one corner, musicians played — a soft, ceremonial melody that drifted through the space like smoke.

A few servants stood silently along the walls, ready to serve.

Guests gradually took their seats. At the head of the hall, Hans and Jitka sat side by side, Hanush and Erhard seated beside them. The remaining places filled quickly — silken garments rustling, voices murmuring, goblets clinking, music drifting gently in the background.

Hanush rose. His face bore an expression meant to seem warm, though the chill never quite left his eyes.

He raised a cup of wine.

The hall fell quiet.

“Friends,” he began, “I must beg your pardon — pressing matters will soon take me away, and I will not be able to remain with you for the rest of this blessed day. But before I go, allow me a brief toast.”

He glanced around the room and allowed himself a modest smile.

“I drink to the health of the newlyweds — to joy in their union, to its fruitfulness, and to the future it shall bring. I drink to the fair maiden bride…” — he nodded toward Jitka — “…and to my protégé, the Lord of Pirkstein.”

Hans did not move.

“And I trust,” Hanush went on, “that one day — when the hour is right — he shall prove himself a wise lord of Rattay, and a worthy head of his house.”

Hans’s jaw tightened. The fingers of his right hand gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. His face did not so much as flinch, his gaze fixed ahead — but the heat rising from him was forged iron.

Hanush raised his goblet higher.

“To the house of Kunstadt. To the house of Pirkstein.”

He drank.

Scattered applause followed — brief, lukewarm. Most of those present exchanged glances. A few shifted in their seats.

The music resumed, but for a moment, it seemed to have lost its tone.

Hanush leaned toward Jitka, spoke a quiet word, and then left the hall in haste. The door closed behind him.

Hans remained seated, unmoving — his gaze locked, brow darkened beneath a fixed shadow.

Jitka leaned toward him, just slightly.

“Is everything all right?”

Hans blinked. Some of the tension softened in his face, his shoulders eased back.

He shook his head.

“It will be. I promise.”

Radzig rose.

His face was calm, a goblet of wine in his hand. He didn’t wait for the hall to fall silent — it was enough that those at the table noticed him. The voices quieted on their own.

“I once told Hans I’d known him since he was this tall.” He lifted his hand to indicate the height of a child. “Which wasn’t true, of course — but I saw him often, even from his early youth. And later, as a lad and a young man… well. Let’s just say he rarely went unnoticed.”

A gentle ripple of laughter passed through the hall.

“But the man you see today is not the one I first met — not in stature, and not in any other way. And I’m grateful to witness the man he’s become.”

He turned briefly toward Jitka.

“And I hope — no, I know — that you will be a good and faithful wife to him. In his role, it won’t be easy. But you have by your side a man who means what he says. And who will care for you — deeply.”

He glanced at Hans — and Hans gave a small nod. Calm. Almost moved. He couldn’t have said why, exactly… but hearing those words from Henry’s father struck something in him — quiet and deep.

Radzig raised his goblet.

“To love, to trust, to the future. Long live Hans. Long live Jitka.”

This time, the sound of goblets rang clear — and the applause that followed was warm. Genuine. Even the music seemed to draw a fuller breath — and flowed on, renewed.

At that moment, Dry Devil began to rise.

Katherine, seated beside him, leaned in and murmured something — her hand resting lightly on his arm, perhaps to hold him back. He only smiled, gave her a small nod, and stood anyway.

He lifted his goblet.

“When I first met Capon,” he began, voice as hoarse as ever, “he was locked up, and in deep shit. And this lad Henry—”

He gestured toward the empty seat where Henry should have been — and fell silent for a beat. The absence struck him.

“Well… Henry would’ve torn himself in half to get him out of that mess.”

A few soft laughs stirred around the room.

“And later, when I got to know him a bit better, I figured — oh aye, just another puffed-up noble brat. Arrogant as sin, smug as a cat — and about as useful as a wooden sword.”

He paused. Looked at Hans.

And then — with a smile that changed — he added:

“How bloody wrong I was, Hans.”

He raised his goblet higher.

“To you, Lord of Pirkstein. And to your beautiful lady — my dear niece Jitka.”

Laughter broke out, fuller this time. Goblets were lifted. Then applause followed — not just polite, but real. Warm.

Hans allowed himself a smile.

Dry Devil’s toast seemed to loosen the last knots of tension — and with laughter and the clinking of goblets, the celebration truly began. The air grew thick with scent — wine, spice, roasted meat — and the hall filled with voices, laughter, the lightness of early cheer.

The order of toasts dissolved. It was no longer just the speakers who stood — now everyone drank to everyone. Old stories were told for the twentieth time, and laughed at just as loudly. Goblets refilled themselves on instinct.

Hans felt hands on his shoulder, heard his name and managed to return each greeting with a smile or a nod. A few words with Zizka. With Godwin. With Radzig. With Katherine — who, at some point, had adjusted her neckline into something approaching public provocation.

At his side, Jitka held her own. Composed, but not cold. She traded polite smiles, returned greetings, offered a word or two when needed. He noticed that — unlike him — she hardly drank. She held her goblet like an ornament rather than a vessel. Her posture was calm. Graceful. She even laughed when Dry Devil presented her with another pastry in a bow so extravagant he nearly lost his balance.

And yet—

In a single instant — no longer than a breath, no louder than silence — her face shifted.

It was barely a change. No frown, no start. More like a shadow passing over the surface. A flicker of… unease? Or nerves?

He couldn’t say for sure.

But he saw it. He saw it only because he was looking — because he saw her not as a bride, not as a daughter of Kunstadt, but as the person beside him.

He said nothing.

He simply placed his hand on hers — the one resting on the table. Gently. Briefly. No more than that.

A fleeting touch. Without words. Not as a lover. But as a friend.

And as a man who knew what he had promised her.

Jitka looked down at their joined hands. Then at him.

She did not smile. She only nodded — small, quiet. And across her face passed a shadow that held more than one kind of pain… but also something that looked, for a moment, like thanks.

Hans was just refilling her wine when he caught movement at the edge of his vision.

A man had entered the hall — dressed for travel, doublet dusted with road, boots worn thin, his expression tight. His eyes went straight to Radzig. Hans didn’t know him, but he knew the step. This was a rider — one who had come far, and carried something that could not wait.

The man reached the table, leaned in toward Radzig, and whispered into his ear — tense, urgent.

Radzig froze.

First, surprise crossed his face. Then thought. And then surprise again — but deeper now, quicker. Something shifted in him. Hans could feel it, even if he couldn’t hear a single word.

The laughter around him faded into background noise. He watched Radzig rise — slowly, but with enough weight that the hall began to quiet on its own. People turned. Conversations trailed off. The music faltered, then fell away.

Radzig raised a hand.

“Friends… if I may ask for a moment of your attention.”

All eyes turned to him.

He drew a deep breath.

“It is my honour — and my joy — to bring you word that has just arrived…”

He paused — as if he needed to hear himself say it aloud.

“The King of Bohemia… Wenceslas… is free. He is back in the realm — and riding for Prague.”

Silence.

Then — an eruption.

Shouts, gasps, cheers. Chairs scraped back. Fists struck tabletops. Goblets rang together, laughter and tears spilling over in a roar of astonishment and joy.

But Hans did nothing. He remained seated, eyes fixed on Radzig. In his chest, something unmoving — a kind of wordless waiting.

Radzig lifted his hands, and the noise slowly subsided.

“For obvious reasons, I must leave at once — ride for Prague and the court. Forgive me for not remaining longer — but this journey cannot be delayed.”

He bowed his head in brief apology, rested a hand on Hans’s shoulder — and then, without another word, left the hall.

Hans rose so quickly he knocked over two goblets — wine spilled across the table, but he didn’t spare it a glance. He moved around the table in long strides and made straight for the door.

By the time he reached the corridor, he was nearly at a run.

He caught up with Radzig on the stairs.

“Radzig…”

Henry’s father stopped and turned. Hans reached him in a few swift steps — tension in his face, a question in his eyes he barely needed to voice.

“Have you heard anything?” he asked quietly. “About the ones… who helped the king?”

Radzig shook his head. Exhaled.

“No. The messenger said nothing more.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Then Radzig drew breath.

“And that’s exactly why I must ride to Prague. To find out.”

Hans lowered his gaze. Silent. Still.

Radzig watched him a moment.

“Hans… believe me. The fate of my son is not something I take lightly.”

Hans gave a single nod. Firm. Wordless.

Radzig turned, and descended the stairs without another word.

Hans stood where he was. Watching him go — the shape of him slipping into the dark — then turned slowly back. Back toward the hall, alive with the crackle of celebration, stirred by the weight of unexpected news.

When Hans returned, Jitka turned to him at once.

“Why did you rush off like that?” she asked softly.

“I needed to speak with Radzig. One last thing.”

He said no more. And Jitka did not ask again. The celebration continued — but something in the air had shifted. The cheers that followed the king’s release had stirred a different kind of tension — sharper, more immediate, almost tangible. Voices no longer rang with carefree ease. People leaned in closer — whispering, conferring. Wenceslas is free. Wenceslas is back. What will it mean? And for whom?

Hans felt it only from a distance. His mind was empty. His goblet had long run dry. From time to time, he exchanged a few words with those who came to him — but more and more, he only nodded. And more and more, his eyes kept returning to Jitka.

She remained at his side — but she, too, was growing quieter. Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she replied. But the longer she sat, the more tightly she held her goblet — and the less she drank from it. There was something in her eyes — a flicker of unrest that had no clear name.

As evening approached, and the sun cast its last gold across the windows of the hall, Jitka leaned in toward him.

“Forgive me… I should go prepare. For tonight.”

She said it calmly. But there was something in her voice — something that can only be heard once, and never forgotten.

Hans gave a small nod.

And did not watch her go, when she rose.

But he became quietly aware that he would likely need a few more goblets of wine before the thing that must come, finally came.

After some time, Hans rose.

The movement was quiet, unannounced — but not unnoticed by those who had sworn to stand beside him. Erhard joined him without a word. From across the hall, Godwin stood as well — gaze steady, mouth drawn into something unreadable. Together, in silence, they descended to the floor below.

A maid was waiting at the door of Jitka’s chamber.

The moment she saw them, she lowered her eyes and stepped aside. She gave a short curtsy and slipped into the dimness of the corridor.

Hans came to a halt.

He looked to Erhard. To Godwin. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. They were here, as each had promised. One as a witness. One as a friend.

Hans turned back to the door. He placed his hand on the latch. Not yet.

For one breath, he closed his eyes.

Then opened them.

And stepped inside. When, some time later, Hans emerged from the chamber, he simply gave a nod.

What had to be done, had been done.

Erhard and Godwin both gave silent nods. They accompanied him back upstairs. Said nothing — there was no need. The celebration in the great hall was winding down. Laughter had grown faint. Some guests dozed in their chairs. Others whispered in corners. But Hans did not return to them.

He turned elsewhere.

Passed through Henry’s chamber — steps automatic, gaze steady — and entered his own. He closed the door behind him. Stood still in the middle of the room, wrapped in quiet. Only the breath of the fire in the hearth. And his own thoughts.

He had done what had to be done. And if God willed it, perhaps even conceived an heir.

But his mind was elsewhere.

He walked slowly to the table where the documents lay. For a moment, he sifted through the bundles — folios, sealed pages, folded sheaves. At last, he drew one out, placed it before him, and pulled the candle closer.

The marriage contract.

Jitka of Kunstadt, daughter of Erhard, wed to Hans of Pirkstein, nephew of Hanush. Seals. Witnesses. Binding words.

And then he found it.

“…with the understanding that the virginity of the said maiden, Jitka, daughter of the noble lord Erhard of Kunstadt, remains intact as attested by the honour of her father and the word of witnesses, and that she is thus fit for matrimony.”

Hans read the line once. Then again. And again.

Then he folded the page carefully. And placed it back where it belonged.

He sat down on the bed. Slowly. As if the act itself might seal something.

He knew. He had known.

He had not been her first. Not by suspicion. Not by rumour. He had known.

And that gave him a choice.

If tomorrow morning — before witnesses, in public — he spoke the truth, the marriage would be undone. The union annulled. Jitka would lose her honour. And with it, her house. Perhaps the convent would take her. Perhaps she would never marry again.

But he…

He would be free. Free without breaking his vow. Without guilt. Without sin.

He poured himself a cup of wine. Dark. Heavy.

He sat for a long time. And did not drink. Only held the goblet in his hand, and looked into the dark — which seemed deeper now than before.

And then — without decision, without a word — he lay down.

And let the night fall, as it would. In the morning, Jitka sat alone in her chamber. She knew she would soon be expected at the formal breakfast — though — how formal would it truly be? Or would it be her last morning here?

She knew well that Hans had seen the truth the night before. And yet he had said nothing. Spoken no word. Made no gesture. Only taken his leave — gallant, composed — and gone.

And through it all, Hans had been kind. Attentive. But somehow not fully there. As if he were following a set of instructions — careful, correct, but distant.

Tightness gripped her chest. She let out a breath.

When the knock came, she felt the blood drain from her face. Zdislava peeked in.

“Lord Hans,” she said softly.

Jitka stood.

Out in the corridor, her husband was waiting. He gave a small smile — and with the words “My lady,” offered her his arm.

Jitka took it. And for the first time, perhaps, she felt something in him that caught her by surprise: protection. And support.

Together they entered the hall, where the guests were already gathering for the morning feast. The newlyweds took their seats at the head of the table, and the company eased into quiet talk and the simple pleasure of breakfast.

At one point, Hans turned to Jitka.

His gaze was gentle — the gaze of a friend.

Jitka smiled.

After breakfast, she excused herself — saying she needed some time to settle in, and rest.

Hans nodded. He offered her his arm, walked her to the door — and then returned to the table. His friends had remained.

Some reached again for wine, others poured mead. There were words of praise — about how lovely the wedding had been, how well the food was served, how smoothly everything had gone. And a few, unaware of where Hans’s heart truly lay, added hearty claps on the back and good-natured jests about the wedding night.

Hans merely smiled. He didn’t correct them.

Talk slowly shifted toward the coming days — who would go where, what roads they’d take, how soon they might leave. Some spoke of preparations, others of the weather, or the autumn mist down in the valley.

Hans listened for a while.

Then he spoke.

“If none of you are called away just yet… stay. Pirkstein is still yours to enjoy. I’d be glad to have you here — for as long as you wish.”

Dry Devil was the first to answer. He took a generous sip, smacked his lips, and shook his head.

“Devil’s Den may be home — but I’ll tell you, Hans… I can bear a few days here just fine. Might even keep your lady company, now that I’ve finally met her.”

Hans gave a soft chuckle. The others nodded. No one was in a rush. No one wished to saddle up, ride into the cold wind, cross forests and fords.

And so, a quiet peace settled over the hall — a soft, unnoticed relief that they could stay. That there was no need, just yet, to say goodbye.

Hans looked around at his friends. Then let his gaze rest on his cup awhile.

Perhaps this — this was what it felt like not to be alone.

To have a family.

The door of the hall opened. One of the guards appeared on the threshold. He looked around — then walked straight toward the head of the table.

“Sir,” he addressed Hans.

Hans lifted his gaze to him.

“There’s a stranger at the gate. He says he needs to speak with you.”

Hans frowned. “Who is he?”

The guard hesitated. “Says… he’s Master Henry’s brother.”

Hans stared at him for a moment. “Samuel,” he breathed.

“Bring him. At once.” His voice was steady.

The guard nodded and turned on his heel. Those at the table had fallen silent. They’d all heard it.

Moments later, the door opened again. Samuel entered.

He paused, glanced around the hall, and gave a brief nod in greeting. Then his eyes found Hans. They were tired from the road — and clouded with concern.

“I need to speak with you, Hans. Now. In private.”

Something twisted in Hans’s chest. But he nodded. He rose without a word. Everyone stepped aside.

No one asked a thing.

They stepped into the chamber. The door closed behind them. Hans stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him.

“Say it.”

Samuel swallowed. His voice was rough.

“Hans… Henry is wounded. And it’s bad.”

Hans closed his eyes. Just for a moment. His breath shook as it left him.

“Where is he?”

“In Nikolsburg. We brought him there unconscious. I left the next day to find you. Unless his condition has improved since then… I don’t know how much time we have.”

The world spun around Hans. He staggered — not from shock alone, but from something deeper. A weakness that came from terror too vast for words. Samuel stepped forward and steadied him, gently, just for a moment.

Hans recovered. Straightened. Met his eyes.

“I’m going. Now. At once.”

Samuel nodded. “I knew you’d say that. I’m ready. We’ll ride together.”

They returned to the hall.

Hans stepped to the table, letting his gaze pass over his friends — then he spoke.

“Henry is wounded. Badly. I have to go to him.”

No one said a word. But the silence changed. The air thickened. Only the fire cracked in the hearth. And the wind howled outside the walls.

Hans turned and strode out into the corridor.

He found his wife by one of the windows. “Jitka…” His voice was urgent. “I must leave. It’s Henry. It might be his life.”

She looked at him. Placed a hand on his cheek — soft, steady.

“Go,” she said. “And bring him back.”

Hans gave a nod. He looked at her, and something in his eyes said thank you. Then he turned, and was gone. Samuel was already waiting in the courtyard. The horses saddled. Packs secured. Hans stepped out from the stables, rearmed — light armour, a sword at his side.

Jitka stood nearby. Godwin was there too. Dry Devil. Zizka. And the others.

Hans paused — just for a moment.

Godwin approached, speaking quietly. “God be with you, lad… with both of you.”

Hans gave a nod. Then mounted. Samuel did the same.

And just as they were about to set off, a rider burst into the yard through the gate.

Hanush.

He yanked the reins. Stared Hans down. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Capon?” he growled.

Hans shot him a look. “None of your damn business.”

Hanush straightened in the saddle, visibly reining himself in. Too many eyes were watching.

“Not very wise, leaving the lady of the house unguarded…” His voice rang louder now — for the crowd. “…and unattended. The day after your wedding.” He turned to Jitka.

The cold silence that followed was broken by Dry Devil’s rasping voice.

“The lady is not alone.”

He stepped forward, stood at her side. Zizka and Godwin moved next to him. Then the rest.

Jitka folded her arms. Gave Hans a single nod — firm and clear.

Hans looked at them all. Heavy-eyed. But with a weight of gratitude he couldn’t voice.

Then he turned back to Hanush, whose gaze had narrowed to slits.

“Stand aside.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He kicked his horse into motion. Rode through the gate. Samuel close behind.

—

Two riders rode slowly through the streets of Rattay. The town still lay half-sunk in morning mist, but bright streaks across the sky hinted that sunlight would soon take hold.

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Hans said, casting a glance at Henry beside him. Yet the warmth in his eyes betrayed how glad he was that he had.

“I didn’t,” Henry replied, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “But I wanted to.”

Hans fell silent for a moment, his eyes resting on the reins in his hands. Then a trace of a smile returned to his face.

“I’ll try to be back as soon as I can. But you’ll have plenty to keep you busy. Take a look around Pirkstein—get to know the place. It’s yours too now. And if anything comes to mind… don’t wait. Just get on with it.”

Henry gave a brief nod. “I’ll see to it. Whatever I can.”

They came to a halt before the upper castle. The mist had sunk somewhere below, and here, higher up, the autumn morning had already broken clear and bright.

For a while they simply sat there, facing one another, the reins loose in their hands. It would have been so easy to reach out, to touch, to say something more. But none of that could be allowed. And still—it was there between them, as present as breath.

“Good luck,” Henry said.

He turned his horse and rode on. He didn’t look back.

Hans watched him for a time, until the mist swallowed him, the lower part of the town still lost in its depths. He lowered his head, closed his eyes for a moment—then nudged his horse forward. Pirkstein lay still.

Henry rode through the gate into the courtyard, dismounted, and looped the reins over a post by the shelter. It wasn’t empty—soldiers lingered in a corner, someone was sweeping, horses stood beneath the awning—but the whole place drifted in a slow, drowsy rhythm.

A few faces lifted toward him, greeting him with slight nods. Word of him had spread since yesterday.

It was clear that the weight of power had shifted uphill, to the upper castle. And the real stir belonged now to the town between them—the merchants, the craftsmen, and likely the pickpockets too.

Pirkstein still held its dignity, but it felt like a house only half-abandoned.

A small commotion by the stables caught Henry’s eye. A young stablehand was struggling with a harness, the horse tossing its head impatiently, and the boy barely managing to keep the bridle from slipping from his grasp.

Henry made his way over at an easy pace.

“Let me,” he said, reaching out.

The boy hesitated only for a heartbeat before handing him the bridle. Henry took hold of the leather and smoothed the straps with practiced hands, as if he’d done it all his life.

“Here,” he murmured, pointing to a buckle. “If you leave this too loose, it’ll slip.” He fixed it, pulled it tight, and flipped the strap across. “And this needs to sit firm. Otherwise the horse will fight you the whole way.”

He fastened the last clasp, checked the bridle, and gave a small nod.

“There. That’s done.”

The boy lowered his gaze and nodded. “Thank you, Master Henry.”

Henry paused, his expression faint and slightly awkward. He still wasn’t used to the title.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, and set off toward the stairs.

He climbed to the floor below their chambers and followed the corridor along the outer wall.

Stone walls, the chill beneath his boots, muted light slicing through narrow windows. He passed the kitchens, where the familiar scent of smoke and something simmering drifted into the hall. A young maid appeared in the doorway, a bucket cradled in her arms. For a moment, their eyes met. She dipped her head in a quick curtsey.

“Master Henry.”

He returned the greeting with a nod and kept walking.

It felt strange to see Pirkstein like this—not as a stranger, not as a guest, not even as part of the garrison, but as someone for whom the castle had become, in some way, a responsibility.

The corridor stretched on past a row of unremarkable doors. As he passed one left slightly ajar, he let his gaze drift inside.

A bright, spacious chamber. Simple, but tasteful. A comfortable bed, a chest, a table, a wardrobe. The room was clearly well kept, though no one was living there now.

He tarried only briefly, then eased the door shut and made his way back toward the stairs. He stepped into his chamber.

He crossed to the bed and began to straighten the covers and pillows. That morning, he and Hans had lingered too long in the warmth of the embrace they’d woken in, losing time to slow touches and unhurried kisses.

And then, at last, they’d both left in something of a rush.

A fleeting smile tugged at Henry’s mouth.

He moved along the walls, his hand trailing over faded paintings—hunters, riders, hounds, a stag caught mid-leap. He knew them by now. He’d seen them often enough, though he had never really stopped to look.

He came to a halt beside the hearth, where a small niche was set into the wall. On the shelf stood two earthenware jugs, a bowl, and a scattering of small things. His eyes drifted over them, and without thinking, he let his hand drift lower, along the cold surface of the wall beneath.

He froze for a moment. What met his touch wasn’t stone, but something else. He rapped his knuckles lightly against it, and the sound was not what one would expect from solid wall. Hollow.

His brow furrowed. He stretched out his hand and tapped the wall beside the niche. This time the sound was duller, heavier. He thought for a moment, then stepped back to the niche. Another tap—clear, too sharp, too wrong.

He stood still, one hand braced against the niche.

He stepped out of his chamber and made his way along the corridor toward the main hall and the entrance to the Hans’s room. The guard stationed there gave him a polite nod.

“I’m going into Sir Hans’s room,” Henry said.

