#rotstein

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“I hope there’s food waiting up there. I’m so hungry I could chew on these bloody icicles.”

Hans let out a laugh. “That’s my Henry.”

Henry frowned. “We could’ve stopped in Troskowitz. The inn — they’d have had something. Soup. Bit of bread…” He sighed. “Or bacon. Half a slab. Quarter. Anything.”

Hans chuckled. “Bacon! Godwin wouldn’t be too pleased — not during the Advent fast.” He gave a small shrug. “But Radzig’s right. We need to keep going. Days are short. By the time we get there, it’ll be almost dark.” He glanced ahead. “Must be just over the rise by now.”

Henry only sighed through his nose and leaned forward, closer to the mane.

Their horses moved slowly, steadily — hooves muffled by the snow, as if the forest were padded wall to wall. Fresh hoofprints gleamed beside the road, pressed deep and clean. A small group, marching at pace.

Radzig rode at the front, upright in the saddle. Behind him, six royal guards — silent, single-file. And at the rear, the final pair: the two of them.

The air was clear. So still it carried the sound of one’s own breath. And the land — the land was white. White and cold. Ancient beeches stood motionless, their gnarled limbs heavy with snow. Now and then, dark spruces pierced the drifted silence. Animal tracks crossed the path — hare, perhaps a doe, or a fox. The air smelled of frost and bark and pine.

Then — the hush of the woods grew just a little thinner. As if something stirred within it.

Radzig slowed. Then drew to a halt.

The guards rattled faintly as they pulled back on the reins. One by one, they veered off — fanning out on either side. Making way.

Henry nudged his horse forward. Hans did the same. They rode up alongside Radzig.

Now the three of them stood at the very edge of the woods. And ahead of them—

“Well, fuck,” Hans breathed.

The valley opened wide before them.

Snow-covered. Still. Silent. The road snaked through the fields like a dark ribbon, dipping into hollows and re-emerging past scattered homesteads. The cottages were unevenly spaced, each at a different angle, some crooked, some slouched behind sagging fences or half-buried orchards. Here and there, the clusters looked almost like little villages. Thin columns of smoke rose from their chimneys.

Across the far side of the valley, the land began to rise — and there, spread in layers along the slope, sat a larger village. Houses nestled together with fenced-in gardens, sheds, plots of farmland. And beyond them—

Something that didn’t seem to belong. Or rather — had always belonged.

The rock.

A massive sandstone wall stretched across the ridge like a frozen wave. Dark with frost, veined with ice, dusted in snow. It ran far and wide — and at its end, looming above the village, stood four stone towers. Tall. Staggered. Like fingers clawing their way out from the underworld.

And on them — a castle.

Not built on a plain. Not perched upon a hill. But anchored into the rock itself. Grown from it. Bound to it. Raised above the world on its back.

A wooden watchtower jutted from one of the stone columns like a root from a stump. Beneath its lee clung a narrow walkway. Higher still, the stone walls of the keep came into view — narrow windows, a steeply pitched shingle roof. And around it — nothing. Only drop. Only air.

It wasn’t a castle that had been built atop stone — It was stone. Not a crown upon the head of a hill — but a tooth in the jaw of the land. A fist clenched beneath the earth.

From a distance, it barely looked like a castle at all.

It looked like the land had made a choice. And become a fortress.

Henry stared ahead in silence. He hadn’t realised his mouth had fallen slightly open.

The wind swept across the valley. Far above, a raven wheeled through the sky.

Radzig turned toward him slowly. He watched him for a while — saying nothing. Henry didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed beyond the valley, past the village, toward the rising stone. As if his mind were racing with things he didn’t know how to name. But knew, somehow, he would have to claim and understand.

“This is your land now, son,” Radzig said quietly. “Welcome to Rotstein.”

Henry turned his head. Slowly. He swallowed.

“I’ve never seen a castle like that before.”

A faint smile touched Radzig’s lips. “You’ll see it up close soon enough.”

He nodded toward the opposite slope.

“That’s Klokotsch — the village below the fortress. Just at the edge, beneath the rock, there’s a fortified manor. The bailiff should be waiting for us there.”

“A manor sounds a touch cosier than a cliffside stronghold,” Hans muttered.

Radzig let the comment pass. His eyes returned to his son.

“Henry?”

Henry drew in a breath. Slowly. As if he had to let the air enter first.

“Let’s ride.”

He gave the reins a slight tug.