It wasn’t a question.

The guard hesitated, then gave a brief nod and opened the door for him. Henry stepped inside and closed it behind him.

At once, his eyes went to the niche in the wall—set in the exact same place as the one he’d examined in his own chamber.

He crossed the room and ran his hand lightly over the back of it.

He was nearly certain now. What met his touch was wood, buried under thick layers of paint.

He stepped out again and made his way back to his own room. He sifted through his things until he found what he was looking for: an awl.

Carefully, he lifted the vessels from the niche, then the shelf itself.

He knelt, his hand searching across the back wall until he found the line he’d felt before. Then he took the awl and began to scrape away the paint—slowly, cautiously. A moment later, the trace of a satisfied smile pulled at his mouth as the shape of a keyhole came into view.

He paused, thought for a moment, then crossed to the door and slid the bolt. Returning to the niche, he took up his lockpicks and knelt once more.

It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he knew his way around locks well enough. It didn’t take long before there came a soft click.

Henry straightened and pressed his palm carefully—firmly—against the wall. Nothing happened. He glanced around, then leaned in again, this time adding his weight.

The hinges, buried under thick paint, groaned faintly, and slowly the hidden door creaked open.

Henry found himself looking into Hans’s chamber.

A faint smile pulled at his mouth. He tilted his head slightly. Something occurred to him.

He stepped outside quickly and beckoned to a young servant. “Come with me, lad.”

The boy dipped his head in reply and fell in behind him. Henry set off through the gate, the lad trailing two steps behind.

“We need to buy something,” Henry called over his shoulder as they walked toward Rattay’s market square.

They entered a small merchant’s shop.

Could be Elishka’s father, Henry thought, the memory of that tense meeting in the woods flickering by.

The shop was small, but neat and welcoming. Bolts of fabric hung along the walls, finished garments were stacked in one corner, and behind the counter the merchant looked up and rose to his feet.

Henry paused by the neatly arranged cloths, his fingers trailing across the fabric. Wool—heavy, sturdy, practical. Brocade—dark green, with a fine woven pattern: muted, but beautiful.

“This one,” Henry said, pointing to the brocade. “And the wool as well. Five ells of each.”

The merchant nodded. The servant helped roll the cloth while Henry counted out the coin.

Outside, at the foot of the steps, Henry handed the bundle of wool to the boy and slung the brocade over his arm. “Come on,” he said, and set off back toward the castle. Back at Pirkstein, Henry set a few maids to work, having them fashion two curtains from the cloth he’d brought: one of dark green brocade for Hans’s chamber, the other of heavy wool for his own.

Once they were finished, he brought in two servants, and together they hammered sturdy nails into the walls above each niche. The curtains were hung, the fabric carefully arranged so it would fall clean and straight.

The brocade in Hans’s chamber hung loosely, catching the firelight with a subtle sheen—almost festive in its grace. The wool in Henry’s room was heavier, plainer, but still discreet—exactly as he had wanted it.

Most importantly, in both rooms there was no longer any sign of a niche in the wall.

The next few hours, Henry spent walking the castle, learning how things were done at Pirkstein. He spoke with the maids, with the cook, with a handful of soldiers, and little by little, began to form a picture of what was missing—or what might run short if the upper castle chose to stop cooperating.

The thought came easily enough. He had no way of knowing how long the fragile truce with Hanush would hold. And if they were to become more self-reliant at Pirkstein, it only made sense to have the stores replenished—flour, pulses, buckwheat, oats, wine, salt, firewood. When Hans rode into the courtyard, returning from the upper castle, he found Henry giving final instructions to two men by a cart, readying them for a supply run into town.

Hans dismounted, folded his arms, and watched him, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

A moment later, Henry sent the men on their way, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and looked over at Hans.

“I see you’ve been keeping busy,” Hans said.

Henry shrugged lightly.

“Come,” Hans nodded, and Henry fell in beside him.

They stepped into Hans’s chamber, and Henry closed the door behind them.

Hans stopped at once. His gaze slid to the wall, where a new curtain of dark green brocade now hung, a faint, puzzled smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What’s this…?” he asked, looking over at Henry.

Henry’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Have a look.”

He stepped to the curtain, drew the fabric aside, and opened the door hidden within the niche.

Hans stared for a moment, then his face lit with recognition. “I’d completely forgotten there was a door here! How did you even find it?”

Henry lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Pure chance, really. But once I did… I thought it might not be the worst idea to open it again. And hide it. Just in case.”

Hans stepped closer, stopping right beside him, slipped an arm around his waist, and brushed a quick kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Henry turned toward him, a playful glint in his eye. “There’s still one important decision that belongs to the lord of Pirkstein.”

Hans huffed a quiet laugh. “And that would be?”

Henry leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Deciding which chamber—and which bed—we’ll be sleeping in.”

Hans paused for a moment, thoughtful. “We could see which bed’s wider and take it from there,” he said with a shrug. “Though we’d better remember to lock the doors to both chambers.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “True enough, Hans.”

“Though really,” Hans said, “it’s not your chamber and my chamber anymore.” His touch skimmed along Henry’s arm. “They’re ours now.”

Hans fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the wall. “It’s good you’ve found your footing here so quickly,” he said.

Henry lifted his eyes to him, a faint twitch pulling at his mouth. “Why?”

Hans stepped closer and let his hand drift over Henry’s sleeve. “Because of the meeting I had today.”

Henry shifted, leaning a hip against the table. “How did it go?”

Hans shrugged without much care, the ghost of a smile touched his face, without warmth. “Pretty much as we expected. Formalities. Titles. Dowry… and a date for the wedding.”

Henry’s face sobered. “When?”

Hans hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Saturday afternoon. The twenty-ninth of October. Supposedly some saint’s day—not that I know which. But it seemed solemn enough for them.”

“So a little over three weeks,” Henry said, his voice thoughtful, before letting out a sigh.

“Shall we sit?” he asked after a pause, nodding slightly toward the bed.

Hans nodded and sat down beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke.

“Feels like I’ve just been told the date of my own execution,” Hans said at last with a bitter laugh, his gaze dropping to the tips of his boots.

Henry slid a hand silently along his back.

Hans looked up at him, a faint, tired smile on his lips. “But you already helped me survive one execution, Henry. So I reckon I’ll survive this too—with you.”

Henry held his gaze—steady, calm.

For a moment he said nothing.

“We’ve both been bracing for it. Somewhere deep down. For months. Maybe since the very beginning.”

He reached out, let his hand drift lightly along Hans’s arm—no pressure, no insistence, but left them resting there. “We’ll get through it, Hans.”

Hans turned his head toward him, eyes closing for a moment. Then he leaned in slightly, his shoulder settling against Henry. He said nothing more.

After a while, as the silence stretched between them, Henry lowered his gaze, hesitant still. “What is she like?” he asked. “Jitka.”

Hans stared ahead, his eyes fixed on a blank stretch of wall. “She seems… like a fairly ordinary girl,” he said after a moment. “I haven’t really spoken with her much yet. But I don’t get the sense she’s any happier about all this than I am.”

“But it’s settled. For all of us.”

Henry reached out, laid his hand back on Hans’s arm.

Hans glanced at him, a flicker of something wry touched his face. “And it’s true—she’s actually a pretty girl… well—young woman.”

Henry froze for a moment. He drew his hand back, folded it with the other in his lap, and lowered his eyes to his fingers. “Then that’s probably good for you, Hans,” he said at last, his voice tinged with sadness.

Hans looked at him, his expression darkening for a moment. His brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not fair,” he said, voice low. “You know there are things I’ll only do because I have to.”

Henry lifted his gaze, regret flickering in his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I—”

He exhaled slowly and shrugged, searching for words. “I know what the wedding means. And I’ve made my peace with it…”

He swallowed. “It’s just… the thought of it. Of you… with her.” His voice frayed at the edges. “I can’t make it so it doesn’t hurt, Hans.”

Hans reached for Henry’s hand, their fingers weaving together. “It won’t hurt me any less than it hurts you,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “And knowing I’m the one who’ll do this to you…” His breath caught. “It tears me apart.”

Henry lowered his gaze, but this time he didn’t pull his hand away. When he looked back at Hans his eyes were damp. “I suppose that night I’ll drink until I can’t feel anything anymore.”

He dropped his gaze again. “And in the morning, I’ll probably carry on.”

Hans cupped his cheek, tilting his face up until their eyes met. “You’ll always be the only one for me, Henry.” “In everything.”

Henry steadied himself, and a fragile curve tugged at his mouth. It was still touched with sadness, but there was more life in it now.

“Good thing I’ve ordered enough wine,” he said. “And a few other things—supplies, for the people, for the animals. So there’s enough here if Hanush tries anything underhanded.”

Hans looked at him, the corners of his mouth quirking upward—half amused, half something softer. “Pirkstein is lucky to have Master Henry,” he said. “The castle… and the man who bears its name. Though none more so than him.”

He reached out and his fingers ghosted across Henry’s cheek. “And since Master Henry seems to be running things these days, I might need his help with something of vital importance.”

Henry raised his eyes to him. “And what would that be?” he asked.

Hans’s mouth curved faintly, though the shadow of weariness lingered in his eyes. “I’ll need your help deciding where Jitka will live. When… when it happens.”

Henry looked up at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Shouldn’t she be somewhere near you?”

Hans shook his head, his gaze drifting aside for a moment. “That would seem… out of place. It’s not how noble marriages work. It never has been.”

He fell silent, his touch falling away from Henry’s cheek, though he stayed close. “They’re… alliances between houses, between names. Diplomacy. Trade. Sometimes friendship… but closeness? Love? That’s rare.”

Henry watched him, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“And in our particular case, it would be… even less convenient.”

Henry was silent for a moment. “I suppose I never really thought about how it works for nobles, in these things.”

He looked at him, and after a moment the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “But I won’t lie… for the sake of the two of us, I’m glad of it.”

Hans glanced at him, his own smile softening. Henry gave him a small wink—almost playful. “So… we can keep the connected chambers?”

Hans gave a low chuckle. “They’ll stay ours, Henry. Just ours.”

Something crossed Henry’s mind. He smiled to himself and rose from the bed. “I think I know of a chamber for Jitka,” he said. “Come on.”

Hans got to his feet, a little surprised, but followed without question.

They stepped outside, down the stairs, and Henry led the way along the corridor toward the room he had come across during his morning walk through the castle. He opened the door and stepped aside, letting Hans enter first.

Hans looked around. He moved slowly through the room, brushing his hand over the back of a chair. He checked the sturdiness of a chest by the wall and cast an eye over the wardrobe. His fingers skimmed across the faded paintings on the walls, and for a moment he stopped by the window. He stood there in silence, his eyes resting on the view.

Then he straightened and glanced back over his shoulder at Henry. “Perhaps a few small changes… some decoration… something a little grander. But otherwise—it’s just right.”

Henry gave a nod. “I’ll see to it.”

Hans turned to him fully, his expression calm but more serious. “You know, Henry… I’d actually like you to oversee all the arrangements concerning Jitka. Including handling things with her directly.”

Henry hesitated and briefly glanced away. “Why me?” he asked. “Shouldn’t that be your concern?”

Hans’s mouth curved faintly, though his voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. “According to court etiquette, it wouldn’t be proper. The groom isn’t meant to spend too much time with the bride before the wedding. Least of all dealing with practical matters like this. It’s just… not done.”

Henry’s face was thoughtful rather than troubled. “All right,” he said quietly. “Then I suppose… I should meet her.”

Hans dipped his head. “You’ll have the chance soon enough. She’s arriving this evening. For supper.”

Henry met his eyes, blinking in mild surprise. “Today?”

“Just her and her escort,” Hans clarified. “Formally. Just to look over Pirkstein.”

Henry met his eyes and after a moment frowned slightly. “And Hanush?”

Hans leaned against the doorframe. “He left right after the meeting. Off on one of his… forays.”

He didn’t look away. “And I’d like you there by my side, Henry.”

Henry nodded. “You can count on it.”

Hans huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll go give the kitchen their instructions and see to the supper preparations. And you—get some rest, then get ready. Put on something nice, Henry.”

He let his eyes wander, taking him in, before he leaned in closer. “God, how I’d rather undress you myself,” he whispered.

Something flickered in Henry’s eyes. “I think we’d only get as far as the undressing, love,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of Hans’s ear. The great hall at Pirkstein stood prepared. A tall fire burned in the hearth, casting its glow across the stone walls, where faded but carefully kept paintings still held their place. The tapestries along the walls bore deep, rich colours, and the fabric at the windows was heavy, luxurious.

The table was laid with the kind of care expected from the seat of a noble house—ornate jugs, goblets of pewter and glass, bowls with carved rims. It wasn’t a display meant to dazzle, but one of dignity and order—the things that mattered.

A few servants stood along the walls. One was refilling wine, another brought in a fresh basket of bread and offered a brief bow before stepping silently back.

Hans sat at the head of the table, his hands set lightly on the arms of his chair, a cup of wine set before him. He looked composed, upright, dressed in a dark doublet trimmed with fine embroidery.

Henry sat at his right hand, his own hands folded in his lap, his gaze lowered to the table. He wore a deep green nobleman’s coat, silk hose fitted neatly to his legs, and an embroidered brocade hood on his shoulders.

Hans inclined his head slightly toward him. “You look incredible,” he murmured at the corner of his mouth.

Henry gave the barest hint of a smile, his eyes still fixed ahead. “Just trying to please the handsomest lord in Pirkstein,” he whispered, barely audible.

Under the table, Hans nudged him discreetly. “How’s that lord supposed to concentrate, then,” he whispered back near his ear.

The curve of Henry’s mouth deepened faintly. His thumb circled the edge of his cup. He said nothing more, his eyes settling on the door.

The fire cracked in the hearth. The servants stood along the walls, half in shadow.

Henry cast him a brief sidelong glance. “I’m a little uneasy about all of this,” he admitted.

Hans remained steady. “Just be exactly as you are, Henry. Trust me.”

The door to the hall opened. The guard straightened. “Lady Jitka of Kunstadt.”

Both Hans and Henry rose to their feet. Hans with calm elegance, Henry a little slower. They turned to face the entrance.

Jitka entered, a quiet maid at her side, and a single man-at-arms following at a respectful distance.

Henry’s eyes locked on the young noblewoman.

And he felt his stomach twist as cold spread through him.

A slender young woman, dressed in dark blue velvet trimmed with gold embroidery. At her throat, a necklace of pearls; pearls too glimmered in the delicate circlet resting over her dark brown hair, which was braided and pinned neatly at the back.

Her face was pretty, lightly freckled. And in it— Blue-green eyes, with tiny flecks of gold scattered through the irises.

Her eyes came to rest on Henry, who swallowed nervously.

And for a heartbeat— It seemed she too was caught off guard. But then a polite smile touched her face and she offered a graceful curtsy.

“Welcome to Pirkstein, Lady Jitka,” Hans said, his expression warm.

A servant pulled out a chair for her.

Hans sat as well, casting a quick glance at Henry, who was still standing as if struck.

“Sit down,” he hissed under his breath.

Henry blinked, gathered himself, and sat.

“Allow me, my lady, to introduce the most trusted man in Pirkstein—my right hand, Master Henry,” Hans said, motioning toward him.

Jitka smiled politely. “I see Pirkstein is in good hands.”

A short pause followed as Henry opened his mouth—and then closed it again.

Hans shot him a brief look.

“I… I’m pleased to finally meet you, my lady,” Henry stammered at last.

Her expression warmed slightly. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Master Henry. It’s an honour.”

Her voice was calm, natural, carrying the polish of courtly courtesy.

Henry drew a shaky breath, straightened his back, and gave a stiff nod in return. “Welcome to Pirkstein, my lady.”

Jitka offered a graceful curtsy.

“Henry will be your main contact here, my lady,” Hans went on. “He’ll handle all the necessary preparations with you.”

He turned briefly toward Henry, then back to her, a soft smile on his lips. “We can both rely on him completely,” he added.

“Sounds like I’m in good hands as well, my lord,” she said lightly. “I’ll do my best not to take undue advantage of such kindness.”

For an instant, something unguarded crossed her face. The supper passed in muted formality.

Servants moved soundlessly, bringing course after course—fish, game, bread, fruit. The wine jugs were switched out now and then, but otherwise the air held more weight than any words.

Few words were exchanged. Most were formal—polite remarks about the weather, about Kunstadt, about Rattay, about how dignified a place Pirkstein was. Occasionally Hans posed a light question, and Jitka answered. Henry mostly listened, adding a word here or there when something practical was discussed.

No one hurried. It was exactly the kind of evening such occasions were meant to be—masked silences, conversation held more for the sake of appearance than for any real sharing.

And Hans didn’t miss the shift in Henry’s manner.

He knew every detail of his face, could read every gesture, could hear the slightest change in the tone of his voice—even when no one else in the room noticed a thing.

And he hadn’t seen Henry this tense, this unsettled, in a long time.

“My lady,” Hans said at one point, standing with unhurried grace, “forgive me—and Master Henry as well. We’ll only be a moment.”

He shot Henry a brief look and tilted his head slightly toward his chamber. Henry rose and followed.

Once the door closed behind them, Hans turned to Henry, worry etched across his face. “What is it, love?” he whispered.

Henry met his eyes, something between uncertainty and alarm flickering there. “Hans—” he breathed. “Jitka… she’s the girl—Elishka!”

“Who?” Hans frowned, shaking his head.

“The girl from the woods—the one I saved from the wolves near Rattay, the one I brought back to town!”

Hans blinked, stunned. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” Henry said at once. “And—she recognised me too. You must have seen it.”

Hans exhaled sharply, he looked off, unfocused— “Fuck,” he muttered.

Words failed him for a beat.

“Did you… did you say anything to her back then that could cause trouble now?”

Henry shook his head. “No. Just that I’d once served as your squire.”

He hesitated. “But now I realise… that’s why she kept asking about you.”

“And what did you tell her?” Hans asked.

“Only the truth—that you’re a good man. And a good lord,” Henry said, a faint, apologetic grin tugging at his lips.

Hans’s mouth twitched faintly before the expression faded. “You’ll probably have to speak with her about it, Henry. When there’s a chance.”

Henry dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

“Come on,” Hans said quietly, pushing the door open and stepping back into the hall. The supper wound down into quiet.

The cups were emptied, the last courses cleared away. The conversation faded into a silence no one felt the need to fill.

When it was possible to excuse himself without offence, Henry rose to his feet. “Permit me a breath of air, my lady. Hans.”

He gave a small twitch of a smile and stepped away.

The battlements were still. The landscape below sank into deepening dusk, the last scraps of daylight vanishing beyond the horizon. Henry stood with his hands pressed flat to the stone ledge, staring out into the dark.

The sound of footsteps made him turn. “Good evening, my lady… or should I say Elishka?”

Jitka paused just a few steps from him. She sighed and let a faint smile cross her lips. “And you’re not just any former squire of Sir Hans, are you, Henry.”

Henry’s mouth tugged into a wry half-smile, something between awkwardness and relief still in his eyes. “Fair enough.”

His fingertips grazed the stone. “It caught me off guard. This evening. I wasn’t expecting you here.”

Jitka smiled, her gaze calm, a little tired. “I wasn’t expecting you either. But… I’m glad.”

“Why didn’t you tell me back then? Who you were,” Henry asked.

Her eyes lost focus, settling on the darkness below. “Isn’t it obvious? I was alone, in the woods, with a stranger… I didn’t know who you were, Henry.”

“You’re right. That was wise of you.”

“And you, Henry,” Jitka said, her hand brushing lightly against his forearm, “why didn’t you tell me you were Sir Hans’s right hand?”

Henry hesitated, weighing his words. “Honestly, that was for safety too,” he answered after a moment, casting a quick look around, as if searching for a way to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I’ve been asked to prepare your chamber. Would you like me to show you?”

Jitka let out a low breath of laughter. “Seems Master Henry is a touch more serious than the Henry from Skalitz.”

Henry gave a careless tilt of his head. “I’ve been tasked with taking care of you.”

A little while later they stood together in what would soon be Jitka’s chamber. The young noblewoman looked around, then sat lightly on the edge of the bed.

Henry lingered in the middle of the room, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Is everything all right?”

Jitka exhaled. “I suppose so. It’s just…”

She looked down on her hands. “It’s nothing, Henry,” she said when she looked back up at him. “I know what’s expected of me. And I’ll do my duty.”

Henry shifted his weight uneasily. “I don’t… I don’t really know what to say.”

Jitka offered a small, apologetic smile. “Don’t say anything. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

She rose and touched his arm lightly with her hand. “Would you take me riding tomorrow, Henry? Just around the countryside.”

“I don’t know if that would be proper,” Henry said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Please,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Since Vincek… since you buried him… I’ve been stuck in Rattay with nothing.”

Her voice faltered for a moment.

“And you, Henry… you’re the only one who spoke to me like I was just an ordinary girl. Not… the bride they carted in.”

“All right. I’ll come for you in the morning. At the upper castle.”

“Thank you, Henry. I truly appreciate it.” By the time they returned to the hall, the supper was nearly over. Only a few cups remained, the last traces of the meal, and the low shimmer of candlelight.

Jitka rose with a polite smile. “It’s time I returned,” she said. “Thank you, Sir Hans, for a pleasant evening. And you as well, Henry.”

Hans answered her with a slight bow, and Henry gave a brief nod.

“And Henry,” she added, her smile lingering. “I do hope you’ll remain in my future husband’s service for many years to come.”

With that, she turned and withdrew.

Together they accompanied her, her maid, and the man-at-arms out to the courtyard. The night was cold, the black horses shifting restlessly. Servants helped the women into their saddles; Jitka cast one last glance back and lifted a hand in farewell.

Then they set off toward the upper castle, footsteps and voices fading into the night.

Hans turned to Henry, a question in his eyes.

“Shall we go to yours?” Henry asked. The chamber smelled of smoke and wax. The fire hissed and popped in the hearth as Hans sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

Henry sat down beside him, his hands resting still in his lap, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Well, what an evening,” Hans muttered at last.

“Ay.”

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost when she walked in,” Hans chuckled.

Henry shot him a mock-reproachful look and gave him a light slap on the thigh. “Don’t you start teasing me too, love,” he said before leaning in to press a slow kiss to his mouth.

For a while they just sat there in silence. Hans let out a breath, his eyes drifting to the flames. “How did it go with her?” His voice was soft, without pressure.

Henry toyed idly with his fingers. “We cleared the air. Why neither of us said who we were in the woods… And I showed her the chamber.”

Hans only nodded, the corners of his mouth drawn slightly in thought. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“And…” Henry lifted his eyes to meet Hans’s, “I promised her a ride tomorrow.”

Hans stilled. He turned his head, an eyebrow lifting. “A ride? I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Henry met his gaze without flinching. “She just wants a bit of air. She’s been stuck here for weeks.”

Hans’s mouth tightened with hesitation. “But that’s not supposed to be the task of her future husband’s right hand.”

Henry reached, fingers curling gently around Hans’s hand. “Hans… she’s in the same place, really. She’s a prisoner of this marriage, just like you.”

“Just like us.”

Hans remained silent. His fingers traced the hem of the bedcover.

“So you think we’re… doing something wrong, then?” The words held no accusation—only a question.

Henry gave a small shake of his head. “No. Not that.”

He faltered. “I just understand that she’s unhappy too. And… if I can give her even a little kindness in all this, why wouldn’t I?”

Hans studied him. Something moved through his eyes, something soft. He reached out and laid a hand on Henry’s knee. “You know that’s one of the reasons I love you, don’t you?”

Henry smiled, saying nothing. His hand came up to cover Hans’s.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

Hans looked off for a moment, his lips pressing together. “Honestly… I don’t know anymore. I’d meant to spend the day with you, you know.” “But you’ll be otherwise occupied,” he added with a small shrug.

Henry answered with a crooked smile. “Only in the morning. After that, I’ll be yours.”

He pressed a brief kiss to Hans’s neck—light, but enough to leave him breathless.

“I miss you, Henry,” he whispered. “I mean… you know how.”

Henry fell quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “I should go to my room,” he said at last. “I ought to get out of these clothes before I ruin them.”

He lifted his eyes to Hans and his mouth twitched. “And get some sleep,” he added, with the faintest flicker of a wink.

He rose and headed for the door.

Hans’s gaze followed him, unreadable. Henry crossed the hall and the corridor to his chamber, pushed the door open— and found Hans standing in the middle of the room. The curtain covering the passage between their chambers still swayed.

Henry’s face broke into a grin. He closed the door behind him and locked.

Hans was watching him, a slow smile playing at his lips. “Didn’t you say you needed to get out of those clothes, Master Henry?”

Henry didn’t hesitate. He strode over, pulled Hans into his arms, and kissed him—hard and without warning.

Hans responded instantly, his hands roaming over Henry’s body in frantic need, pulling him closer still.

Their mouths crashed together—hungry, unrelenting. Henry’s fingers tangled in Hans’s hair, his lips dragged along jaw and throat, their breaths sharp and uneven, gasping against skin and lips.

Everything was taut, pressing—driven by a fire already lit, hungry to consume them both.

Hans pulled Henry’s coat off and let it fall to the floor. His palms swept lower, tracing the shape of him—needy, unsteady. Henry stood in his shirt and tight hose, every line of strain and desire visible through the thin fabric.

Hans’s gaze flicked over him—hot, hungry. In the next breath, he pressed in—claiming Henry’s mouth in another bruising kiss.

Henry’s hands slid under Hans’s doublet, gripping him by the arse, dragging him close. Their hips slammed together—urgent, unyielding—and Hans moaned into his mouth.

Their kisses broke and reformed—sharp, hungry, breathless—hands yanking at laces, frantic to get closer. Henry gasped as Hans’s hands slid under his shirt, palms against hot skin, and answered in kind—his own fingers slipping down, tugging blindly at the fastenings of Hans’s hose.

His hands fumbled, clumsy with urgency, but they were laughing against each other’s mouths, too far gone to care.

A low growl rumbled in Henry’s throat. He gripped Hans’s hips, rough and sure, and pushed him back—mouth still locked to his—driving him toward the bed.

Hans went with him—half meeting, half surrendering—until Henry eased him down at the edge.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, pulled Hans’s hose down, and freed him—hard, hot, aching. Hans’s fingers dug into the bedcover, breath catching sharp in his throat.

Henry glanced up, the ghost of a smile on his lips—then, wordless, ran his palm slow along the insides of his thighs.

He felt it. Felt the need coiled tight between them—his, and Hans’s both.

But not yet. Not just yet.

He raised his eyes. One hand slid behind Hans’s neck, drawing him in— for a kiss—soft, searing, breathless.

Hans caught his face, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, opened—but beneath the heat, something truer flickered: more than want alone.

Henry’s hands roamed over bare skin—waist, hips, thighs—but he kept close to Hans’s mouth. Hot lips, the slide of tongues, breathless laughter catching between kisses when they tipped, for a moment, into something playful—something sweet.

Then his mouth drifted to Hans’s jaw, to his throat—where the pulse beat quick and strong beneath soft skin. And he looked up at him again.

Hans’s arousal pressed hard and burning against his thigh. Henry tilted his face up, breath caught on a smile—fragile, stunned.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Hans’s breath faltered—his hands stilling for a heartbeat as his eyes met Henry’s. Something flickered there—raw, unguarded. Then he moved, pulling Henry’s shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor.

Then he smiled—faint, breathless—as his hand drifted down between them. Through the thin fabric he found him, fingers closing around heat and weight— and a shiver ran through him at the touch.

Henry exhaled against his jaw, his hands heavy on Hans’s hips.

Hans’s fingers traced the edge of Henry’s hose—quick, unhesitating. The fine silk slid down without resistance. He freed him, fingertips brushing bare skin—hot, urgent— and he quaked with need at the contact alone.

Henry’s breath hitched, his forehead resting against Hans’s temple, his hands still clutching at him—his hips pressing closer, fitted tight between Hans’s thighs.

“Come here,” Hans whispered, voice low and rough. He pulled him down onto the bed, mouth seeking Henry’s, fingers restless over bare skin that tensed and arched beneath every touch.

Henry breathed warm against his cheek, eyes half-lidded, his hands gliding over hips and belly, slipping beneath the open fall of Hans’s shirt—seeking the warmth of bare skin.

Hans let himself sink back onto the covers, his hands never still—touching, guiding, drawing him closer with every breath. “Henry,” he whispered, voice catching as Henry’s mouth brushed along his throat, across his collarbone, then lower, lips soft where they found the rise of his chest.

Henry smiled against his skin, his teeth grazing lightly at the hollow of his collarbone, but still he didn’t rush. His hands slid beneath Hans—slow and careful—his thumbs tracing over his hips, down his thighs, his touch feather-light where bare skin quivered beneath it.

Hans caught his face between gentle hands and brought him back—another kiss, deeper, but still tender. Their hips moved together, breath quickening, but everything in him ached not just for the touch, but for him. “I need you…” he breathed, soft as a prayer.

Henry gave a soft, breathless smile above him, his eyes dark, shining with warmth. “You’ve no idea,” he murmured, barely more than a whisper, “how much I want you.”

He bent to him again, his mouth trailing kisses from jaw to throat, across his chest—hot lips, the soft graze of teeth, tongue lingering over every line, every curve.

Hans let out a shaky breath beneath him, his hands sliding into Henry’s hair, fingers twisting gently there as Henry’s mouth drifted lower—over his stomach, his hips, and down.

Henry knew exactly what he wanted.

One hand swept along Hans’s thigh, the other resting at his hip— and then he pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the hard heat of him.

At first it was just lips—feather-light, reverent— then the slow drag of tongue, deliberate, hungry, drawing a breathless moan from Hans’s lips.

Hans arched, his head tipping back, hands still cradling Henry’s head—holding on to the one he loved.

Henry took his time. Every movement of his mouth, every brush of tongue, every sharp twitch of Hans’s hips teased something warm and breathless from deep inside him—tender in a way that burned deeper than anything raw could.

And when he felt Hans trembling beneath him, he lifted his eyes—mouth still slow, still hungry. Every stroke, every soft press pulled breathless sounds from Hans’s throat.

Hans’s fingers curled tight in Henry’s hair, his hips quivering, breath catching—and still he held on. He didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

“God… Henry…” he gasped, voice breaking—half laughter, half need.

When his hips bucked again, sharper this time, he shivered and tugged gently at Henry’s hair, urging him to look up.

“If you don’t stop…” he managed between ragged breaths, “I won’t last.”

Henry looked up at him—hair falling into his face, lips wet, eyes shining dark with desire.

Hans reached for him, drawing him close, hands guiding until their bare bodies met again in the heat of touch. Henry leaned over him, their foreheads brushing.

“I want you, love,” Hans whispered, breath soft against his skin.

Their mouths met—slower this time, deeper, unhurried. When Henry drew back, his breath came hot, his cheeks flushed, his gaze steady despite the heat still burning in his eyes.

His fingers drifted over Hans’s chest, down the line of his belly, then slid beneath him—lifting him gently as he shifted to settle astride.

Hans lay back, watching him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, breath uneven.

His hands glided along Henry’s sides, then down over his thighs and back again, slow and reverent. He smoothed over skin, held him, feeling every shift, every breath.

Henry’s fingers tightened on the bedcover, his knees braced to either side. When his eyes lifted, they were soft—and full of something deeper than want.

Henry took Hans in hand and sank down onto him—slow, careful, steady with tenderness.

Hans let out a low, broken sound, breath catching sharp as Henry moved—his touch, his presence, everything about him deliberate and full of care.

For a moment, they stilled—held in that breathless space between one heartbeat and the next.

Henry’s hands rested over Hans’s chest, feeling the rapid thrum beneath his palms. His head was bowed, breath uneven, as if the weight of the moment pressed deeper than just body alone.

Hans kept hold of him—one hand gentle at his side, the other brushing up to cup his face. He lifted his eyes to him. “You all right, love?” he whispered, voice soft, warm.

Henry’s lips curved—small, real—and he nodded, their eyes meeting in quiet understanding.

Hans drew him down into a kiss—slow, careful, lingering—a promise as much as a touch. And when he lay back again, his hands never left Henry’s skin. They moved in tender strokes—over his chest, along his sides, mapping the warmth of him with reverence, holding him close with every shift and breath.

Their breathing steadied. The rhythm began—slow, easy, unhurried—each movement less about urgency than about the need to be close, to be joined, to be held.

No words. Only this: body to body, heart to heart.

Henry moved above him, hands braced on Hans’s thighs for balance, breath ragged, cheeks flushed, eyes half-closed—lost in sensation, in him.

Every slow roll of his hips was deep, fluid—his hands brushing over Hans’s skin as if he needed the contact as much as the rhythm itself. Every touch left its mark, every breath shared between them.

Hans let out a low moan, one hand sliding down to close around Henry—his strokes slick, slow, deliberate. His thumb glided over the tip, his palm wrapping him firm, moving in time with the steady thrust of Henry’s hips as he sank down again and again.

Henry’s chest tightened, breath catching. One hand clutched harder at Hans’s thigh; the other curled into a fist, pressed hard against his mouth as if he couldn’t contain it, as if the feeling was too much, too sharp, too close.

And still Hans touched him, teased him, every caress driving him higher, until the pleasure rose sharp and hot—coiling tight inside him, breathless and unbearable. His whole body tensed, muscles straining, shaking on the edge.

He bit down on his knuckles, desperate to stifle the moan clawing up his throat, his eyes squeezed shut—drowning in the rush of it, in the sheer, unbearable closeness of the man beneath him.

Hans’s gaze was heavy-lidded, his hands gripping him, guiding him, stroking him—each movement raw with need, every breath jagged and hot.

Henry shivered above him, his hips faltering, skin slick with sweat. Droplets slid over his collarbones, down his chest, tracing the tight, quivering lines of muscle as pleasure knotted sharp and breathless inside him.

His fingers dug hard into Hans’s thighs, head tipping back, breath shattering, shoulders trembling with every frantic thrust.

Hans moaned—hoarse, desperate. His body locked, hips slamming up as release tore through him—brutal, raw. His hands clutched at Henry’s waist, breath ripping from his lips in sharp gasps as tremors tore through him.

But he didn’t stop. Not for a moment.

Eyes glazed, hands still gripping him tight, his hips kept moving—slow, unrelenting, deep—while one hand slipped back between them, closing around Henry once more.

Henry moaned—high-pitched, unsteady—his fingers clenching hard. It was close—too close. Hans’s touch was slick, steady, the roll of their hips matching the sure pull of his strokes.

Henry’s breath hitched, his whole body tensing as he fought the rush. His hips jolted, muscles taut, a muffled cry breaking loose. But he held on—barely—caught in the rising, unbearable heat.

Hans pushed up, dragged him down into a kiss—deep, fierce, their mouths colliding in breathless need. Henry quaked, his hands gripping Hans’s shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple as their breath tangled, bodies locked tight.

And then it crashed through him—hard, searing, unstoppable. Henry’s head fell back, a ragged cry ripping from his throat as his body snapped tight, shuddering hard in the crash of release.

Hans held him, hips still rocking through the aftershocks—slow, uneven—until Henry sagged against him, shivering, breathless, undone.

Hans felt the heat of Henry’s breath against his neck—uneven, gasping, his skin still quivering with the last tremors.

Henry stayed—boneless, wrecked—his face pressed to the curve of Hans’s throat, heartbeat hammering beneath sweat-slick skin. His body still twitched faintly, muscles tightening and loosening in soft, helpless aftershocks.

Hans held him close, both palms flat and steady on his back, his own breath catching as he pressed his face to Henry’s temple, their damp skin sliding together in the heat.

“I love you, Jindro,” he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked with it. “I love you. So much.”

Henry’s eyes closed. His hand drifted over the warm, sweat-damp stretch of Hans’s back, fingertips grazing the ridge of his spine, tracing him without thought—then he pressed a kiss to the hollow of his neck. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that asked for nothing, only gave.

They stayed like that—bodies still joined, breath slowing, the air thick with warmth, the faint sheen of sweat clinging to their skin. Their hands kept moving—restless in the quiet—touching without urgency, without need, only for the sake of not letting go.

Eventually they lay down. Naked, flushed, limbs heavy, skin sticky in places, their bodies still warm, still close.

Entwined. Legs tangled, arms wrapped, Hans’s lips brushing through Henry’s hair, Henry’s palm resting over the steady rise and fall of Hans’s chest.

“Hans,” Henry mumbled sleepily. “Can I fall asleep like this?”

“Sleep, love,” Hans whispered.

And pressed a kiss into his damp hair, holding him close as they drifted down into sleep. In the morning, Henry rose early to keep his promise to Jitka and take her riding through the meadows and woods around Rattay.

The forest was calm. Only the brittle crack of twigs beneath their horses’ hooves and the distant call of a jay broke the stillness. They rode side by side—Henry and Jitka—at an easy pace, without needless words.

“I almost didn’t dare hope you’d say yes,” Jitka said at last, her gaze fixed ahead.

“Sometimes it’s good to get out. Clears the head,” Henry answered.

Jitka smiled. “Or maybe you were afraid the wolves would get me again.”

Henry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the first trace of a smile pulling at his lips. “That would be a disgrace. Losing the future Lady of Pirkstein before you even get the chance to become one.”

She laughed—with a lightness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I ought to thank you again. Now that I know who you are—and you know who I am.”

Henry shook his head. “No need. Anyone would have done the same.”

“They wouldn’t,” she said simply.

For a while they rode on in silence. Hooves clicked over the stony path, sunlight filtering down through the branches.

They skirted Rattay through the woods until the view opened before them—Pirkstein, and the town beyond, bathed in the warm glow of the autumn sun.

Jitka pulled her horse to a halt and turned to Henry with a sudden spark in her eyes.

“Race me,” she said.

Henry blinked. “What—seriously?”

She smiled—brighter, livelier than he’d seen her before. “From here to that far tree line,” she pointed ahead. “Unless you’re afraid to lose.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but shifted in the saddle. “It’s not that,” he said. “I’d rather not have to explain to Sir Hans how his bride broke her neck under my watch.”

Jitka rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine, Henry. I’ve been riding since before I could read.”

And before he could object again, she clicked her tongue and spurred her horse into motion—speeding off with a burst of laughter, her hair catching the wind like a banner.

“Christ above,” Henry muttered—and followed.

He urged his horse forward, hooves thundering over the grassy slope, but Jitka was fast. The distance between them stretched, her mount light and swift beneath her as if it barely touched the ground. Her laughter rang through the air—clear and unguarded.

By the time he caught up to her at the treeline, his breath was short and his heart pounding.

She reined in, breathless and flushed, eyes shining.

“I told you,” she teased, wiping a loose strand of hair from her face.

Henry shook his head, grinning despite himself. “You weren’t wrong,” he said. “That was impressive.”

She gave a little shrug, still catching her breath. “I’ve always loved riding. There’s nothing else like it.”

Henry’s smile softened—something unguarded passing through his face for the briefest moment. “You remind me of him,” he said quietly, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Jitka glanced at him, her brows lifting. “Hans?”

He nodded, his eyes dropping, voice lowering. “Ay. He’s… the best rider I know.” A breath. “Always looks like he was born for it. Like the horse and the wind belong to him, somehow.”

A small, almost absent smile touched Henry’s lips as he added, without quite thinking: “And… that’s when he looks happiest, I suppose.”

The words seemed to hang there—too soft, too true.

Jitka’s expression shifted. She looked away, her fingers brushing over the reins, something thoughtful in her face.

“Maybe that’s something we have in common,” she said softly after a pause. “Liking the ride better than the place we’re meant to stop.”

Henry blinked, as if waking from a thought, and gave a faint nod. “Maybe.”

A fragile quiet stretched between them. For a while, they rode on without speaking, the only sounds the steady rhythm of hooves and the soft rustle of wind through the trees.

Then the forest gave way once more, the path opening onto a gentle slope with the town and Pirkstein spread out ahead.

“Shall we take a break?” Henry suggested.

Jitka nodded. They dismounted and sat side by side in the grass. Wordlessly, they gazed at the castle before them.

“What’s Kunstadt like?” Henry asked after a moment.

Jitka smiled faintly, her expression thoughtful. “The castle’s a bit larger than Pirkstein,” she said at last. “And not quite so buried in forests.”

“And do you like it here, in Rattay?” Henry went on.

Jitka lifted one shoulder and looked out ahead.

“Does it matter what I like?”

She lowered her eyes. “Or what I want?” she added softly.

Henry cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s all right, Henry,” she replied, offering him a tired smile. “Since I was little, I’ve known I’d either end up a nun or a nobleman’s bride.” She shook her head.

“So this—” she tilted her chin toward Rattay, “this is what I was born for.”

She paused. “And Hans Capon…”

Henry looked at her sideways.

“He’s a handsome man,” she went on thoughtfully, “and there’s plenty who’d gladly have him.”

Henry kept his eyes fixed on his hands. For a heartbeat, unbidden, his mind drifted— —to the night before.

To Hans, breathless beneath him, his body all sharp lines and flushed skin and the kind of beauty that had nothing to do with titles or names.

The way his eyes had looked up at him—unguarded, alight with something deeper, something more than desire.

A sharp breath escaped him. He dropped his gaze lower, his fingers brushing over the seam of his glove—seeking somewhere to anchor himself.

“And also,” she added, “he doesn’t seem like some drunken, skirt-chasing brat the way people like to say.”

Henry looked at her then. “Because he isn’t, Jitka.”

She smiled at him. “Ay, I remember you spoke well of him—though I suppose I couldn’t expect anything else from his right hand, could I?”

Henry shook his head. “It’s not because I’m in his service… it’s not that,” he said, hesitating as he searched for the words. “He’s… he’s fair. And he’s wise.”

His eyes fell to his hands again. “And I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so… so kind to the ones who have no luck, no power. The ones most people wouldn’t give a second glance.”

He lifted his eyes to her, a small smile touching his lips. “And he’s clever. Funny too,” he added.

The smile stayed, but for a moment something shifted in his gaze—something deeper, heavier—before his eyes drifted back toward the castle.

Jitka studied his face for a while. “You know… Henry…” she said at last, her tone thoughtful, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone speak like that… about their lord.”

Henry felt the heat rise in his face. He looked away, giving a faint, awkward laugh. “Well—like you said. What else would you expect from his right hand?”

Jitka said nothing.

Henry brushed off his breeches. “We ought to head back—after your last run-in with wolves, they might send out a search party for you, my lady,” he said with a quick grin. The ride back was quiet. They passed through Rattay, and Henry took his leave of her at the upper castle.

“Thank you, Henry,” she said. “It was a very pleasant morning.”

Henry gave a brief bow. “The honour—and the pleasure—were mine.”

He hesitated, then added, “Whenever you wish, my lady.”

Jitka gave him a polite nod, and disappeared into the castle.

Henry swung back into the saddle and turned his horse toward Pirkstein. Toward Hans. Toward home. He stepped into his chamber, shrugged off his doublet, and stood for a moment, thoughtful. Then he drew the curtain aside and tapped lightly on the door hidden in the alcove.

It opened a moment later, and Hans stood there, a smile tugging on his lips. “Well now—who’s this, dragged in by the Devil himself,” he murmured, though there was more love in his voice than anything else.

Henry stepped through into his chamber. They embraced, and their lips met in a kiss.

“So?” Hans prompted with a crooked smile. “How was your morning meeting with Jitka?”

Henry crossed to the table and poured himself some wine. “Better than I expected, actually.”

He raised the cup, glanced briefly at Hans, and sat beside him on the bed. His gaze drifted to the firelight. “She’s… likeable. Clever,” he said at last.

He fell silent, fingertips tracing the rim of the cup. “And… truthfully, I’m still a bit unsettled by it,” he added.

Hans looked at him, one brow slightly raised.

Henry gave a weak smile, with a bitter edge beneath it. “I think… somewhere deep down, I was hoping she’d be different. That I could… not like her. So I’d make it easier on myself.”

“But instead… I just feel sorry for her.”

Hans let out a quiet breath, his gaze slipping sideways for a moment. Then he shook his head, something gentle in his look.

“Well… seems we’ve got that in common.”

For a while they sat in silence. Henry took a sip of wine; Hans watched the firelight.

“You look tired,” Hans said, almost in a whisper.

Henry smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching in the hint of a laugh. “Not really,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It’s just… everything around us is happening so fast all of a sudden… and everything’s about to change.”

Hans gave a short, humourless laugh. He reached out, laying a hand on Henry’s thigh.

“We won’t change.”

Henry looked at him, the barest hint of a smile. His hand slipped down over Hans’s, fingers closing around it.

They sat that way for a while longer, the silence peaceful, the fire crackling.

Henry’s fingertips traced absently over Hans’s palm—light, distracted, the kind of motion a man makes when there’s something on his mind he doesn’t quite know how to say.

“Hans…” The words came low. “When… when it happens.”

He paused. “When the wedding comes…”

Hans turned to him slowly, his gaze calm. He waited.

“Do you want me there?” Henry asked.

Hans drew a deep breath, his gaze drifting aside for a moment. His fingers on Henry’s hand stayed still, save for a faint tightening.

“I do,” he said. “I’d want that very much.”

Henry exhaled, his eyes cast down. “I… I don’t know which would be worse,” he admitted. “Being there… watching you… or not being there, and not being close to you.”

His voice stayed steady—but something beneath it faltered.

Hans said nothing, but pressed a kiss to his temple.

“My wedding wouldn’t be right without the one I love,” he whispered.

Henry nodded, eyes closed.

Then he lifted his head, and there was more calm in his expression.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Hans smiled, his palm brushing along Henry’s cheek, thumb grazing lightly over the corner of his mouth. Then he let out a breath of laughter—tired, but real.

“You’ll be the most important guest.”

Henry’s face lit up—this time even in his eyes. “Will your family be there?”

“You mean besides my dear uncle Hanush?” Hans smirked. “Probably. Some branch of the Lords of Leipa, I imagine. Maybe one of those who call themselves my cousins—though most of them have seen me twice, if that.”

He paused. “Truth is… no one knows me the way you do.”

He breathed in deep. “So for me it doesn’t much matter who’s there, so long as you are, Henry.”

Henry smiled—but something inside him tightened all the same.

A moment of silence passed. “And what about Godwin?”

Hans looked up, with real warmth in his face. “See—you’re right. I have to invite him. And a few others… from Devil’s Den. We should definitely invite them.”

Henry nodded.

“I’ll send a messenger tomorrow,” Hans said.

Henry fell quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the fire. His fingers brushed idly over Hans’s hand.

Then he looked up. “But… why send a messenger?” he asked. “Why couldn’t we go ourselves?”

Hans lifted his head, something bright sparking in his eyes. “Now?”

Henry grinned. “Why not? Everything’s settled, the wedding’s three weeks away… Is there anything holding you here?”

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Hans’s grin widened—bright, almost boyish.

“That’s a bloody brilliant idea,” he said. “To hell with it. Let’s do it.”

He laughed and ran his hand over Henry’s back. “It’s a fair bit of road, though,” he added, his voice warmer. “We should break the journey and stop at Foxburrow.”

Henry’s fingers tightened around Hans’s hand.

“I love you so much,” he said, the words breaking into a smile that brought light back into his eyes.

Hans held his gaze and kissed him.

—

The southern wind rolled through the hills with a heavy breath, parting the bare branches, driving ragged shreds of cloud — twisting like a beast that had lost its course. The meadows squelched beneath the snow. On the surface, the land still looked white — but not with winter’s purity. More a dull, sodden quilt, heavy with thaw.

The grasslands near Rattay were fading. Their colours drained to grey.

The air was warm. Damp. It carried the scent of wet soil, but no promise of life.

As if winter had let its guard down — just for a moment — before it came back to claim the world again.

Hans pulled off one glove and rubbed his fingers. A clump of melting snow slipped from the branch above and dropped straight down his collar. He flinched and muttered a curse.

Henry cast a glance over his shoulder.

“What do you say… shall we take the upper gate?” he offered with a crooked smile. “Give Hanush the pleasure of seeing us first.”

Hans smirked too. “You think he’s waiting by the gate with open arms?”

Henry let out a snort, but didn’t answer. He simply nudged his horse on, and the road carried them forward — to a place where a side path joined the trail from the woods.

Two riders.

Still distant, but familiar shapes. Mikush in front, Pavel behind. Both had branches strapped to their horses — some bundled, some loose — fresh, fragrant fir boughs.

Hans reined in slightly. Henry slowed as well.

They waited for the pair to catch up.

“My lord,” Mikush greeted, dipping his head. “Sir Henry.”

“My lords,” Pavel added, his voice softer. He gave a brief smile and adjusted his collar.

“What’s all this?” Henry asked — though the answer was plain to see.

“Greenery for the decorations, my lord,” Mikush replied. “Lady Jitka asked for Pirkstein to look fresh and green for the Christmas feast.”

“And we’ve still a stop to make at the merchant’s,” Pavel added. “For ribbons.”

Hans gave a faintly amused nod. “Good. We’ll see you at home.”

Henry gave them a brief wave. Then both men turned their horses forward — continuing down the road toward the town.

The wind went with them. Stronger now. The upper gate was already in sight.

Hans glanced at him.

Not directly — first from the corner of his eye. Then more fully. Observing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked after a moment, quietly.

Henry shrugged lightly. “Well enough.”

Hans turned back toward the road, but his voice stayed soft.

“Even so… rest when we get there. And warm yourself.”

Henry looked ahead. Toward the gate, the path, the grey silhouette of the town.

He rolled his eyes, just a little.

But the corner of his mouth shifted. Barely. But it did.

The guards caught sight of them and straightened. One bowed his head. The other gave a small nod.

Hans returned the gesture mid-ride, no more than a flick of his hand.

They passed through. And onward — across the Upper Castle yard. No one stopped them. No one stepped closer. But eyes followed.

And then — the town.

The road sloped downward. Narrow, half-mud, half-slush. The horses picked their way carefully. The air was thick with smells — wet walls, smoke, old hay.

The town felt strangely quiet.

Not out of fear — but something like expectation. Like a breath held just before the bell.

Here and there, someone was sweeping a doorstep. Most doors bore sprigs of greenery above their frames. Some even had wreaths. A few shutters were trimmed with ribbons — homespun, dyed with bark, berries, and rust.

People noticed them.

They paused. Looked up. A woman lowered her basket and gave a bow. An older man by the butcher’s took off his cap. Children racing down the lane slowed their steps.

Hans didn’t meet their eyes. But it was in the way he rode — the set of his shoulders — that people watched him.

And beside him… the other.

He was no longer merely a companion.

No word needed to be spoken. The message carried itself.

The Lord of Rotstein was riding through.

Henry felt it. The looks. The kind of silence that rose up around them. He felt it in his body — every inch of him aware.

A few weeks ago, it would have weighed heavy on his chest. Like it had in Klokotsch, when those first stares had settled on him.

But now…

He realised it was different. His breath was steady. His hands held the reins without tension. His shoulders were loose.

Maybe he was growing used to it. Maybe he was beginning to understand what it meant to carry such a name.

Or maybe — maybe it was because this was Rattay.

Because they knew him here. Not as a lord. But as the one who had served. Who had forged. Who had fought. Who had returned, again and again — no matter what title he bore.

Maybe that was why the weight didn’t drown him now.

To the left, the gate of Pirkstein appeared — snow-flecked, part-thawed, framed by the dark hush of the archway.

They rode through. The yard beneath their hooves was sodden and heavy.

They stopped.

For a moment, nothing. Only the breath of the horses. Steam rising from their nostrils. The soft creak of leather and reins.

A stableboy came pelting across the yard — wide-eyed and flushed.

“My lord! Sirs!” he blurted, dropping into a bow and nearly losing his balance.

To the right, by the kitchen door, someone turned. Stopped. A familiar gait.

“Zizka!” Henry called, swinging down from his horse. A grin broke across his face.

The captain made his way toward them with measured steps, a faint glint of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

“Lord of Rotstein!” he boomed. Henry only laughed and shook his head.

They clasped each other by the forearm — firm, familiar.

Zizka clapped him on the shoulder. “I ride south for a little while, and when I come back, the whole world’s gone sideways.”

“Indeed,” came a voice beside them.

Hans had dismounted and stepped closer. Their greeting was brief, but warm — the kind that had long since worn its way into habit.

“I’ve heard bits and pieces,” Zizka said. “But I’ll want the whole tale from the two of you.”

Hans gave a small nod. There was tiredness in his eyes — but something lighter, too. “Plenty of time for that.”

Across the yard, Katherine appeared — Godwin beside her. Both were headed their way.

Godwin pulled Henry into a firm, wordless embrace. A solid pat on the back. Then he stepped aside.

Katherine reached Hans — and pulled him close without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. His head dropped to her shoulder. His arms didn’t let go.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said into her ear. Not quite a whisper — but quiet enough that it was hers alone.

She smiled. Held him a little tighter. “What matters is that you’re back,” she whispered. “Especially now.”

Only then did they notice Henry watching — a look of mild surprise in his eyes.

Katherine turned to him — and a mischievous spark lit in hers.

She stepped forward and swept into a flawless curtsey, full of exaggerated grace.

“My lord,” she said, with solemnity far too grand to be genuine.

Henry placed a hand over his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. He shook his head — but the corners of his mouth gave him away.

Katherine took his arm lightly and kissed his cheek — quick, friendly, soft.

“It’s good that you’re home. Truly.”

From the direction of the stables came a sudden burst of barking.

Mutt charged into the yard — all flying ears and flailing paws. He was running so fast that when he tried to stop, his feet skidded out from under him. For a moment, he flailed in place, scrambling for purchase — but the very next heartbeat, he was a whirlwind of fur, leaping and wriggling, his tongue poised to lick both their faces at once.

With high-pitched barks and delighted yelps, he hurled himself first at one, then the other — incapable of choosing whom to greet first.

Henry laughed and dropped to a crouch.

He threw his arms around him, held him close, and rubbed behind his ears.

“I missed you too, you hairy little monster,” he murmured with a grin.

Mutt gave a low whine and pressed his head gratefully into his chest.

Hans stood nearby, watching — and something small, almost invisible, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then he turned to Godwin.

“Where’s Jitka?” he asked. “Is she well?”

Godwin lifted a shoulder, glancing round the yard.

“Zdislava?” he called.

The maid came hurrying from the pantry near the kitchens. She bowed at once.

“My lord?” she said, slightly breathless. “Welcome home, my lord. Sirs,” she added quickly.

“Where’s your lady?” Hans asked. “I know we arrived unannounced, but—”

Zdislava lowered her eyes. “She fell asleep not long ago. She was tired.”

Hans frowned — just for a moment. Then gave a small nod.

“I’ll go to her later,” he said quietly.

He turned to Henry and gave a slight motion of his chin toward the stairs.

Henry nodded. Together they climbed. Along the corridor. Through the hall.

And then — into Hans’s chamber.

The door closed behind them.

Hans stepped toward him. Henry wrapped his arms around him without a word.

They sank into each other — Hands. Arms. Shoulders. Small, unspoken motions. Not to explain. Just to be close.

They stayed like that for a while. Not for long — but long enough.

Then they drew back, just slightly.

And kissed.

Slowly. Without haste. Without speech.

They smiled. Henry ran his hand across the back of Hans’s neck, and a light came into his eyes — one that did not leave, even for a breath.

They kissed again.

And when their lips parted once more, Henry looked around the room.

“Nothing’s changed,” he murmured.

His voice was soft. Not sad. Just quiet.

“It almost feels like… those weeks, the whole journey, everything that happened there… like it was only a dream.”

Hans smiled. “I’m actually looking forward to going back.”

A soft knock at the door.

They both startled, just slightly.

Hans crossed the room and opened it.

Godwin.

“Mind if I steal a moment, boys?”

Hans nodded. “Come in.”

Godwin stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“What about Hanush?” Hans asked at once. “All quiet?”

Godwin gave a nod. “He’s kept to himself. Been out of Rattay quite a bit.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”

The priest smiled — slyly. Then shrugged, all innocence.

“I’ve learned to make use of old acquaintances. Now and then, they let me know where our Lord of Leipa happens to be straying.”

Hans shook his head — a flicker of amusement in his smile.

“What did you come for, then?” Henry asked, smiling too.

Godwin smacked his forehead. “Nearly forgot. I wanted to ask if you’d mind if we — well — gathered the pack tonight to… celebrate your return.”

He raised a hand in mock defence at once.

“Moderately, of course. As befits the holy season.”

He paused.

His eyes drifted into space, thoughtful.

“Well… with Dry Devil, though, that’s never a guarantee.”

They all laughed.

“We’d be glad,” Henry assured him.

Godwin nodded. “Good. Then rest for now. You’ll want your strength.”

He turned, and the door closed quietly behind him.

Hans looked at Henry.

For a while, he just watched him.

A thought crossed his mind, and he stepped into the hall.

Moments later, he returned — a wine jug in one hand, two cups in the other.

Without a word, he poured for both of them, set the jug down on the table, and handed one cup to Henry.

He raised his own. Just slightly.

“To us,” he said softly.

Henry smiled. Lifted his cup in return. “To us.”

They drank.

Then they sat — side by side on the bed. Shoulders touching. Thighs too. All quiet. All still.

Henry let his eyes fall half shut and stretched his neck with a slow roll. Then leaned his head against Hans’s shoulder.

Hans gave a small smile. Turned, and kissed his hair.

Henry let out a quiet breath. “That ride did wear me out a little,” he murmured.

Hans slid an arm around his back. His hand traced a slow line along his upper arm.

“Then lie down,” he said. “Get some rest.”

Henry was quiet for a moment. Then he set the cup aside. Turned toward Hans. Wrapped one arm around him — and cupped his cheek with the other.

His gaze was thoughtful. Quiet. Deep.

“I love you more than anything,” he said softly.

Hans smiled at him — the smile that belonged to no one else.

He leaned in. They kissed. Long, unhurried. Neither of them pulled away.

And then they stayed like that.

Still touching. Still close. A hand resting on a thigh. Foreheads gently leaning.

After a while, Henry spoke.

“I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

Hans nodded. “And I’ll go check on Jitka. See how she’s doing.”

One more kiss — brief, but warm.

Then Henry rose. Crossed to the side door and slipped into his own chamber.

He stood there a moment.

Looked around the room.

Then took off his outer coat and laid it neatly over the chest by the wall. He crouched by the hearth. Kindled the fire — kindling, dry logs. It took a moment. But the flames caught.

He took off his boots. Sat down on the bed.

Stayed there for a time. Head bowed slightly. Thoughtful.

Then rubbed his temples. And slowly lay down.

Closed his eyes.

The fire crackled. Not loudly — more like a slow, steady breath.

From somewhere outside came muffled voices. Distant. Unclear. Maybe from the courtyard, or the floor below. A faint clink of metal now and then. Footsteps. Here and there.

The room was warming. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

Fatigue began to take him.

Not suddenly — but like fog rising. Fingers loosening. A soft weight. A body easing into quiet.

Henry drifted into sleep. He woke to a gentle touch.

On his hand. His fingers. Warm. Familiar. Steady.

He blinked. Opened his eyes.

Hans was sitting beside him on the bed.

Just sitting there — with a strange, unreadable expression. Looking at him.

Henry smiled and pushed himself up on his elbows.

Hans spoke softly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. But… I need to talk to you.”

Henry tilted his head. Studied him more closely — now fully awake.

Hans was still watching him. His lips were slightly parted, as if trying to shape a thought that hadn’t yet found words.

He drew a slow breath.

“I spoke with Jitka.”

Henry sat up straighter. “And? Is she all right?”

Hans nodded. “She is. She’s not ill…”

He trailed off.

His thumb brushed nervously across the back of Henry’s hand.

Henry watched him — puzzled now.

Hans looked up.

“Henry… It seems I’m going to be a father.”

A shy smile touched his lips.

Henry stared at him in silence — then pulled him into an embrace.

Tight. Wordless.

“That’s wonderful news,” he murmured.

They drew back — just far enough to see one another’s faces.

“So… that’s what she’s been struggling with?”

Hans nodded.

“Apparently, the physician from Sasau was nearly certain she was with child.”

Henry stroked his arm. Thoughtful.

“And now?”

Hans gave a small shrug. “Now I’ll be praying. That everything goes well. That she and the baby stay safe.”

Henry nodded softly. “I will too,” he said. “For her. For the child.”

His gaze softened as it found Hans. “And for you.”

Hans glanced at him — his mouth barely moved, but the smile was there.

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss to Henry’s lips — gentle, wordless. Grateful.

Then Henry fell quiet for a moment.

“When?”

“According to Jitka, sometime in summer,” Hans replied. “That’s what it seems for now.”

Henry nodded. Slowly. “So… come summer, we might have a little—”

“Heinrich,” Hans said with a smile. “If it’s a boy.”

“Named after his godfather…” He took Henry’s hand in both of his.

“And the one I love.”

He smiled at him.

Henry smiled back — and lowered his gaze.

“The most important thing is that they’re both well,” he said softly.

He looked up again. “Should I go see her?”

Hans shook his head.

“No need. You’ll see her at the gathering soon. She said she’d be there.”

A brief pause.

“In fact, we should probably start getting ready ourselves.”

Henry gave a quiet nod.

Hans looked at him for a moment.

Then broke into a wide smile — and pulled him into a hug. With both arms — firm and full — he drew him close. When Hans left, Henry remained where he was.

He didn’t move.

His arms were folded across his chest. One hand slowly, absently rubbing the shoulder of the other.

His gaze was fixed somewhere far ahead. Not on anything in particular — just there. Into space.

He stood like that for a while.

Then let out a breath. Not sharp — but audible.

He stepped over to the chest.

Opened it. Searched inside for a moment — quiet, unhurried — until he drew out a clean tunic.

He closed the lid. Laid the tunic across it. Straightened.

Then reached beneath the fabric of his shirt — and pulled it over his head.

At that exact moment, he heard a soft metallic clink.

He froze. Looked down.

Lying on the wooden boards — between his bare feet — was his pendant.

The leather cord had snapped.

He stared at it without moving.

Then slowly crouched down. Picked it up with his fingers.

Laid it in the palm of his hand. Looked at it closely.

A carved piece of Hans’s armour. Small. Heavy. Smooth. Polished. Familiar. Forged back in Foxburrow.

And just the same — shaped from a piece of his own armour — he had made for Hans.

Henry gently ran his fingertips across the cold metal.

Then closed his hand around it. Stood up. And walked to the window.

He stopped there.

Bare-chested. Still. The pendant in his fist.

A faint chill rose from the stones of the wall and the window ledge.

And for a moment, he thought he felt it graze the nape of his neck.

He looked out.

Snow-covered hills. Black silhouettes of trees. The slow, restless movement of the wind through the branches.

He felt the shape of the pendant in his palm — its weight, its coolness, its hold.

He knew Hans was happy.

He’d seen him. The nerves. The joy.

And Henry was happy too. For him. And for Jitka.

And — quietly — for himself.

But— something inside him gave a slight, quiet pull. Like a tightening, deep down. Without a cause. Or from so many causes he wouldn’t know where to begin.

He stood there for a long time.

Just stood. Holding the pendant. Before the window. In the growing dim.

Then he turned. Slowly. And walked back to the chest.

He took out a small cloth pouch.

Laid the pendant inside, carefully. Tied it shut.

Set it back in the chest.

Closed the lid.

Stood tall. And pulled on the clean tunic. The main hall was already alive with sound.

Not raucous noise — more a warm layering of voices, laughter, and movement, spilling gently through the space.

Godwin. Dry Devil. Kubyenka. Janosh. Zizka. Katherine. Pavel.

The head of the table remained empty. No sign of Hans.

When Henry appeared in the doorway, the voices briefly swelled.

“The Lord of Rotstein!” Zizka announced, as though proclaiming the arrival of a king.

Dry Devil rose and gestured toward him with exaggerated flair. Pavel laughed. Katherine smiled. Henry shrugged and allowed himself to be ushered into their midst.

Before he could say a word, a tankard landed in front of him. Cool. Dew-beaded. Fragrant.

“That’s your welcome back,” Godwin noted. “Something to keep your face from growing too serious, my lord.”

Henry gave a faint grin. Took a sip.

The taste was bitter — familiar — with a pleasant weight to it.

He still felt the trace of that shadow inside… but the beer, and the company of friends, were slowly drawing it out.

The questions began at once. One after another.

“So what’s Rotstein like?” “Is there a well?” “How many souls do you rule over?” “Could you even see the road, or did your new station blind you?”

Zizka scratched the back of his neck. “I passed through that region once. But I only saw the castle from a distance.”

Henry nodded.

“It took my breath away at first. It’s… well, it’s like a massive rock. Or rather — several rocks. And the castle’s carved into them. Built around them. On top of them.”

Dry Devil pulled a face. “Sounds cozy.”

“Luckily, I’ve got a fine manorial court beneath it,” Henry said, smirking. “And even my own forge.”

He laughed.

Katherine touched his back. “Henry… even now that you’re a lord… you’ll always just be our Henry.”

He gave a sheepish shrug — but she smiled at him.

“And I’m very glad for that.”

Henry turned to Zizka and back to her. “And what about you? How was the south?”

Zizka scratched at his neck again. “Well… interesting times. Lately, the lords of Rosenberg and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye.”

Katherine snorted. “That’s a polite way of putting it.”

Zizka nodded. “Anyway, we heard a rumour at one point — that the King had elevated the bastard son of Sir Radzig Kobyla to nobility.”

Katherine burst out laughing. “That was quite the surprise. But the moment we heard it, we knew we had to come back. And find out what in God’s name was going on.”

Henry lifted his hands.

“Well. Here I am.”

A burst of laughter.

The door opened.

Hans stepped inside. Jitka was just next him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

The room quieted for a moment.

They crossed the hall side by side and took their seats at the head of the table.

Henry fell silent.

He glanced — just once — at the empty chair to Hans’s right.

Then his head dipped slightly, his eyes cast downward beneath his brow. The quiet inside him deepened — not louder, but heavier.

Hans lifted his cup of wine.

“To your health, friends,” he said.

Then he turned to Jitka.

“And to the health of my remarkable wife.”

Jitka smiled, raising her cup of watered wine.

The others followed — tankards, goblets, cups raised high.

They drank.

Henry did not. He stared at the grain of the table.

The noise returned — slowly at first, then warmer, broader.

Tankards clinked. Laughter rose and mingled with the smell of food brought in by Mikush on a tray. Pavel was trying to carve something far too tough with a knife far too dull, and Katherine leaned over his shoulder offering advice — with little success. Godwin and Zizka were debating whether it was greater heresy to drink watered wine or serve it with carp. Janosh was half-whispering a tale about a drunken priest and a wayward goose.

Henry smiled — faintly. Just the corners of his mouth.

His gaze drifted to the head of the table.

Hans sat close to Jitka, his posture tilted slightly toward her. They were speaking in low tones — intimate, not loud. Their words dissolved into shadow, but it was clear Hans was entirely absorbed in the moment.

Henry watched them for a while out of the corner of his eye.

Then felt a hand on his shoulder — Godwin’s.

“And how’s the estate, lad?” the priest asked with a glint in his eye. “What’s it like?”

Henry straightened a little. Smiled, gently.

“It’s a bit like the land around Trosky… Forests, rocks, a wide valley.”

The others fell into a hush — listening now.

“And Klokotsch?” he went on. “It’s a fine village. Big, but not a town like Rattay… and maybe better for it.”

Someone nodded. Katherine smiled.

“There’s a beautiful little wooden church there, Godwin,” Henry added. “I think you’d like it.”

Godwin smiled — but something in Henry’s face shifted. A shadow passed across it — brief, but real.

“Only thing is…” he said quietly.

He paused. “That’s what Hans and I were hoping to ask your advice on.”

He turned toward the head of the table.

“Hans?”

No answer.

“Hans,” he called again — louder this time.

Hans turned his head. There was a moment’s vacancy in his eyes, like returning from someplace far away.

Henry gave a hesitant smile. “I was just saying — we’d meant to ask about the borders of my estate.”

Hans nodded. It took a second.

“Of course. Go on,” he said. And turned back to Jitka.

Henry watched him a moment longer.

Then drew a slow breath. Faced the table again.

“To the south… near Trosky,” he began, “we’ve been seeing frequent intrusions from the neighbouring estate. The Trosky lands.”

“How many men’ve you got under arms?” came Dry Devil’s voice — blunt as ever.

Henry let out a breath. “That’s just it. About six… nine if I count the ones my father left behind.”

Dry Devil pulled a face — but this time without humour.

“Nine men and one lord. Not much of a force to hold a border.”

Zizka nodded.

“Forget any thoughts of a direct fight. If you did go that way, you’d have to use everything. Every tree, every stone. Cleverly. And you couldn’t afford to repeat yourself.”

Then he breathed in — calmer now.

“But I’d try something else first. Talk. With the neighbour. See what there is to settle.”

Henry stared down at the table.

“Von Bergow…”

Zizka raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.

Godwin nodded. “What Zizka’s saying makes sense. At least to start with.”

Henry sighed.

“That’s what Hans said too…”

For a moment, the table fell quiet.

Then Henry looked around at all the faces.

“One day I’ll take you there,” he said softly.

He smiled — broad, open.

But something else was in his eyes. As the evening wore on, Henry spoke less and less. Pavel kept refilling his tankard with cheerful ceremony, as if it were an honour. Katherine touched him now and then with quiet fondness. Zizka drew him into conversation. Godwin glanced at him with that old look — the one that said I know, lad.

When Pavel topped off his tankard again, Henry didn’t protest. He just lifted it, gave a small nod — and drank.

Sometimes just so he didn’t have to speak.

One hand held the mug. The other rested on the table, fingers gliding slowly over the wood. Not purposefully — just moving. His gaze drifted into the grain, then into the flame of a candle, then into a face — but never for long.

When he laughed, it was soft. And brief.

Then he stood, with a faint apologetic smile.

“I’ll go get some air.”

No one stopped him. Dry Devil grunted something. Godwin gave a nod.

Henry left the hall, walked the corridor, and made his way down the stairs to the courtyard.

A guard at the gate wished him good evening.

He gave a nod.

Didn’t stop. Passed through the gate — and farther still.

The square in Rattay was still awake. Not noisy — but not lifeless either.

Windows flickered with candlelight. Shadows moved behind shutters. The streets weren’t empty — just slowed. Someone passed with a torch. Someone with a basket. Someone with children.

Henry stopped near a wall. Leant back against it. Folded his arms. Closed his eyes.

He heard nothing in particular. Just the city, breathing. A murmur of voices. A gate creaking. A shout from the tavern. Footsteps.

Then he felt it.

A light, cold tap on his cheek.

Then another. And another.

He opened his eyes.

Snow was falling. Softly, hesitantly — as though it had come to ask permission first.

Henry looked up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Just watched.

Then he pushed off from the wall. Took a few steps deeper into the city. His boots slipped a little on the muddy road.

He stopped.

Stood still for a moment.

Then gave a small wave of his hand — turned back.

Back toward the castle.

Through the gate, across the yard, to the stairs.

He paused.

His eyes drifted to the door on the right.

He turned toward the kitchen. Passed through the darkened room, past the hearth, long gone cold, across flagstones faintly catching the light of a single candle from the hallway.

He opened the door to the workshop.

The air was colder there.

He lit a candle. Set it on the table.

Stood for a while. Breathing.

Then let his eyes travel slowly around the space. Not looking for anything — just letting the place reach him.

Eventually, he began to search. Carefully, without haste. He moved aside scraps of cloth. Shifted pieces of leather.

Until he found something.

A thin leather cord.

He held it in his hand. Turned it over, studying it.

Smooth. Sturdy. Soft to the touch.

He stood like that for a while — just standing, the cord in his palm.

Then let out a long breath and slowly sat down on the bench.

Rested his elbows on his knees. Stared ahead for a long time.

His fingers moved without thought, playing with the strap. Again and again. In silence.

Until only the silence remained.

And the strip of leather between his fingers. The main hall was settling into quiet.

People still sat at the table, but the conversation had thinned. Laughter faded to murmurs, broken phrases, half-smiles. Janosh, who not long ago had been demanding a song, now dozed with his head propped in his hand. Even Dry Devil had gone quiet — just rubbing his chin in silence.

Jitka leaned against Hans’s shoulder, gently.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said softly. “I’m rather tired.”

Hans turned to her with a warm smile. “Of course. Thank you — for the evening.”

She nodded. Touched his arm. Slowly stood. Her dress gave a soft rustle.

Hans rose as well.

Then paused.

His gaze swept the room.

He looked again at Jitka, who was already turning toward the door.

“Where’s Henry?” he asked quietly.

Jitka glanced back. Shrugged. Shook her head.

Hans exhaled. “Goodnight,” he added, but the words were already distant.

“Goodnight, Hans,” she said — and slipped through the doors.

Hans stood watching her go. Then slowly turned back to the table.

“Has anyone seen Henry?” he asked, still standing.

Katherine looked up. “He went outside,” she said. A brief pause. “It’s been a while.”

Then she met his eyes. “You didn’t notice, Hans?”

He didn’t answer. Only looked away for a moment.

Then drew a sharp breath, turned, and left the hall at a brisk pace.

In the corridor, he stopped — just for a heartbeat — as if trying to catch the echo of footsteps. Nothing.

He crossed to the door of Henry’s chamber. Hesitated. Then opened it quietly and looked in.

Empty.

He returned to the corridor and made for the stairs.

He walked the ramparts. One direction. Then the other. Peered into the dark.

No one.

He descended to the courtyard. Headed straight for the guards.

“Sir Henry?” he asked — curt, low.

The guard looked up. “He went into town a while ago, my lord. But… I thought I saw him come back.” He shifted slightly. “… I think.”

Hans paused. Looked around the courtyard — still, dark, empty.

Then, without a word, he turned and stepped through the gate — out into the night of Rattay. Jitka sat in her chamber, drawing the comb slowly through her hair.

Each stroke was deliberate, unhurried. The strands slipped over her shoulders — soft, gleaming in the flickering candlelight. After a while, she set the comb aside. Her gaze drifted into the distance, unseeing, as if her thoughts had scattered somewhere beyond reach. Then, with a slow tenderness, she placed a hand on her belly.

The smile that touched her lips was faint — barely there. Brief. Intentional. A smile turned inward.

She remained like that for a while. Then reached for the pitcher on the table and looked inside.

Empty.

With a quiet sigh, she stood and made her way to the door. Stepped into the hallway and headed toward the kitchen.

When she entered, she paused.

The door to the workshop stood ajar. A faint candlelight flickered from within.

Jitka hesitated.

Then she stepped closer, pushing the door open very quietly.

Inside, by the light of a single candle, sat Henry.

He was hunched slightly forward on the bench, head bowed. Something rested in his hand — though in the dimness, it was hard to see what. He didn’t stir when she entered.

“What are you doing here, Henry?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look up. Just gave a slight shake of his head, eyes still fixed on the floor ahead.

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs with Hans?” he said quietly.

The question lingered.

Jitka didn’t answer. She simply watched him for a moment.

“Shouldn’t you be with Hans instead?” she said.

Henry slowly turned his head toward her.

His eyes were steady, not sharp — but deep.

Then he looked away again, back toward nothing in particular. When he spoke, his voice was even lower. Full. Weighty.

“It didn’t feel like I should be.”

Jitka came closer. Sat down beside him, slowly. Studied him for a moment in silence.

“What’s wrong, Henry?” she asked gently.

For a long while, he said nothing.

Then he looked at her.

“I’m truly glad you’re carrying Hans’s child, Jitka,” he said. “I am. I’m really looking forward to it.”

She smiled a little. But she didn’t stop watching him.

Henry lowered his eyes. Stared at the tips of his boots.

“But…” He drew a breath. Barely audible.

“I’m starting to feel like I… don’t belong.”

Jitka said nothing. She just reached out and wrapped an arm around him. Pulled him close.

Henry hesitated, then returned the embrace.

He closed his eyes.

Jitka breathed out softly.

“You weren’t here, Henry,” she whispered, “when Hans—when he mounted his horse and rode like a madman to bring you from Nikolsburg. You didn’t see him after Hanush had you taken away. How he nearly tore the bed apart. With rage. With fear.”

She paused.

“And how certain he was that he’d bring you home.”

Henry stayed leaning into her shoulder.

“I know…” he said, barely above a whisper. “But…”

Jitka pulled back slightly to look into his eyes.

“Hans has been extraordinarily kind to me,” she said. “And maybe… that’s why I don’t feel like the one who doesn’t belong.”

He looked down. Then up. Met her gaze, quiet and undefended.

“Henry…” she continued. “I may be carrying his child. But I’ll never have what you have with him.”

She gave the faintest shake of her head.

“I’ll never be to him what you are. I don’t think anyone will.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry murmured.

Jitka smiled faintly. Reached out to brush his cheek with her hand.

“I know both of you,” she said. “And I hold you closer than I sometimes know how to say.”

“That’s why I… simply can’t feel sorrow over this.”

Henry smiled at her. A real smile this time. Gentle. Soft.

He embraced her firmly.

They stayed like that for a while.

After a moment, Jitka rose.

“Go on upstairs,” she said, nodding toward the door with a smile.

Henry nodded too. He began to stand, but she stopped him with a touch.

She held his arm — lightly.

“Henry… when the child comes…”

For a moment, her voice caught.

“I would truly like you to be part of its life. Just as Hans will be.” She paused, searching his face.

“And part of mine, too.”

Henry looked at her.

Smiled. Moved.

“I’d be honoured.” When Henry stepped back into the hall, Hans was nowhere to be seen.

He hesitated — barely — then made his way to the long table and eased back into his seat among the others.

He reached for his tankard.

Godwin leaned toward him.

“I think he went looking for you,” he murmured. “Outside. Seemed like he feared you’d vanished to the far end of the world.”

Henry stilled.

Then turned — just as the door creaked open.

Hans stepped inside.

Snow clung to his hair. His cheeks were flushed raw from the frost.

He paused just past the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room — until it landed on Henry.

And then he stopped.

In Hans’s eyes, there was everything. Relief. Regret. Silence.

Henry smiled and gave the faintest nod.

He shifted slightly, making space beside him.

“I think you all ought to hear what Hans said when he first laid eyes on my castle,” he said with a crooked smile.

A few people snorted.

Hans scoffed.

“More like what the lord of Rotstein looked like when he saw the forge,” he shot back — his voice vanishing beneath a burst of laughter.

He crossed to the bench and sank down at Henry’s side.

For a moment, he only turned to him.

Henry met his eyes.

A glance, no more. A smile — on their lips, in their eyes.

Then Hans drew a long breath, lifted one arm with theatrical flair, and launched into his tale. The fire crackled softly in the hearth of Hans’s chamber.

Now and then, the wind joined in — pressing softly at the windowpane before drawing back again. The hall had long since gone quiet. The last of their company had drifted off to bed — tired, content, perhaps a little drunk. Silence now reigned.

Hans lay on the bed, his gaze trailing the shape of Henry’s chest.

Henry was just pulling his tunic over his head. The firelight caught on his skin, moved with it.

He padded the room barefoot — a few quiet steps on the wooden floor — and slipped beneath the covers.

Hans drew him in with one arm — and held him close.

They kissed.

Slowly. Softly. With a breath.

Then Henry rested against Hans’s shoulder, and Hans stared up into the darkness above. Henry brushed a kiss across his cheek, his fingers trailing across Hans’s chest.

For a time, nothing moved.

Then Hans turned toward him. Held his gaze a while — slid a hand through his hair and smiled.

“My Henry…” he whispered.

Henry smiled back. Kissed him.

“Yours.”

Hans took his hand, pressed it to his lips — kissed each finger in turn — then held that hand to his chest.

“I love you, Jindro. More with every day.”

They folded into one another once more.

Only breath. Warmth. Touch.

Later, when they’d drawn apart just enough, Hans let his hand drift through the hair on Henry’s chest — slowly, carefully, as if relearning every line.

He paused.

Looked up.

Henry had a faintly sheepish smile on his lips.

“It’s in the chest,” he murmured. “The strap tore. But I’ve got a new one now. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

Hans smiled — then reached for his own pendant and closed it in his fist.

The fire crackled softly. And the silence was in no hurry to leave.

Henry curled closer, his cheek against Hans’s shoulder, his nose tucked beneath the line of his collarbone.

The hand that held him drifted in slow, easy strokes along his side.

Until, at last, sleep took them — warm and still. Held. Henry opened his eyes.

The chamber was filled with the pale hush of early morning. He lay still for a while, listening to the quiet — soft as cloth, almost sacred. Beside him, Hans slept deeply, his back warm against Henry’s chest, their bodies folded close.

Henry didn’t move. His gaze drifted — over the tousled strands of Hans’s sleep-ruffled hair, the line of his neck, the scattered freckles across his shoulder, the gentle tension in his resting arm.

He held him just a little tighter. Barely more than a breath.

Pressed his lips to his shoulder. Let them linger there.

Then closed his eyes again — breathing in the warmth of Hans’s skin, its familiar scent, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand.

He stayed like that for a moment longer.

Then slowly — with great care — he slipped from beneath the covers. Pulled the quilt back up over Hans’s shoulder, smoothing it into place. Let his hand rest for a moment on his arm, a soft touch through the fabric.

Hans stirred faintly, mumbling something unintelligible — but didn’t wake.

Henry gathered his clothes, stepped silently into the next room.

He knelt beside the chest, rummaged for a moment, and found the small pouch. Drew out the pendant and slid a new leather cord through its loop. Hung it around his neck — then held it in his palm for a breath, thumb brushing over the metal.

He dressed, then made his way downstairs to the courtyard. The day was only just beginning. A few sounds stirred from the stables; the kitchen, too, had begun to wake. Henry turned that way — but a voice called out behind him.

“My lord!”

He stopped. Turned.

One of the guards stood by the gate. He looked uneasy — not alarmed, but close enough to it to be noticed. He stepped forward a little.

“There’s a messenger,” he said. “From the Upper Castle.”

Henry frowned. “I’m not sure Lord Hans is awake yet,” he muttered.

The guard shook his head.

“He’s asking for you, my lord.”

Henry straightened.

“For me?”

A nod.

Henry walked to the gate.

The messenger stood off to the side, stiff with cold, his eyes red-rimmed from the wind. When Henry approached, he quickly straightened.

“What brings you here so early?” Henry asked.

The messenger bowed.

“Lord Hanush sends his regards, my lord — and says he wishes to speak with you.”

A brief pause.

“He asks whether he might welcome the Lord of Rotstein to dine with him at noon.”

Henry stared at him, startled.

“Today?”

The messenger gave a brief nod.

“At noon, my lord.”

A soft breeze pushed against the stable door.

Henry stood still. Silent. Just watching him.

The messenger shifted awkwardly.

—

Wine poured into the cup slowly — a thin, dark thread that curled along the bottom before the cup was filled nearly to the rim. Hans watched it without a word. The servant straightened, jug in hand, and took three quiet steps back to the wall.

Hans raised his eyes.

He looked across the hall — along the benches against the walls, along the dark beams overhead, across the table — and then at Katherine, sitting around the corner from him.

She was looking elsewhere.

Hans turned slowly to the servant. Nodded toward the door.

The man bowed without a word. He crossed quietly to the exit, and the door drew shut behind him with a soft, hollow sound — like a single heartbeat — and then silence.

The great hall was empty but for the two of them.

Hans drank. Set the cup on the table. He leaned his elbows on the wood, laced his fingers together, rested his chin on his joined hands, and looked at Katherine.

"What in the devil is going on here?"

His voice was calm — but the kind of calm that is not indifference, rather a steadiness built around something urgent.

Katherine looked at the table. Her gaze moved slowly across the dark wood — as though she were searching it for words, or at least for the right order to put them in.

She shook her head.

"I don't believe, Hans," she began — slowly, carefully — "that Hanush and Zizka are plotting anything against you."

She raised her eyes to him.

"Or against Henry," she added, quietly.

Hans laid his palm over the back of her hand.

"What then?"

Katherine's expression fell. Her gaze slipped sideways — toward the columns of light falling from the windows onto the floor, toward nothing in particular.

"The messages keep coming," she said softly. "Riders arrive. Others leave."

A brief pause.

"From Sokol, too. From Dry Devil."

She looked at him — and something glimmered in her eyes.

Hans put his hand to her shoulder.

Katherine covered her face with her palms and let out a long, trembling breath.

"Everything in me..." she said softly.

Her hands dropped to the table.

"Everything tells me it's coming again, Hans. War."

She shook her head slowly and exhaled — from somewhere deep — as though setting down a weight she had carried long enough to have forgotten its shape.

Hans leaned in and put his arm around her.

Katherine pressed herself against his shoulder and drew a long breath. Then let it go. Then drew another.

"Forgive me, Hans," she whispered.

He drew back a little. Looked into her eyes.

Shook his head — quietly, without words.

Katherine reached for her cup. Drank slowly — one, two swallows — and set it down. She wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her fingers.

"When we stayed on here in the autumn..." she said — steadier now, her voice back on solid ground — "after your wedding. I thought perhaps things were finally turning."

She looked at him. A small, gentle shrug.

A bitter smile.

"That life might be..."

A pause.

"...quiet," she said softly. Her gaze drifted to the floor. "Perhaps even good."

Hans watched her for a moment without speaking. Then drew breath.

"If you were to—"

"Zizka is like a man on hot coals," she interrupted — the words belonging partly to him, partly to herself, partly to the dark planks of the floor where her gaze still rested. She shook her head.

"When the talk turns to Sigismund. To Moravia. To the League of Lords..."

A long, audible sigh.

"I tend to leave the room." She dropped her eyes to the table. "I can't bear to hear it anymore."

Hans drew his palm slowly along her arm — once.

Katherine looked up at him.

She smiled — tiredly.

"And how are things at Rotstein?" she asked. "How are Henry and Jitka?"

Hans gave a faint smile.

"They both send their regards..." He paused.

His expression grew serious.

"As for how things are..." he began, slowly.

"They're well now."

Katherine tilted her head.

"What happened?"

Hans drew breath. Let it out.

"Someone attacked us," he said. "The estate. People were killed. And... came for me as well."

He looked at her.

Katherine stared at him — eyes wide, motionless, without a word.

"One of Erik's men," he said quietly.

His gaze dropped.

"I killed him."

He looked back into her eyes.

Katherine raised her hand and covered her mouth.

At that moment, the doors to the hall opened.

Both turned.

Bernard stood in the doorway. His eyes were on Hans.

"Zizka," he said.

A short pause.

"And Hanush." Radzig stood at the window with his arms folded, looking out.

Figures moved in the yard below — but he did not see them. He was somewhere else.

"Radibor, you said," he said after a moment. "Erik's man."

"Yes, Father."

Henry stood in the middle of the room, his gaze fixed on his father's back. On the straight line of his shoulders. On the way Radzig stood — with the unassuming certainty of a man who had spent years carrying things and no longer needed anything to lean against.

Radzig turned.

"You're certain?"

Henry met his eyes.

"Captain Thomas recognised him at once."

Radzig drew his fingers along his jaw.

"Hm."

He pushed off from the window. Crossed the room slowly — without apparent purpose, or so it seemed — and stopped at the cold hearth. He looked into the dark hollow.

"I made some enquiries through my people," he said. "About von Bergow. And about Erik."

He turned to Henry.

"Lord Otto is still at Chlumetz. Rides out to his allies from time to time."

Henry nodded. He waited.

"And Erik?"

Radzig drew a quiet breath. Let it out.

"Erik... it's as though the earth swallowed him."

He shook his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the window.

"After von Bergow released him at your request, he left Trosky with a handful of loyal men. And since then..."

He left it there.

Henry's brow drew together.

"You think—"

"I don't know, Henry," Radzig cut in — level, without edge. Not the way a man cuts off a sentence, but the way a man who can see where a sentence is going decides not to follow it there.

"My sources know no more of him than you do. Perhaps less."

He drew a slow breath.

"But you should be ready. For whatever comes."

Henry stood for a moment.

Then he crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands loosely joined, and looked at the floor — at the grain and knots of the wood, the ancient lines of growth rings hidden underfoot.

"Since Hans put down that Radibor," he said slowly.

He raised his head. Looked at his father, and lifted one shoulder.

"Since then, there has been quiet here. Order." A short pause. "Complete."

Radzig watched him for a moment — still, his brow drawn — then looked away.

"We cannot rule out that Erik simply moved on," he said, thinking aloud. "He may have thrown in his lot with the forces gathering in Moravia."

Henry's eyebrows rose slightly.

Radzig looked him squarely in the eye.

"Moravia is beginning to boil, my son. Sokol's request for Dry Devil's presence there was no accident."

Henry stood. He took two steps toward him and stopped. As though the distance itself were a question.

"What does any of this mean for us?"

Radzig drew a long breath.

"It appears Sigismund will soon unite his forces with Duke Albrecht." 

A beat.

"If he has not done so already."

He pressed his knuckles slowly against his temple.

"They have no fewer than twenty thousand men assembled near Znaim."

Henry's eyes widened.

"Twenty thousand," he breathed.

Radzig turned to the window. Folded his arms across his chest.

"And if Znaim falls..."

A slight shake of the head.

Silence settled over the room.

He turned back to Henry.

"You said Hanush sent for Hans urgently. That he required his presence in Rattay."

Henry nodded.

"We thought perhaps... that he was worsening." His eyes dropped. "He was quite unwell the last time."

Radzig shook his head.

"Hanush has his strength back, Henry."

Henry raised his head.

Radzig looked him directly in the eye.

"And I believe I know why he has summoned Hans." Hans stepped out of the corridor into the light and paused at the top of the stairs.

Below in the yard — Hanush. Standing wide-legged, hands on his hips. Zizka was a step in front of him, speaking quietly, his hands moving as he talked.

Hans watched them for a moment without a word.

His lips were pressed into a thin, still line.

Then he drew a quiet breath through his nose and started down.

"Uncle."

He descended at a steady pace — composed, deliberate — and both men turned and looked up.

"I see you are in good health and high spirits."

A short pause.

"Praise be to Jesus Christ."

Hanush laughed — loudly, from deep in the chest, with the unrestrained relish of a man whose laughter and his anger come from the same place.

"Hans!"

Zizka covered the distance in two steps and greeted him with a clasp of the forearm. Hanush clapped him on the shoulder — once, heavily.

"Good that you came so quickly, nephew."

Hans's brow drew together slightly.

"What is this about, Uncle?" His gaze moved from Hanush to Zizka and back. "Why did you summon me in such haste?"

Hanush looked at Zizka. Then back at Hans.

He gave a short, almost companionable chuckle.

"How much do you know of what is happening in the kingdom?"

Hans thought briefly. Then shrugged.

"Only what you told me when we last met."

He glanced toward the gate and back.

"We've had troubles enough of our own at Rotstein."

"Things are setting themselves in motion, Hans," Zizka said, gravely.

Hans turned to him.

"And what does that mean for us?"

Zizka looked at Hanush.

The older man gave a silent nod toward the steps that led up to the rampart and moved off. Zizka followed.

Hans hesitated for a moment. He looked around the yard. His brow tightened.

And he went after them. On the rampart the wind blew steadily — constant, indifferent — carrying with it the smell of the river and the wet meadows of the valley below. Hanush pressed his palms to the parapet and looked out across the land. The rooftops of Rattay behind them. The Sasau river catching the light between the water meadows like a lost strip of sky. The forests on the far slope, dark and dense.

Hans stood behind him and watched him without a word.

The wind moved through his hair.

Hanush turned. Looked at him.

"Tell me, Hans — what do you see?"

He nodded toward the town.

Hans pushed a strand of hair from his brow. He looked back over his shoulder — across the rooftops, along the towers of both castles, along the curved line of the walls.

Then he looked back at his uncle.

A shrug.

"Rattay. The upper castle."

Hanush nodded.

"Rattay is protected by these strong walls, two castles, and—"

He turned back to the parapet.

"—the river, the hills, the forest."

He turned to Hans.

"Rattay has never fallen, Hans. No one has ever taken it."

Hans glanced at Zizka — briefly, as though hoping to find in him some key to what his uncle was driving at — and then back at the older man.

He shook his head slightly.

"Where are you—"

"Imagine," Hanush cut in, "ten thousand enemy soldiers standing around these walls. Twenty thousand."

A pause.

"Would Rattay hold?"

Hans shook his head.

"I don't know, Uncle."

A hand came to rest on his shoulder.

He turned.

Zizka was looking at him — with the steady focus of a man who has never learned to say things gently, and has never tried.

"Sigismund is mustering twenty thousand men near Znaim."

A brief pause.

"And Znaim is held by Jeschek Sokol. And Dry Devil."

Hans's expression darkened. He looked at Hanush, at Zizka, back at Hanush.

"Such a force," he breathed.

His eyes moved across the landscape — the river, the hills, the lines of the land that had ceased, somehow, to be merely landscape.

"What are their chances?"

Zizka shrugged.

"Dry Devil should never be underestimated — you know that better than most, Hans. And neither should Sokol. But—"

He paused.

Hanush looked out across the land.

"Their chances," he said slowly, "would be greatly worsened if the traitors of the League of Lords were to join Sigismund."

Hans turned to him.

"Von Bergow?"

Hanush nodded.

"But he—"

"He has been riding among his men for some time now," Hanush cut in, "and is most likely weaving something."

Hans looked away. Brow drawn, gaze heavy.

"Hans," said Zizka, quietly. "We need Otto's attention turned elsewhere."

Hanush laid a hand on his arm.

"We need him back in Turnow."

Hans frowned.

"Surely you don't expect me to—"

He shook his head — sharp, dismissive.

"Henry, you and Dry Devil have built no small force at Rotstein," Zizka said.

Hans turned on him sharply.

"Henry can hardly storm Turnow! Or Trosky!"

Zizka raised his hands.

"That would be sheer madness." A shake of the head. "Of course."

Hans looked at Hanush. At Zizka. Back at Hanush.

Silence.

"You could send your men across the border from time to time," Hanush said slowly.

"Or sow uncertainty from the shadows," Zizka added. His gaze narrowed.

Hans looked at him.

A long pause.

The wind pushed and pulled at his hair.

"I don't like this," Hans said — quietly, but without give. "Not at all."

He shook his head.

"We are expecting a child any day now," he added — more for himself than for them.

"And above all—"

He turned to Hanush.

"What you are asking, you are not asking of me. You are asking it of Henry."

Hanush looked down and to one side and rubbed his palms together slowly.

"I wouldn't say there's much difference," he said, almost in passing — a small shrug.

Hans fixed him with a look — still, the steel in his eyes grey and hard.

Zizka drew breath.

"I have one more proposal, Hans."

Hans turned slowly.

"Release me from your service."

A brief pause.

"So that I may join the defence of Moravia."

Hans looked into his eyes. Gave the faintest shake of the head.

"I rely on you here at Pirkstein, Zizka."

Zizka dropped his gaze. Then raised it.

"And that is precisely why I am asking your leave," he said quietly. "I will not go without it."

Hans lowered his head. He pressed his fingers to his temples — slowly, in circles.

Then he turned to Hanush.

Hanush watched him without speaking.

"What I said the last time, Hans — about setting aside all quarrels between us," he began. "That stands. You have my word."

Hans looked at him for a moment without speaking.

He shook his head.

Looked out from the rampart into the valley below.

"And if Znaim falls," Hanush said after a while, "where does Sigismund stop? Kromau? Polna?"

Hans turned to him.

"Your inheritance is at stake here too, Hans. Your estate. And mine as well."

Hans gave a short, audible breath through his nose.

"My inheritance."

He did not so much say the two words as spit them.

Then he straightened.

He looked at Zizka. At Hanush.

"I must discuss all of this with the Lord of Rotstein," he said, and looked from one to the other. "I ride in the morning. And I will inform you of my decision as soon as I am able."

A brief pause.

"And of his."

A gust swept over the ramparts.

Zizka gave a nod.

"Time runs short, Hans."

Hans looked at him.

And without a word, turned and walked toward the stairs. "Were I standing where they stand, I'd likely call it sound thinking—" Henry said.

His voice was quiet — as though he were persuading himself to speak the thought aloud at all.

"—drawing Otto away, keeping him too occupied to do harm in Moravia," he murmured.

His gaze was fixed on the floor. Radzig watched him with his arms folded — still, patient — and waited.

Henry raised his eyes.

His father drew a slow breath. Tilted his head slightly to one side.

"And how does—"

He paused for a moment.

"—Henry of Skalitz, Lord of Rotstein, see it?"

Henry's mouth opened a little. He drew breath.

Closed it.

He looked away — at nothing in particular — and then back at his father. For a moment he held his gaze in silence.

"I know you told me back in winter that... that Wenceslas gave me Rotstein partly so that..."

His gaze moved across the outline of the castle on the tapestry.

"So that von Bergow would have no peace."

Radzig didn't move.

Henry drew a long breath. Let it out. Gave the faintest shake of his head.

"Jitka is with child," he said. "And God willing, the little one will come soon."

He nodded toward the half-open window.

"Klokotsch is doing well... the whole estate is."

He dropped his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap. His thumb moved slowly across a knuckle — out, and back.

"I've started building a mill. A large one."

He looked up at Radzig.

"I want Rotstein to flourish, Dad." His voice was firm, but not hard — like wood that has bent rather than broken. "I don't want to make it a battlefield."

His eyes fell again to his hands.

"I've seen enough of those."

Radzig watched him for a moment longer.

Then gave a faint smile.

"A mill, you say?"

Henry raised his head. Nodded.

"Down by Loktush."

Radzig drew his fingers slowly along his jaw. His eyes stayed on Henry.

"I would like to see that well enough," he said.

A beat.

"What would you say to a short ride?" Hooves struck the cobbles of Rattay's lower gate.

Hans rode through without a glance at the guards — eyes forward, his expression shuttered like a window against rain. Beyond the walls he pressed the horse into an easy trot and descended by the winding road into the valley, where the world opened in a wide, unhurried arc — hills, forest, river, meadow — and none of it asked anything of him.

Torn clouds drifted slowly across the sky. The sun was warm against his face, against the back of his neck.

He drew up at the river.

He narrowed his eyes against the sudden blaze of gold and silver on the water — the surface broke and scattered light in every direction, as though someone had upended a purse of coins beneath the current. Hans straightened in the saddle. He looked back toward the town — up there, behind the grey walls, the standards beat lazily against their poles, weary and at peace with the world.

He watched them for a long moment without moving.

His eyes moved slowly across the valley. Along the road, across the empty meadow before him, along the low wood that bordered it like a dark line drawn by a careful hand. Hans dropped his gaze to the rein in his palm. He ran his thumb along it — once, and back.

He looked ahead.

Pressed his legs against the horse's flanks.

The horse pricked its ears and moved into a trot — hooves falling soft and even into the earth. Hans touched it again. The animal snorted, drove its ears forward — and broke into a gallop, wholly and at once, as though it had been waiting for this since morning.

The forest spread into a dark smear at the edge of sight.

The mane streamed and lashed — across Hans's face, into the air. Beneath him, great muscles rolled in a rhythm exact and merciless, each stride the whole animal, its entire weight and force gathered to a single point and released again — and with it the breath, loud and sharp as a smith's bellows — and Hans joined that rhythm too. Deeply. Without knowing he had.

He closed his eyes.

The air struck his face and hair, cold and clean and without memory — it carried nothing, bore nothing, only speed. The animal beneath him. Its motion. And the beat of his own heart, which for a moment seemed the only real thing in the world.

He was air.

He was motion.

He was wind.

Hans opened his eyes.

Slowly he brought the horse back — through his knees, through his weight, through a low sound in his throat. The animal came down into a trot. It blew out a long, loud breath — one deep release — and turned one ear back toward Hans, as though asking.

Hans smiled.

He laid his palm against the horse's neck — once, warmly. The horse shook its mane.

Hans stopped.

He drew a long breath — grass and river and the warm smell of the animal beneath him. Let it out slowly. He looked around. The meadow, the wood beyond, the town on the hill, standards and towers and shadows — everything in its place, everything quiet, everything indifferent to what a man carries inside himself.

He turned the horse slowly.

And rode back at an easy trot. "Just through this grove and we're nearly there."

Henry glanced back over his shoulder. Radzig, riding a length behind him, gave a nod.

Henry turned back to the road.

"We're still only breaking ground," he said, looking back briefly once more. "The meadow, the riverbed. Before the mill is standing — that's the better part of two years yet."

His eyes went forward again.

The grove received them in soft shadow — the path narrowed to a strip of dappled earth between the trunks, and the canopy above had grown together into a vault: imperfect, full of gaps, but a vault nonetheless. Light fell through it in long, oblique bands. Birds were singing in the branches — contentedly, for no particular reason, the way creatures sing when they have no need of one.

Henry laughed, briefly.

He looked back at Radzig.

"You should have seen Hans's face when he heard."

Radzig laughed — openly, with full conviction — and the smile stayed on his face a little while after the sound had gone.

Beyond the grove the land opened wide.

To the left they passed a field of grain already turning gold — a light wind moving across it in slow, shallow waves, as though the field breathed, as though that great golden expanse had something beating quietly at its depth. They crossed a junction of tracks and rode on a little way across the meadow.

Henry drew his horse to a stop and extended his arm.

By the millpond dam, along the gently shifting bed of the Stebenka, a group of men moved — with spades, with barrows loaded with earth, bent in the postures of concentrated work. The water nearby caught the light and held it, calm and still.

They both dismounted.

Henry pressed his palms to the small of his back and straightened — a slow movement, his lungs lifting with it. His gaze was on the river.

"We'll make use of the pond."

Radzig watched him without speaking, a faint smile at his lips.

Henry turned to him and spread his hands.

"Then the whole valley can bring its grain here to be milled."

He looked past the lazily grazing horse's lowered neck toward the junction of roads and swept his arm — one direction, then the other.

"Right now it all goes either to Turnow, or around Kozakov all the way to Zahorsch."

He smiled — a little abashed, almost uncertain.

Radzig gave a nod. He crossed to his horse, took a wineskin from the saddle, and came back. He sat down in the grass.

Henry sat beside him.

Radzig passed him the skin. Henry opened it, drank, passed it back. His father took a pull, then set it in the grass beside him and looked out toward the pond, turning something over.

Silence.

Only the distant voices of the working men. The quiet slap of water. Somewhere beyond the meadow a hawk called — once, high, far off.

Henry looked at the grass between his bent knees. He ran one palm slowly across the other — out, and back.

Radzig drew a slow breath.

"A year ago, Henry..."

He began carefully — not with hesitation, but with intention.

Henry raised his eyes to him.

"A year ago I watched a boy from Skalitz—"

He looked at him.

"—I watched my son become a strong and feared warrior."

Henry dropped his eyes. Then looked at him again.

Radzig turned back toward the men labouring along the riverbed. He watched them in silence — their movement, the rhythm of the work, its slow advance.

"And today," he went on, slowly, "I see him become a builder."

He turned to his son.

"And a lord."

A pause.

"Henry."

He met his eyes — directly, without flinching.

"Guard what you have. And those you have it with."

Henry looked at him. Then gave a single, quiet nod.

Radzig reached into the grass for the wineskin and drank again. He passed it to Henry. Henry took a long swallow, then set it aside and looked up at the sky, where white clouds moved in slow procession — heavy and slow, as though drawn by invisible hands.

"Dad?"

Radzig turned to him.

Henry scratched the back of his neck. Wrinkled his nose slightly.

"You wouldn't happen to know," he said, "where a man might find a falconer?" Hooves clattered on the Pirkstein yard and Hans drew up his horse.

He dismounted — one movement, fluid and weary in equal measure — and at that moment caught sight of Pavel coming from the stables. The young man stopped.

"My lord!"

Hans raised a hand to shade his eyes against the afternoon sun and looked at him. He smiled.

"I'm glad you're here, Pavel."

He handed the horse to the stablehand and turned back. Pavel came to him and stopped.

"How is your mum?"

Pavel dropped his eyes for a moment — and then his face opened, like a door into a lit room.

"Her eyes nearly fell from her head when she saw me," he said.

Hans laughed.

"She says I look like a noble," Pavel went on.

And Hans could have sworn the lad had grown an inch or two.

He clapped him once on the shoulder.

Then he looked around the yard. Something moved briefly across his eyes.

"Pavel."

He turned to him.

"Find Zizka and Bernard, and bring them to the great hall. And Katherine."

"At once."

Pavel gave a nod and was gone.

Hans watched him for a moment. Then he turned toward the stairs.

He went up — slowly, but steadily — and at the top he stopped. He looked out across the ramparts, across the rooftops of Rattay. Then he turned, passed through the corridor, and made for his chamber.

The door closed behind him.

He pressed the fingers of one hand slowly to his forehead. Then crossed to the bed. He lay down on his back — hands behind his head, ankles crossed — and looked up at the dark beams above him, at a cobweb in the corner.

He listened to his own breathing.

The air in the chamber was still, cooler than outside, smelling of old wood and dust. From the yard below came distant voices — muffled, without content — then silence, then voices again. Hans did not hear them. His eyelids grew heavy. His thoughts began to soften at their edges, the way ink softens in water — still present, but without outline, without weight.

He was sinking.

A knock at the door.

Hans startled — his whole body — and blinked. He sat up. For a moment he simply sat, waiting for the room to reassemble itself around him. Then he rubbed his temples, stood, and moved to the door.

Two steps in, he stopped.

He turned back to the small table. Picked up the document bearing his seal. Then opened the door.

Pavel stood there.

"Everyone is here, my lord."

Hans gave a nod.

In the great hall Katherine sat at the table — Bernard across from her, Zizka beside her, one eyebrow slightly raised, his hands folded. Pavel made for the door.

"Pavel—"

The young man stopped at the sound of Hans's voice.

"Stay."

Hans moved to the head of the table and sat. Pavel remained standing — a little uncertain, a little watchful — his gaze moving across the others like a man who cannot tell whether he has been called as a witness or as the accused.

Hans looked at him for a moment. Then he turned to Zizka and held out the document.

"Would you?"

Zizka's brow rose slightly. He stood, took the paper, and looked at it. His gaze moved to Pavel — and back to the document.

The words moved through the quiet hall.

"I, Hans Capon of Pirkstein, do make known by this present letter to all who shall read it or hear it read aloud:

That of my own free will, and in recognition of the faithful and diligent service which Pavel, son of the late Peter, the farmhand in Squirnow, my subject within the domain of Rattay, hath loyally rendered unto me — I do hereby release him, and by this letter do release him, from bondage and from all obligation of serfdom whereunto he was bound to me and to my heirs."

Zizka paused and looked around.

Pavel stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips — as though he heard and did not hear, the words having arrived but their meaning not yet having found its way inside. Katherine raised her palm to her mouth. Something glimmered in her eyes.

Hans made a slight gesture for Zizka to continue.

He nodded.

"I do hereby grant him full power and freedom to settle wheresoever it shall please him, in towns or in villages, to seek service under whatsoever lord he will, and to follow whatsoever craft or trade, as do other free men. And likewise the children born of him in lawful wedlock shall be free, and shall by no one hereafter be drawn into bondage.

In witness and confirmation whereof I have set my own seal to this letter.

Given by my hand at Pirkstein, on Saturday, the feast of Saint Paul, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and four."

Zizka looked at Hans and held out the document.

Hans took it.

He turned to Pavel, who stood as though struck — motionless, the paper present somewhere at the edge of his understanding but not yet within his grasp. Hans extended it toward him.

"Pavel."

The lad came around the table slowly. He took the paper.

He stared at it — uncomprehending. Then raised his eyes to Hans.

"But my lord," he said quietly. "I don't understand."

Hans tilted his head slightly.

"What is it you don't understand?"

Pavel's gaze dropped. A faint shake of his head — barely visible.

"You no longer want me in your service, my lord?" he asked.

Hans allowed himself a small smile.

"On the contrary."

Pavel looked up.

Hans met his eyes.

"But if you remain in my service — it will be your choice, Pavel."

He stood. Extended his hand.

The young man looked at it. Then at Hans. Then at the hand again — as though he needed one moment more.

He took it.

Hans gripped it — firmly, once — and gave a nod.

Then he looked around at the others. And looked back at Pavel.

"We ride for Rotstein in the morning." Lukas pulled the cottage door shut behind him, crossed the yard, and set off slowly through the village.

The afternoon was easing into a warm dusk — the light thickening, going golden, lying long across the rooftops and the dusty road like something spilled and left to spread. The air hung heavy and sweet, thick with the spiced scent of elder flowers drooping over the fences in heavy white clusters, drowsy and utterly still, as though summer had woven them there and forgotten to move on.

From the inn came fragments of conversation and light-hearted song — a woman's voice, then a man's laughter, then the voice again — running together into a shapeless, warm murmur that belonged to the approaching evening as naturally as crickets and first stars. Somewhere a door stood open and the smell of frying onions drifted out into the air, hung there a moment, and dissolved.

Lukas looked toward the outline of the manor above the meadow. His thoughts, though, were taking their own paths — without asking his permission, or anyone else's.

"Lukas!"

He turned.

Martin the wagoner was sitting on a bench at one of the outside tables, waving to him — as though they had known each other considerably longer than they had.

Lukas paused for a moment. Dropped his eyes, smiled, and walked over at an easy pace.

Martin was on his feet with his hand out before Lukas reached him.

Lukas gripped it.

"How did you fare in Lautschky?" he asked.

"Well enough." Martin smiled. "Thanks to you."

He glanced at the younger brother on the bench beside him — the boy watching Lukas with the tireless, unblinking interest that younger brothers bring to the affairs of their elders — then turned back.

"We won't make Turnow before dark, though. So we're staying the night." He nodded toward the open door of the inn, from which drifted the smell of soup and woodsmoke and warm bread.

Lukas gave a quiet nod.

Martin studied him for a moment. Then smiled, a little shyly.

"Can I buy you a beer?" he asked. "It's the least I can do."

Lukas smiled and nodded.

Before long, tankards stood between them.

The beer was dark, faintly bitter, with a thin head already slowly subsiding. The bench still held the heat of the afternoon in its wood — a warmth that rose through cloth and skin like a kindness.

Around them the evening settled in on its own accord: the sky above the dark hills moving through amber and violet toward the first deep blue of night, and in that blue one uncertain star appeared, then another, feeling their way into the dark. The torches had been lit, and moths had already found them, orbiting in slow, devoted circles. The elder bushes by the fence stirred in a quiet draught and their scent came again, stronger now.

Lukas drank with relish. He set the tankard down and wiped his mouth with his forearm. He looked at Martin across the table — at the tan beneath the dark, wavy hair, at the broad chin and strong jaw, at the blue eyes looking back at him, steady and open in the torchlight.

"So you're a wagoner?"

The young man lifted a shoulder.

"For now I help my father," he said. He glanced at the younger boy, who was dragging a finger through a puddle of spilled beer on the table with grave concentration. "We both do — me and Vashek. It falls to us more and more."

He looked back at Lukas.

"And when there are markets in Turnow, we run an enclosure for the visitors' horses." A brief pause. "Like the fair next week."

Lukas set down his tankard. For a moment he looked at Martin's hands resting on the table — broad, work-darkened, fingers loosely laced, the hands of someone who had never considered them remarkable.

He raised his eyes.

"Next week?"

Martin nodded.

"Saint Procopius's day."

Lukas raised an eyebrow.

"We're meant to ride there ourselves — with our Stibor and the men from the castle," he said. "Our lord wants more horses bought for the garrison."

Martin tilted his head. Curiosity in his brow.

"What is it you do, Lukas?"

Lukas glanced briefly toward the edge of the village. The last of the light was leaving it — the houses becoming dark shapes without detail, the fences mere suggestions, the trees black silhouettes against a sky that had finally made up its mind to be night. The crickets were in full voice now, a sound like fine wire drawn endlessly through a ring, rising up from the grass beyond the road and filling all the spaces the daylight had left behind.

He drew a breath.

Looked at Martin.

"I'm page to Lord Henry," he said.

Martin looked at him for a moment without speaking. Something shifted in his expression — not surprise exactly, more a quiet recalibration.

"That's something," he said, with simple respect.

He looked down into his tankard — at the dark surface, the smear of light caught in it trembling faintly with the pulse of the evening. Then raised his eyes. An easy smile came to his face and he lifted the beer.

"When you come next week, leave your horses with us." He held Lukas's gaze for a moment, directly. "I'll see to them myself."

A smile spread slowly across Lukas's face — beginning at the corners of his mouth, climbing until it reached his eyes.

He raised his tankard.

And nodded. Hans turned over on the bed.

He pressed his face into the pillow and let out a long breath — from deep down, from the place where things without names collect. Night held the darkened chamber in its quiet arms. From somewhere far below — the yard, or the walkway — came the occasional soft tread of the guards, measured and distant, and with it a brief metallic chime, there and gone before it had quite arrived.

Hans threw himself over onto his back.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the dark above him — at the ceiling that was not there, at the emptiness that gave nothing back. He drew his palm across his forehead. His fingers moved slowly through his hair — from the roots upward, without purpose — and stopped somewhere in the middle, and his hand fell.

He closed his eyes.

Laid his forearm across them — as though he might seal the surrounding dark inside a darker dark of his own making.

He lay like that for a while.

Then his arms slowly dropped to his sides. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

The night did not move. The silence did not move.

Hans turned onto his left side.

He folded his hands beneath his head. He pushed one bare knee out from under the quilt — into the cool air of the room, where the warmth of the bed did not end so much as slowly dissolve. He exhaled — through his nose, long and slow.

He stayed.

After a while he opened his eyes.

He looked for a long time into the dark beside him — into the place where there was no one and nothing, only dark and air and absence. He watched it the way a man watches something he half-expects to move.

It did not move.

He turned onto his other side.

He drew the quilt up to his shoulder — one firm pull — and closed his eyes.

Outside, rain began to fall.

First only a breath against the stones — dry, swift, almost like a warning — and then drops, one and then another and then more, and then all at once, even and unhurried. The rain was quiet and patient and entirely without concern.

Hans's breathing slowed.

Slowed again.

And then — at last, like a stone finding the bottom — sleep came. The door of the chamber closed quietly behind Henry.

He stopped and listened — soft footsteps somewhere in the corridor, distant, and then the hollow sound of the guest chamber door.

And then silence.

He crossed the room slowly, undoing his doublet — finger by finger, button by button. He slipped it off and laid it across the chest.

His gaze came to rest on the tapestry.

In the dimness of the room it was half-lost to sight — the outline of the cliff and the castle barely traceable, the images quietly withdrawing into themselves, retreating for the night into the deep weave of the cloth. Henry crossed to it. Stopped close. He raised his hand and touched the surface with his fingertips — cool, rough, densely woven. He moved them slowly across it — across stone, across forest, across the line of the walls — and stopped.

He stood for a moment in silence.

Then turned and crossed the room.

He pulled his shirt over his head — one movement, quiet — and the night air brushed across his back. He laid it on the chest. Sat in the chair, took off his boots — one, then the other — and stood. Took off his trousers.

He stood there for a moment.

In the dark, in the cold, bare — something in him reluctant to let the moment go. As though his mind had something more to say, something still to take hold of, something still in need of a name.

As though he knew that once he lay down, it would have to wait until morning. Or longer.

He padded slowly to the bed.

He sat on its edge and looked toward the window — at the dark square in the wall, behind which the night breathed. He sat for a while and simply looked.

Then he lay down.

He turned on his side, drew the quilt to his waist. His hand slipped beneath the pillow — certain, unhesitating, knowing the way by heart — and drew out the shirt.

Henry brought it to his face.

To his nose. To his mouth.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in — slowly, deeply, the way one breathes the air above a river, the way one breathes in something that is distant and near at once, something that should not be as real as it is and yet is more real than anything.

Outside, the rain began to fall. The bootsoles found a shallow puddle with a quiet splash.

Pavel crossed from his own horse to Hans's and checked the straps and buckles with his fingers — methodically, without haste, with the practised understanding that care costs less than regret. He laid his palm against the animal's neck. The horse snorted softly and shifted its ears.

Pavel looked around the yard.

Morning light was pushing through the clouds — tentative, exploratory, testing whether the world after rain was still the same world it had left. It fell across the wet earth, pocked and gleaming with puddles, and lifted from them slow, lazy coils of mist that turned and thinned and dissolved before they had gone anywhere at all. Two Rotstein riders sat already in their saddles, still and patient as fence posts.

Hans stood to one side with Zizka and Bernard.

He glanced back at Pavel. Then returned his gaze to Zizka.

"Expect word from me as soon as I am able."

Zizka nodded — once, firm, without words.

Hans looked at Bernard in silence.

And then — at the edge of his vision — he caught sight of Katherine. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, hands folded before her, her expression composed, but her eyes wholly present. Hans crossed to her in a few steps and stopped.

Katherine looked at him.

"I hate to see you go," she said quietly.

Her gaze dropped.

Hans took her hand in both of his — carefully, the way one takes hold of something fragile not because it breaks easily, but because it matters.

Katherine looked up at him.

"If circumstances required it," Hans said softly.

A pause.

"Or if you simply wished to—"

Another pause — just long enough for the words to settle.

"—you are always welcome at Rotstein."

Katherine held his gaze for a long moment without speaking. Then she let out a long, slow breath.

"God keep you," she said.

Hans turned.

He walked to the horses at a firm step, swung into the saddle in a single fluid movement, and took up the reins. He looked back over his shoulder.

His gaze moved across the faces. Across the walls. Across the standards — heavy with the night's rain, hanging without wind, still and solemn as flags after a battle.

He turned forward.

Touched his heels to the horse and rode through the gate at the head of the group. Henry climbed the steps to the rampart.

He crossed to the gate and stopped. He laid his palm on the stone — still wet from the night's rain, cold and rough beneath his fingers. He looked out at the road.

The group of riders moved away along it like a brown thread being drawn through the land. The red-and-white banners caught the soft morning sun above them — bright one moment, muted the next as shadow crossed them — and their movement was easy and steady.

He watched until the mist took them. It lay thick and white and idle in the valley below, and it swallowed them without fuss and without trace.

As though no one had ever passed that way at all.

Henry looked a while longer.

Then he turned slowly. He walked along the wall — his steps quiet on the wet stone — and came down into the yard.

Jitka was coming through the door.

Henry stopped before her. He looked at her for a moment without speaking — at her face, at the morning light falling across it at an angle from the open yard.

Jitka smiled.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, gently.

Henry raised his eyes. His gaze went somewhere past her shoulder — far off — and then came back to her.

"I'm thinking of Hans," he said quietly.

A pause.

"How he is getting on in Rattay." — Three days later –

Hans came through the door of the Zhelejov inn.

He stopped on the threshold, blinked into the morning light, and drew his palm slowly across the back of his neck — an absent gesture, almost without knowing he made it. The air was clean and cold, carrying the smell of wet earth and hay from the farmstead nearby. The sun lay hidden somewhere behind a dense curtain of grey cloud that ruled the whole sky and swallowed both light and shadow, giving back neither.

Hans looked across at Pavel standing a little way off, and smiled.

"We'll be home by evening."

Pavel nodded. An expression played across his face — the look of a man whose thoughts have run a little ahead of him.

"Maybe I'll catch Johanka before dark," he mumbled.

Hans laughed quietly.

"Bring the horses."

Pavel disappeared toward the stable. Hans turned to the innkeeper, who stood in the doorway with his hands drawn together. He pressed coins into the man's palm — quietly, without ceremony. The innkeeper looked down.

"Thank you, my lord."

Hans studied him for a moment without speaking. The innkeeper raised his eyes — and the instant they met Hans's, they slid away again.

Hans's brow drew together slightly.

He stood without moving.

Then he shook his head and went to Pavel, who was leading their horses out.

He gripped the saddle. Put his foot in the stirrup.

And caught something at the edge of his vision.

Movement? A face? A shadow that shifted a moment before it should have? Or nothing — only wind in the grass, only a pigeon settling on a rooftop, only the morning going about its business?

He looked toward the corner of a nearby building.

Wall. Shadow. Nothing.

He held the spot for a moment. Then shrugged and pulled himself up into the saddle.

He rode out to the road where the Rotstein men-at-arms waited on horseback — still, upright, the banners furled for the road. Hans gave them a nod.

He touched his heels to the horse.

And the group moved off. Vidlak pond lay in its hollow like a grey wound in the land.

Heavy cloud pressed down over it, as though the sky itself had bent to drink — and the surface rose to meet it, dull and motionless, without gleam or reflection, like the eyes of a man who sees nothing. The reeds along the bank stood utterly still; the wind did not reach them. From the dimness between the stalks came no sound at all.

The group rode past in silence.

Hooves fell soft into the wet earth, nearly without sound. No one spoke. Hans looked straight ahead.

Beyond the pond, the forest took them.

The grey failing light changed beneath the dense canopy into something closer to dusk. The trunks thickened on either side of the road, drew nearer, and the branches above arched and interlocked into a vault from which daylight had largely been shut out. Hooves struck the earth in steady rhythm. The air was damp and colder than outside, carrying the smell of moss and old leaves and something else beneath them that had no name.

Hans turned in the saddle.

He looked back at Pavel and the two Rotstein men — steady, brief — then faced forward again, to where the road bent in a long curve and disappeared deeper between the trees. The branches moved lightly in the wind, and the leaves whispered among themselves, conversing in the knowledge that those who pass beneath them cannot understand a word.

Hans pressed the horse lightly forward.

They came through the bend. Before them the road opened into another long arc curving the other way — here and there swallowed by shadow, here and there crossed by a bar of light seeping down through the canopy, cold and thin and warming nothing.

Pavel drew his horse closer to one of the men-at-arms.

"Bandits hit us near here in the spring," he said quietly.

The man looked at him. His brow tightened. His eyes moved across the trees — the trunks, the dense undergrowth, the places where shadow deepened into something that admitted no further inspection. Then he looked ahead.

The group rode on.

Hooves. The whisper of leaves. A distant crack of wood somewhere deep in the forest.

Hans frowned. Wrinkled his nose.

He turned his head slightly — and drew the air in through his nose.

A faint trace. Sharp. Acrid. Wrong in that forest air.

Sulphur.

And then —

Thunder without lightning — deafening, close, from every direction at once.

The horses screamed.

The world split apart.

Into sound. Into pain.

—

A pointed muzzle moved through the grass along the fence, purposeful and intent.

The fox worked its nose between the stalks, into the soil — pausing, pressing on. Its russet coat all but dissolved into the dusk.

Then it stopped.

Raised its head. Turned it — across the meadow, toward the treeline — ears pricked, body still as a thrown stone.

A fresh wind crossed Foxburrow. It ran through the grass in slow, rolling swells, bent the linden and the trees ringing the meadow, and somewhere high above — above the rooftop, above the canopy — leaned its full weight into the clouds crossing the evening sky like a herd that cast no shadow.

The fox tilted its head. Held.

Then spun — one sharp movement — and was gone into the dark beneath the trees.

A streak of red. Then nothing.

As though it had never been there at all.

The rustle of leaves broke under hooves. Distant at first — steady, weighted, purposeful — drawing nearer until five riders came through the gate and hooves rang on the packed earth of the yard. Hans drew up near the linden at its centre; the others settled in behind him. For a moment he took in the property without expression.

Stables, house, forge. The lean-to beside it.

Then he looked back at his men.

"We sleep here," he said. "And ride on to Rattay at first light."

One of the Rotstein men-at-arms gave a brief nod. No words.

"Make camp in the yard."

He dismounted, swung the reins over, and stood a moment with his hands braced at the small of his back — stretching it out, tilting his head to one side, then the other. A quiet, grateful crack.

His gaze found Pavel. The young man was still climbing down from his horse a little way off, hands slow to leave the saddle.

"I'll get a fire going inside, my lord," Pavel said, without quite turning around. Matter-of-fact. The eagerness underneath it barely audible.

Hans nodded.

Pavel stepped off toward the door.

"Pavel—"

The young man stopped. Turned.

"The guest chamber is yours tonight," Hans said.

Pavel looked at him. His eyebrows lifted a little — not a question, exactly. Something quieter than that.

Hans held the look for a moment, then said nothing further.

"Go on, then," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved.

Pavel gave a nod and turned back to the door.

Hans took up his reins and led his horse toward the stable.

The yard had already settled into its military routine by the time he returned — voices, footsteps, the snap of rolled canvas thrown over a bench. The riders were making themselves at ease beneath the spread of the linden. Hans pressed both palms to the small of his back and watched them for a moment.

Then he drew a slow breath and turned left.

To the forge.

He stopped in the doorway.

Inside, the air was cooler than the evening and darker — charged with the old smell of ash and iron. Hans stood without moving. His eyes travelled slowly over the tools racked along the wall, over the coal in its box, over the anvil at the centre. Everything put away. Everything in its place. Everything precisely as Henry had last left it.

As though he had banked the fire that very morning.

Hans stepped toward the anvil and reached out. He ran his fingertips along the edge — the metal cool and unyielding, indifferent to the touch. He let his finger rest there a moment, at the midpoint of the rim.

Then he let out a slow breath and walked back out.

He crossed to the lean-to beside the forge, took hold of the edge of the canvas and raised it. What remained of the day's light fell into the interior — grey and thin, but enough. The bench. A shelf, a candle-holder. And in the middle of that small, screened space, the bathing tub of dark wood.

Hans sat down on its rim.

The wood was smooth beneath his palm. He ran his hand along it — slowly, without intent — then let it rest in his lap and looked out through the open flap of canvas, across the yard, past the linden, to the sky above.

Clouds moved from west to east, grey and swollen, but the gaps between them had begun to open. Stars appeared in one, then another — tentative, hardly committed to the hour.

Hans watched them without speaking. Henry's eyes drifted across the darkening sky.

Above the wall of the Klokotsch manor, the first stars were coming out — quietly, without announcement. He sat on the bench with his hands folded in his lap, looking upward, and did not notice the time passing.

"Henry?"

He gave a small start.

He pulled his gaze from the sky and turned toward Jitka, sitting beside him — and only then did he take it in, that she had been speaking for some while already. She smiled at him, gently, without reproach.

"Where did you wander off to?"

Henry looked across the yard. At the gate, two guards were exchanging torches — the flame tipped sideways as it passed from hand to hand, streamed briefly in the air, then steadied. Henry lowered his gaze. After a moment, he raised it again.

Jitka drew her hand along his arm.

"Never mind that I asked," she said, smiling.

Henry drew a deep breath. Let it out — quietly, with a trace of embarrassment — and looked down at his clasped hands. He ran a thumb slowly across one knuckle.

"They should be near Rattay by now," he said. "Or thereabouts."

From the stables came the soft clap of a hoof, then a snort.

"If all is going well," he added, after a moment.

Jitka gave a quiet nod.

Silence settled between them. Henry watched the guards across the yard, the torchlight shifting and catching on the stone of the wall.

"Are you afraid for him?" Jitka asked.

Henry didn't answer at once. Jitka watched him — calmly, without hurry — and waited.

After a moment he shook his head, his gaze still fixed across the yard.

"Before — I think I would have been. But—"

He looked at the flame wavering at the gate. Drew breath.

"—now?"

He turned back to her. A faint smile.

"You know as well as I do how strong a man Hans is."

His eyes drifted somewhere above her shoulder — a moment only — then came back to her, and he gave a small shrug.

Jitka nodded, thoughtful. A pause.

"And he can defend himself well enough," she said quietly.

Something settled in Henry's expression — heavier than before.

His eyes went somewhere ahead of him, and he ran one palm slowly across the other.

"I'm not afraid for him," he said after a while. "But when he isn't here—"

He stopped. Looked at her.

"—it's as though part of me is missing."

He dropped his gaze.

Jitka watched him for a moment. Then she drew her hand along his forearm.

"I miss him too," she said softly.

Henry raised his eyes. Jitka smiled at him — gently, with that particular tilt of her head that was only hers — and breathed out through her nose; almost a laugh, but soft.

"Though perhaps not quite as you do."

Henry smiled. He leaned into her and put his arm around her shoulders. Jitka rested her head against him.

"And when you are gone," she said, "I miss you no less."

Henry drew a long breath. Let it out.

"You know, last summer—" he began, slowly. "I was so afraid of what was coming. Of what lay ahead for Hans."

He drew back a little. Looked into her eyes.

"But now I can't imagine things being any other way than they are."

Jitka held his gaze.

She smiled.

Raised her hand and touched his face. The wine was dark, a little astringent, and smelled of earth.

Hans took a sip, held it on his tongue, swallowed, and set the cup down on the table with the careful, absent ease of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere.

Behind him, the fire spoke quietly to itself. The reflections of the flames moved along the walls like shadows that had lost their bodies — drifting, purposeless. Hans took in the room with the same absent quality. A bow hung on the wall. A hood on its hook. Along the shelf, a row of linen pouches of dried herbs, slightly dusty but neatly tied. A bench against the wall. In the corner, Mutt's bed — the hollow worn into it by a curled and sleeping dog.

The door gave a soft creak.

Hans turned.

Pavel came in — hair a little wind-tousled, doublet still fastened, his expression tired but settled.

"All seen to?" Hans asked.

"Ay, my lord. The men are bedding down."

Hans nodded. He held the young man's eye for a moment, taking quiet stock.

"Help yourself to wine, Pavel," he said, nodding toward the jug on the table.

Pavel hesitated — then gave a small nod.

"Thank you, my lord."

He crossed to the table, took a cup, and poured carefully. Hans watched him without a word. The fire cracked loudly — catching the wet grain of a log — and a handful of sparks wheeled upward and vanished into the dark throat of the chimney.

Pavel settled himself on the bench across the table.

Hans raised his cup. He smiled — but it was a tired smile — like a fire that no longer warmed, only gave light.

"Then let us drink to the success of our journey."

Pavel nodded. They both drank.

The lad set down his cup and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"My lord," he said, "if you'll allow it — I'd like to ride off in the morning. Stop by Squirnow. To see my mum."

Hans looked at him for a moment. Then gave a small, easy shrug.

"Of course, Pavel."

"I'll catch you all up in Rattay."

Hans gave a quiet nod. He lifted his cup again, drew breath — and let it out, long and slow, with the grain of a man who had been carrying the day for too many hours.

"So we shall both have our reunion with family."

A wry, tired smile. He drank.

Pavel watched him. Then raised his own cup and drank.

"I'm glad of it," he said. "I haven't seen her since—"

He thought.

"Well. Since spring, when we rode north." A small smile.

Hans nodded without speaking. His gaze had slipped somewhere past Pavel's shoulder, past the wall, past the forest beyond it. He raised his cup again and drank.

"I have no memory of my parents," he said.

He set the cup down and looked into the fire, where the flames were taking their time with a log.

Pavel said nothing. Then he lowered his eyes.

"I was still small when my father took the fever," he said quietly, his gaze on the table. A small, barely perceptible shrug.

He left the rest where it was.

Hans looked at him — and for a moment he saw him as he had been: a frightened, mud-streaked boy caught poaching in these very woods.

"What was your father's name? You've never spoken of him."

Pavel looked up.

"Peter, my lord. He was a farmhand."

Hans gave a slow nod. His gaze shifted to one side.

"My family," he said, after a moment. Quietly.

A pause.

"My true family—"

His eyes stayed fixed on the opposite wall — on the bow, on the hood — as though he were reading something pressed into those objects, worn into them by years of hands.

"—is at Rotstein."

His gaze dropped to the grain of the table.

Pavel nodded.

"Lady Jitka," he offered softly.

Hans exhaled. Looked at him.

"Lady Jitka," he said, slowly.

Something shifted in his face. Moved through it — not quite a smile, not quite anything else.

"Henry," he added, quietly.

His gaze fell again.

Pavel drew his fingers slowly across the back of his other hand. He said nothing.

Hans drew a long breath and straightened. He took up his cup and lifted it slightly.

"I'm for bed. And so should you be, Pavel."

He finished what remained in the cup. Set it down on the table with a small, final sound.

"We ride early." The shirt came off in a single movement.

Hans folded it — without much care — and laid it on top of the rest of his clothes on the chest. Then, in the silence and the dark of the chamber, in nothing but his smallclothes, he padded across the bare floor to the bed.

He stopped at its right side.

Stood there for a moment.

Then sat down on the edge.

He pressed his fingers into the back of his neck — slow circles, without much purpose — and his palm moved on across his shoulder. He glanced back over it toward the window. A black square in the wall, and nothing beyond.

He laid his palms on his thighs. Drew them slowly down to his knees.

Looked toward the wall.

His shoulders rose and fell in a long, quiet breath.

Then he lay down — on the right side of the bed, on his left side — and pulled the quilt up to his chest.

From outside came the sound of the night forest. Distant, even — the breath of something very old and very still. And into that sound — from somewhere far beyond the black wall of trees — a screech owl called. Once. Then silence.

Hans reached his arm out into the dark before him.

He laid his palm on the left side of the bed.

Drew it slowly across the mattress — out, and back again. The linen was smooth and cold and empty.

He turned his face toward the other pillow and pressed his cheek against it.

Closed his eyes and breathed in slowly through his nose.

Then lay on his back and let out a long breath.

He looked up into the dark above him — at the ceiling he could not see, at whatever was or was not there — and his lips moved without sound, shaping a few words. The fire in the hearth was burning down.

Low, spent — it tended the last of the large log without haste, as though reluctant to cause it more harm than necessary. The heat was quiet, amber, the light it cast rolling along the walls in slow waves. It passed over the cupboard. Over the chest. Over the sword propped carefully against its side — and for a moment the blade caught the glow and held it, before a shadow swept across and the light moved on.

Through the window, left ajar, the cool night air came in.

With it — the soft, unwavering song of crickets. As though it had been there before anything else and would remain when everything else had gone. Always the same, and yet each night its own.

On the left side of the wide bed lay Henry.

On his right side, loosely curled, the quilt drawn up to his arm. A bare shoulder rose into the cooler air of the room — and fell — and rose again, in the slow, unthinking rhythm of deep sleep.

Beneath his closed eyelids something moved faintly, now and again — as dreams came and went on whatever errand dreams run.

Henry held the pillow from the right side of the bed pressed to his chest — arms around it, close and firm and yet without force. The hands of a man who does not know he is holding on. And the fingers of one hand — certain, with a grip that sleep had not loosened — were closed around the collar of Hans's shirt. Henry opened his eyes and sat up.

Around him — darkness. Smooth, edgeless.

And then light. Wavering, orange.

Wrong.

The door to the chamber stood ajar.

Beyond it — light. Faint, flickering, less a flame than the reflection of one from somewhere far away.

Henry lowered his feet to the floor. The touch of wood beneath his soles.

He stood.

The glow drew him without his knowing why. His feet carried him on their own.

He crossed to the door.

Opened it.

Before him — darkness.

Impenetrable, dense as ink poured into the air. But within that darkness — a row of burning candles. They blazed and trembled and guttered, each one apart from the others, like stars scattered across a sky with no memory of what connects them.

They gave light. And yet illuminated nothing.

Each flame existed for itself alone, ringed by the dark that consumed it as fast as it rose.

Henry turned.

Behind him — a stone wall. Hard, damp, with moss in the joints. No door. No room. Only rock, cold and mute.

And in the air — the smell of rot. Sweet and heavy.

He turned back.

The candles were gone.

In their place — a surface. A body of water stretching away into the dark, black and still, and on it — pale, scattered — the broken fragments of moonlight.

Henry felt cold water around his bare feet, rising over the tops of them, pulling the warmth from his skin.

His heart lurched.

He took a step.

His foot found rough stone beneath the water — solid, sure. He took another.

And went under.

The water closed above him without a sound.

He sank.

Slowly.

Around him, pale shafts of moonlight flickered and moved — bending, stretching downward in long trembling ribbons that reached nowhere. Silence.

Only silence, and cold, and the slow fall.

Then his feet touched sand. Mud.

The bottom.

And before him — a body.

It lay without motion, limp, bare. Its back toward him, hair spread wide in the water. The moonlight slid across it — lighting it at intervals, leaving it in shadow between.

Henry leaned forward.

He saw the face.

He opened his mouth to cry out — and the water poured in. Ice through his throat, into his chest, into his lungs like heated iron. His ribs locked around the pain and the darkness came from every direction at once —

— Henry's eyes snapped open.

He gasped — loud, sharp, the kind of breath that seizes itself before it can be lost. He was sitting up in the bed. His heart hammered so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in his fingers. His shoulders heaved with the rapid rhythm of it. A thin line of sweat ran down from his left temple.

He looked around the chamber.

Grey light, the colour of approaching morning. The beams above him. The empty half of the bed beside him.

In his fingers — gripped tight — the hem of a shirt.

His breathing slowed. Gradually. Henry looked at the empty side of the bed and went on looking, until his heart began to find its own pace again.

He tucked Hans's shirt carefully under the pillow.

Then got up.

He crossed to the window and leaned on the sill. Outside, the world was coming awake without hurry — the grey sky paling in the east, the first birds calling from the trees, tentative, not yet certain morning had truly arrived.

Henry watched.

After a while he straightened. Drew a long breath. Ran both palms slowly up his face and swept the last of the sweat from his temple.

Then turned. Looked around the room.

For a moment he glanced back over his shoulder at the window.

Then crossed to the washstand, cupped water from the basin and splashed his face — cold, sharp, real — and then the back of his neck. Drops ran down between his shoulder blades.

He went to the chest.

Trousers. Shirt. Boots.

And left the chamber. The yard received him in daylight — clean, early, not yet weighted by the day.

The dark had gone for good, driven back into corners and behind walls and into the thickets where the sun had not yet reached. The air smelled of wet grass, of cold earth, of morning dew on stone — and beneath all of it, like a foundation, the faint scent of wood smoke from the first fires of the village. Cockcrow carried from that direction — one, then another, then a third from somewhere farther off, passed from roof to roof and fence to fence like a question handed across a crowd.

Henry crossed the yard. The guards greeted him with quiet nods. He did not notice.

The forge received him with cold and darkness.

He stepped over the threshold, reached for the leather apron and pulled it over his head with the ease of long habit — his hands already knew it, tied the laces behind his back, his fingers checked the knot without looking. Then he reached for the coal.

He built the fire without thinking. Layered, adjusted, coaxed. Before long the dimness of the forge was lit through with glowing heat — warm, pulsing, orange. The coal hissed, crackled, and fell quiet again.

Henry took up the tongs.

He gripped a steel rod and raised it into the light of the forge. Looked at it. Turned it to one side — cold, grey, unyielding. Then to the other.

He stood there awhile, the rod in the tongs, the forge behind him — and then he brought it slowly back. Set it down. Laid the tongs aside.

Sat down on the bench against the wall.

Forearms on his thighs, hands loosely joined. His gaze somewhere on the earth floor near the entrance.

His thoughts — far away.

The forge beside him lived its own life. It crackled, breathed out warmth and light in slow waves.

Henry sat. Without movement. Without words.

From outside came the sounds of a day getting under way. Footsteps on packed earth. The muffled exchange of two voices beyond the wall. The clop of hooves. Somewhere a woman's voice called across the yard — brief, sharp — and then silence.

Henry did not hear any of it.

He sat and looked at the earth and thought about things that could not be gripped with tongs, could not be laid into the fire, could not be beaten into any shape at all. The forge was dying down.

The coal darkened, the glow ebbed — not all at once, but in a quiet withdrawal, the heat leaving without ceremony. The shadows returned. The forge grew cold.

"My lord?"

Henry raised his head.

Lukas stood in the doorway. The morning light behind him caught his outline for a moment — and then, as the eye adjusted, it was simply Lukas, broad-shouldered and tall, a little uncertain on the threshold.

"May I—"

He stopped.

His eyes moved across the forge — the dark hearth, the tools laid aside, the tongs on the edge of the bench. The leather apron Henry still wore.

He said nothing.

Henry stood.

"What is it, Lukas?"

The young man straightened.

"Lady Jitka was asking after you, my lord." A brief pause. "Breakfast is ready."

Henry looked at him for a moment without speaking.

Then he took off the apron. Hung it on its hook — one motion, quiet — and walked out of the forge. The great hall smelled of bread and tallow.

Henry paused in the doorway for a moment. Jitka sat at the table before an empty bowl — finished, her hands folded in her lap, her expression calm and present. Zdislava was leaning close, speaking to her quietly, but at Henry's entrance she straightened and stepped back with a silent bow. A little apart stood Hata — hands clasped, back straight, with the bearing of a woman whose role had left little room for uncertainty — and she too inclined her head.

Jitka looked up at him and smiled, warmly.

Henry returned a mild smile, crossed to the table, and sat. His palm moved across the wood of the tabletop without thought.

"Lukas said you were looking for me."

At that moment the door opened and a serving girl came in with a bowl of thick grain porridge and a plate of bread sliced and spread with lard, scattered with rings of fresh onion. She set it all before Henry, turned with a quiet bow, and was gone.

Henry leaned over the bowl. The smell rose to meet him — warm, full-bodied, with a faint note of marjoram. He reached for a slice of bread and looked at Jitka again.

She had already shifted her gaze toward the midwife.

"That's mostly Hata's doing," she said, and looked back at Henry.

Henry took a bite, chewed slowly, and looked at the midwife with a question in his eyes.

Hata lowered her gaze. Rubbed her hands together. Then looked at him.

"My lord, I would ask your leave to bring in the local midwife — to assist me."

She glanced at Jitka and back to Henry.

"When the time comes."

Henry finished chewing. He looked at her for a moment without speaking, then at Jitka, then back.

A small shrug.

"Of course." A slight shake of the head. "There's no need to ask."

He looked at Jitka with a brief smile. She gave a nod.

Hata drew herself up a little. Drew breath.

"It is your estate, my lord, and—"

"Good, then," Henry interrupted — kindly, but plainly. "You have my leave. I'll send Lukas to the bailiff to see to it."

The midwife settled.

"Thank you, my lord. I'll be glad of it."

A brief pause.

"And the local woman will also help us find suitable women to serve as wet nurse in good time," she added.

From across the table came a sharp intake of breath.

Henry looked at Jitka. She was frowning slightly, eyes on the table.

He tilted his head and regarded her.

Jitka drew a slow breath. Turned to Hata.

"We did not discuss a wet nurse," she said, with a cool edge.

The midwife's eyes went wide. For a moment she had the look of a woman upon whom a beam has fallen.

"But, my lady," she said, "surely — it goes without saying."

She shook her head — half helpless, half urgent.

Henry rested his chin on his laced fingers and watched.

"If the Blessed Virgin herself suckled our Lord," he said slowly, "the King of Kings—"

He gave a mild smile and glanced at Jitka.

Hata drew breath.

"But, my lord—"

Henry raised an eyebrow.

"And my own mother never told me anyone else fed me but her."

The midwife exhaled — weary, controlled. She lifted her hands a little — somewhere between concession and resistance.

"My lord, certainly — given your birth—"

She stopped.

Jitka fixed her with a dark look.

Hata faltered.

"I — I didn't mean — I would never presume—"

She dropped her eyes. Shook her head. Then lifted them again — with a fraction more steadiness.

"It would be most unusual, and most unfortunate, for a noblewoman to go without a wet nurse." Her gaze moved to Henry. "And it could put the child at risk. The heir."

A short pause.

"And Lord Hans is not here to speak to the matter."

Jitka sat straight.

"I would say you are taking rather a great deal upon yourself, Hata," she said, sharply.

The midwife seemed to shrink by a small degree.

"My lady," she said quietly, eyes lowered. "I would never presume — but—"

She raised her gaze.

"It is not unheard of for a mother to find she cannot feed the child sufficiently. Or for long enough."

Silence.

Jitka looked at her without speaking. Her expression slowly softened — barely perceptibly, but Henry saw it.

Then she looked at Henry.

He met her eyes. Tilted his head slightly to one side. And gave a quiet nod.

Jitka drew a slow breath. Let it go.

She looked at the midwife.

"Very well," she said. "We will see to a wet nurse — in case of need."

Henry turned to Hata.

"I'm certain," he said, evenly, "that Lord Hans will find no fault with this."

Hata bowed — deeply, and with visible relief.

"Thank you, my lord. My lady."

Jitka gave a nod.

"You may go." The gust came from the north — hard, without warning.

It swept the meadows above Rattay in one long stroke — bent the grass flat, flung a scatter of cold drops into the air — and vanished, as though it had thought better of itself. In its wake, silence, wet and trembling. Then a second gust, shorter, more urgent — and again nothing.

Hans straightened in the saddle and ran his gaze across the sky.

Clouds moved fast across it — ragged, grey, like cloth torn on a thorn hedge. Somewhere behind them, far to the west, a band of blue still held — but no further than there. Above the road, above the forests on the far side of the valley, above the walls and rooftops and towers of Rattay, the tatters chased each other in a ragged, endless procession. And between them — at intervals — the sun broke through. Only for a moment before the next cloud took it, but in those moments the wet grass on the slopes ignited as though someone had scattered gold across it.

Hans lowered his gaze to the road.

The hooves of the group fell into the soft mud nearly without sound. Behind him, three riders, two bearing banners — Pirkstein's and Rotstein's — swaying in the fitful wind, now billowing, now slapping flat against their poles. Faces along the road turned toward them. Travellers on foot. A carter on a joining track. A herdboy in the meadow who had stopped driving his two cows and a calf and simply stood and stared.

Hans looked straight ahead. Toward the walls. Toward the towers of the upper castle rising above the town — heavy and certain, as though they had been there before everything else and had long since made their peace with outlasting it all.

The guards at the gate came alert before the riders had reached them. When Hans drew his horse up before the archway, one of them took him in quickly — brief but thorough, his eyes moving across the banners, the face, the armour — and dipped his head in a careful bow.

"Welcome back, my lord."

Hans held him in a look without expression — neither long nor short — and then touched his heels lightly to the horse's flanks.

They rode through.

The courtyard received them in the cool of its shadow, smelling of wet stone. Hans halted in the middle and looked around. From the arcade on the right came the steward — a heavyset man in a dark coat, slightly out of breath, as though he had hurried — and stopped before Hans's horse. He bent into a respectful bow.

Hans looked down at him from the saddle.

"Announce me to my uncle."

The steward gave a slight shake of the head.

"My lord, forgive me — but Lord Hanush is not in the town."

A pause. As though he were choosing his words with some care.

"He rode out this morning. To hunt."

Hans's brow drew together. His gaze moved to one side — across the courtyard, across the stone wall, across nothing in particular — needing a moment to find somewhere to put information he had not expected.

Then his eyes came back to the steward.

"To hunt."

The man nodded.

Hans drew a long breath. He looked around the yard — at the arcade, where a serving girl was restacking wood in a basket; at the horses by the stable; at the wet stone gleaming after a recent shower. Above the tower, a cloud's shadow passed. For a moment it was almost dusk. Then the light returned.

"When your lord comes back," Hans said, evenly, "tell him I expect him at Pirkstein."

The steward's eyes widened slightly.

"Of course, my lord."

Hans glanced back over his shoulder at the riders behind him. Then he urged his horse forward and turned back through the gate, into the town — and the banners behind him straightened in the wind before the next gust caught them and drove them hard the other way.

The steward looked at the Rattay messenger who had remained in the yard with his horse. The man returned the look and shrugged. The town went about its summer life and paid little mind.

Outside a shop front, a trader and a woman were haggling over linen — she waved her hand, he waved his, both with the conviction of people for whom the matter was one of life and death. From somewhere deep in a side passage came the steady rhythm of a hammer. On a corner, two women stood with baskets on their arms, leaning close, exchanging something in low voices. Three older men on a bench nearby traded stories — in equal parts amusing and indecent. From a yard adjoining the tavern, four children burst out — barefoot, dishevelled, loud — and vanished around the next corner.

And then someone noticed the banners.

It moved from person to person quietly and quickly, the way wind moves through standing grain. Heads turned. The argument over the linen died — the woman half-turned, the trader froze mid-gesture. The two women stopped talking and looked toward the riders. The men on the bench went quiet.

Hans rode at a walk, easy, reins loose in his hand.

His gaze moved across the face of an old man in a grease-stained cap — the man bowed low, Hans answered with a slight nod. His eyes moved on — across a cluster of women pressing back toward the edge of the road, murmuring among themselves — one of them raised her hand in greeting, and Hans looked at her for a moment and smiled, faintly, almost as though it happened on its own. A child who had been standing too close to the road and staring up at the banners with his mouth open stepped back sharply when Hans turned — Hans passed a calm gaze over him and rode on.

He continued down through the gentle curve of the road between the houses — the earth still soft after the rain, the hooves pressing quietly into it. The sun pushed through a break in the clouds and for a moment poured warm light across the rooftops. In a yard behind a low fence, a horse raised its head and snorted.

The riders crossed the square and turned left.

Toward Pirkstein.

Hans drew a slow breath. How many times had he ridden through that gate? A thousand? More? He couldn't have counted, and had never tried — but he carried every one of those crossings somewhere inside him, laid down without his knowing it.

The hooves rang hollow on the wooden bridge.

The guards at the gate had seen them coming from a distance. They stood straight, watching the approaching group — and greeted them with due respect.

Hans rode into the yard.

From the stables came a stableboy, ambling with the mild boredom of someone with nowhere pressing to be. He looked at the arrivals.

Riders. Banners. A lord in plate armour.

The lad's eyes went wide. He stepped back, caught his own feet, and saved himself at the last moment by grabbing the doorframe. Then he spun back toward the stables.

"Lord Hans has returned!"

He pulled himself together, ran to the horse, took it by the bridle, and bowed deeply.

Hans dismounted. He stretched his arms wide from the shoulders — a slow, grateful movement that ended in a quiet crack — and drew a long breath.

Bernard came down the steps at a quick pace and stopped before him, inclining his head.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Hans gave a nod.

"Thank you, Bernard. It was a long road."

"Hans!"

He turned toward the cry — and saw Katherine coming toward him at a near-run. He stepped to meet her and they caught each other.

Katherine held him firmly.

"God be thanked you're back," she whispered at his ear.

Hans drew back a little, looked into her eyes — smiled broadly — and pulled her close again.

"Are you a father yet?" she asked, searching his face.

Hans smiled — a little abashed — and shook his head. Katherine returned the smile.

Then her gaze moved across the yard to the two Rotstein riders who had dismounted.

Then back to Hans.

"And where is Henry?"

Hans gave a tired sort of smile. Shook his head.

"He stayed at Rotstein, to—"

He paused.

"It didn't seem wise for us both to leave," he added, more quietly.

Katherine's expression grew serious.

"Ah."

Hans raised his eyebrows.

"But young Pavel should be along soon. He stopped at Squirnow on the way — to see his mother."

Katherine brightened at once.

"That rascal came too?" She leaned in. "How is he getting on?"

Hans snorted softly and gave a crooked smile.

"You might be surprised. But he'll tell you himself, I'm sure."

He looked around the yard.

"Where's Zizka?"

Katherine lifted one shoulder.

"He rode out," she said. "Hunting."

A pause.

"With Hanush."

Hans's face stilled. He looked at her.

"With Hanush?"

Katherine gave a quiet nod and watched his face. Then she shook her head gently and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"You needn't worry," she said softly.

Hans straightened. Drew a long breath.

"I'll go and settle in," he said. "And then you can tell me everything." The bailiff squinted against the bright sky.

"A midwife, you say?"

He looked at his son with the gaze of a man whose thoughts had already moved on. Lukas gave a quiet nod.

Vatzek let out a breath — the exhale of someone with a long list — and pressed his palms to his thighs and rose slowly from the bench outside the cottage. Then stopped, turned back, picked up his cap, and set it on his head. He looked at Lukas.

"I'll find her and bring her," he said. "Tell the lord."

And he walked off into the village without waiting for an answer.

Lukas watched him go for a moment. Then he mounted and rode slowly out of the yard.

The road took him along the edge of the village, toward the meadow before the manor. He had not yet ridden onto it when something caught at the corner of his eye — down on the lower track.

He pulled up.

Looked.

A loaded wagon stood at the roadside, two horses in the traces — and around it, movement and voices, though he could not make out the words.

Lukas clicked his tongue, touched his heels to the horse, and rode down that way.

As he drew close, he saw that the right rear wheel had slipped into the soft ditch along the road's edge — the wagon had tilted, settled, and was going nowhere. On the box sat a boy, perhaps twelve years old, brow knotted, hands locked around the reins. Behind the wagon, a young man was throwing his whole weight against it — shoulders, body, boots slipping in the churned mud — and getting nowhere at all.

Lukas rode up and stopped.

The boy on the box turned toward him without a word. The older one straightened, wiped his palms together, and from beneath dark, wavy hair measured Lukas with blue eyes — calm, but watchful.

"Can I lend a hand?" Lukas asked.

The young man looked him over.

"That would be a kindness," he said at last, with the tone of someone who has exhausted the other options. "We've been stuck here a while."

Lukas gave a quiet nod, dismounted, and went around with him to the back of the wagon. Each took a side and set their hands against the boards. Lukas felt the wood under his palms.

"Drive them on," the young man called to the boy on the box.

The boy urged the horses forward. Lukas pushed — feet into the mud, shoulders into the wood — felt the weight shift and travel through him, felt his back and thighs come alive with the effort. Beside him, the same. His shirt clung to his back. His boots sank slowly into the earth.

The wagon didn't move.

They both straightened. The stranger exhaled and shook his head.

Lukas looked at him. He was perhaps a year or two older — shorter by a fair measure, but broad across the shoulders and built the way men are built who have never known work only by reputation.

"Once more," said Lukas. Plainly.

They set themselves again. The young man called forward. Lukas closed his eyes — teeth clenched, the muscles along his jaw working — and gave it everything he had.

The groan of timber.

A scrape.

Movement.

A shout from the box. The wagon lurched back up onto the road.

Lukas braced his hands on his thighs, catching his breath. He smiled.

The stranger shook his head with a broad, disbelieving grin.

"Thank you—"

He stopped.

"Lukas."

"I'm Martin." He wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it. "From Turnow."

Lukas gripped it.

For a moment they stood looking at each other without speaking. Lukas glanced over the wagon — the stacked crates, the canvas sheet — then back to Martin.

"Where are you headed?"

"Lautschky," the young man said. "To the farm there."

Lukas thought for a moment.

"Didn't old Barta used to drive that way?"

Martin smiled.

"He did. That's our father," he said, and nodded toward the boy on the box.

Lukas raised his eyebrows. Smiled. Then dropped his gaze for a moment — the way a man does when a thought passes through before he can name it — and raised it again.

"Safe travels, then, Martin."

The young man looked at him directly and gave a nod.

"I hope to return the favour."

Lukas smiled and waved it off. Martin went around the wagon, swung up onto the box, and took the reins — and the wagon rolled off, wheels properly on the road this time. Martin glanced back once, briefly, and smiled.

Lukas watched them go without speaking. He caught himself smiling.

Then he turned and swung back into the saddle. The pieces of armour fell to the floor one by one.

Muffled impacts — metal on dense old wood that dulled and drank the sound — carried through the quiet of the chamber. Hans bent forward and worked himself slowly free of the mail shirt, let it slide from his arms, and the heavy thing dropped with a hollow thud as a thousand steel rings chimed softly all at once. He straightened. Drew breath.

His fingers moved along the laces of the gambeson. His gaze was fixed on the books on the shelf — or rather past them, past the wall, past the ramparts, past the forests beyond. Further still.

After a while he stood in the room entirely bare.

He pressed his face into his hands and let out a breath — long, wordless, the kind that does not come from the mouth but from somewhere deeper in the chest. He stood there without moving.

A cold draught crossed his back.

Slowly he lowered his hands from his face. He looked down at the floor — at the pieces of armour scattered around him, at his bare feet standing among them. His palm moved absently across his chest, from the collarbone downward.

Then he turned toward the curtain on the wall.

He crossed to it, drew it aside, and passed through into the adjoining chamber. The air there was cooler, still. He made his way to the bed and sat on its edge. He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his mouth with his joined hands.

His gaze moved along the opposite wall — the cold hearth, the painting above it. Stags, hounds, hunters in a forest. The quarry in flight, the dogs at full stretch, the hunters bent over crossbows, bows drawn to strings that would never loose, arrows that would never fly.

Nothing there would ever move. Nothing there would ever become anything.

After a while he looked toward the window.

He rose. Walked slowly back into his own chamber, crossed to the chest, and began to dress — smallclothes, tunic. Then he stopped.

A thought that would not wait.

He went to the shelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books, paused, and reached into the gap beside them. He drew out a blank sheet of paper. Brought it to the table, set it down, and settled into the chair. He reached for the quill, dipped it in the inkwell.

And bent over the page.

Through the quiet of the room came a faint scratching — steady, soft, intent. After a while Hans stopped. He sat back and read over what he had written. His gaze drifted to the window and he sat for a moment, thinking. Then he bent over the page again and went on.

After a while he set down the quill.

He brought the sealing wax slowly toward the candle flame. It softened, began to run — a few dark gleaming drops fell onto the paper with quiet taps.

Hans turned his hand. Pressed his ring carefully into the wax.

For a moment he looked at what lay before him.

A small, quiet nod. The papers under Henry's hands rustled like dry leaves.

He went through them one by one — slowly, a little mechanically — reading in the manner of a man who reads for the second time what he failed to understand the first, and is not entirely certain, on the second pass, that he wishes to understand it at all. Vatzek's hand was careful but dense, and in several places the bailiff drove a thought the full length of a line as though herding cattle onto a pasture. Henry ran his fingers along a tallied row of figures. Tilted his head. Then pressed those same fingers to his forehead, as though the weight of it might be cleared away with the sweat.

The air beyond the half-open window was full of summer — warm, smelling of hay and sun-warmed grass, drifting over the sill now and again with an easy, heated lightness. From outside came the sounds of the manor going about its business — distant footsteps on the packed earth of the yard, muffled voices, a man calling somewhere beyond the wall and then silence. The ease of a mild morning. A quiet that Henry was not presently aware of, being occupied instead with another column of figures that the bailiff had laid out with a thoroughness that assumed no one would skip ahead.

He exhaled through his nose. Pressed the back of his hand to his lips.

Turned the page.

A knock at the door — respectful, but firm.

"Come in," Henry called, without lifting his eyes from the papers.

A soft creak. A pause — very brief, as though whoever had entered was taking stock.

"Henry?"

He looked up.

Captain Thomas stood in the doorway.

"Riders coming in." A short pause. "They're carrying the King's colours."

Henry sat up straight, and his eyes widened a little.

For a moment he stayed quite still — the paper still in his hand — then set it down with a quiet, decisive movement and stood.

"My father?"

Thomas allowed himself a small smile.

"Were you expecting someone else from the King?"

Henry stepped around the chair and headed for the door. They went to the rampart quickly — Henry a pace ahead, Thomas behind — and crossed the walkway to where the wall curved above the gate. Henry stepped up to the parapet, pressed his palms to the sun-warmed stone, and looked down at the road.

Below, at the fork where the track from Turnow split and one branch curved toward the manor, a group of riders was moving. Banners drifted and billowed in the warm wind — red and white, unmistakable.

Henry watched them for a moment without speaking.

Then he turned to Thomas — and in his face was something the captain had not seen there for several days.

He smiled.

Thomas gave a nod.

Henry pushed back from the parapet and moved toward the stairs. He descended quickly, but without haste — his steps measured, precise. He crossed the yard without stopping — a glance toward the guards on either side, one look left, one right. He passed through the gate and came to a halt a few paces beyond it.

The riders approached at a slow walk along the summer-softened road. Sunlight broke over the edge of a cloud and caught the cuirasses, the pommels of swords — and at the head of the column, on a grey horse, in an embroidered coat and pale armour, Sir Radzig Kobyla.

Henry stood and waited. His hands loose at his sides.

When they were a few paces off, Radzig raised his hand.

The group halted.

Father and son looked at each other — still, wordless. Radzig sat straight and easy in the saddle, his eyes on Henry, his expression unreadable.

Henry tilted his head a little.

"Welcome back to Rotstein, Sir Radzig," he said, with a smile.

His father leaned forward slightly in the saddle.

"I cannot deny I was glad to come," he answered.

Then he dismounted.

He crossed to Henry with an unhurried step, and Henry extended his hand. Radzig took it — firmly — and then drew him in and held him for a moment. Brief, but without reservation.

When they stepped apart, Henry glanced back over his shoulder.

"See to my father's men, Thomas."

The captain, standing a few paces behind, gave a nod. He turned and signalled one of the guards.

Henry fell in beside Radzig and the two of them set off at an easy pace across the yard. Radzig looked around — at the walls, at the standards, at three men training by the far wall.

"What brings you, Dad?" Henry asked.

Radzig drew breath to answer, but Henry didn't give him the opening.

"How long will you stay?"

Radzig stopped.

He laughed — warmly, with a trace of amusement.

"Let me catch my breath, Henry."

Henry dropped his eyes and smiled, a little sheepish.

"Forgive me," he said.

Then he looked at his father again.

A small shrug.

"I'm very glad you're here."

Radzig watched him for a moment. Something in his expression eased.

"Sir Radzig!"

Jitka's voice rang from the doorway — light, a little surprised, and openly glad. Both men turned.

She stood on the threshold, one hand resting against the frame. Radzig turned toward her and inclined his head — a full bow, deliberate.

"Lady Jitka."

His gaze settled for a moment on the curve of her belly beneath her summer dress.

"I see," he said, and smiled, "that the happy occasion is not far off."

Jitka lowered her eyes. Her palm moved across her belly — quiet, unstudied — and she smiled.

Radzig turned back to Henry.

"And Hans?"

His gaze moved briefly to Jitka and back.

Henry drew breath.

"He had to ride to Rattay. Urgently."

A pause.

Radzig ran his fingers slowly along his jaw. Nodded — once, easy, without surprise.

"To Rattay," he said, as though the word had come to rest somewhere already prepared for it.

A pause.

"I'll rest a little," he said at last — and looked at Henry once more.

"And then I need to speak with you about certain matters, son."