They started down the slope — not fast, but steady, with purpose. Radzig followed. Hans behind him. And behind them all — a royal guardsman bearing Henry’s banner high above his head, and the five others trailing in formation. They rode through the valley. Through the whiteness of a winter land, already slipping into the long shadows of the afternoon. The light was weakening. The snow gleamed in some places, dulled in others — depending on where the sun still touched, and where only its memory remained.

The road narrowed. The farmsteads crept closer.

Quiet homesteads with shuttered barns. Half-latched gates. Empty gardens under a veil of frost.

But as they neared Klokotsch — things changed.

The village was alive.

Not loudly — but unmistakably.

A wooden church stood a little way off the road. Small, snow-covered, with a modest belfry. Someone was sweeping the steps. From the square came the sound of laughter. Light spilled from the open door of the tavern — and with it the warmth of voices, the hush of movement.

And then—

the glances began.

Not boldly. But inevitably.

Some villagers paused where they stood. Others exchanged quiet words, eyes drifting toward the road. The children fell silent. A few women curtsied, hands at their aprons. Men nodded. One older woman bowed deeply — properly — as one ought to.

Henry tried to keep his eyes ahead — but they darted. He didn’t let his gaze settle on anyone for more than a second. As if afraid that if he truly locked eyes with someone, something would begin.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

Hans rode behind him. Upright. Calm. There was a faint smile on his lips — barely there.

And Henry thought — for him, this is… normal. Natural.

A nobleman, accustomed to being seen.

As if reading his thoughts, Radzig spoke.

“The bailiff and the villagers were informed in advance. They know their new lord is arriving.”

He paused.

Then smiled, just slightly.

“Don’t be surprised they’re curious about you.”

Henry drew a breath — as if to answer. But the words didn’t come. He searched for them, briefly — then only shook his head and exhaled.

They rode through the entire village. And beyond its edge, a little off the road — towards the rising cliffs — a manor appeared.

It wasn’t small. Nor weak.

Fortified walls. A gatehouse with a modest tower. Several wings with steep roofs heavy with snow. But beneath the towering rock that loomed directly behind it — far taller, more unyielding and silent than it had seemed from afar — the place felt almost modest.

“Reminds me a little of Semine,” Hans said, glancing over at Henry.

Henry thought for a moment — then nodded. A quiet snort of laughter escaped his nose.

“Well, I hope that’s where the resemblance ends.”

A man stood at the gate.

Thickset. Middle-aged. His cheeks were red from the cold — and perhaps from nerves. He wore a heavy quilted coat and a fur cap, slightly askew. It was clear he’d put on the best he owned.

He stared toward them, rubbing his hands together without thinking.

As the riders reached the gate and drew to a halt, the man stepped forward and offered a deep bow.

“Welcome, my lord,” he said, his voice straining with effort and tension. “I’m Jakub Vatzek — bailiff of Klokotsch.”

The riders dismounted.

Radzig stepped forward, nodded to the bailiff, then gestured toward Henry.

“In the name of King Wenceslas, I present to you Henry of Skalitz — new lord of Rotstein.”

Vatzek bowed again. Deeper this time.

“It is an honour, my lord,” he said. “A true honour to meet you.”

He hesitated for a breath. Looked at Henry, as if waiting for a response — or a sign.

Henry collected himself.

“I’m glad to see the village is in good hands.”

Then, remembering Hans beside him, he stepped lightly to the side.

“This is Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein. My honoured guest… and closest friend.”

Vatzek bowed to him as well — a shorter gesture, but respectful.

“Welcome to Rotstein, sir.”

Then he glanced around, as though making sure it was proper to proceed.

“If the lords would permit,” he said, “I’d lead you to the castle now — while there’s still some light.”

Radzig gave a nod.

“Formally, the passing of the estate must be completed at the keep itself.”

Henry turned toward him.

“Then let’s not waste time.”

Vatzek mounted his horse and set off.

He led them around the manor — past a fenced pasture, toward the very base of the cliffs.

The road wound slowly uphill, edging through sparse trees as it curved along the rock face.

Before long, they passed beneath a gate — and emerged onto a natural platform.

A lower bailey, enclosed by a timber palisade. Partly in shadow, where the cliff and the woods stole the sun — and partly bathed in what little daylight remained.

Sheds. Stables. Wooden lean-tos. Storage buildings. Workshops. Small cottages for servants. All of it lived-in. Active. Straw underfoot, ice crusted on buckets, smoke curling from a smokehouse, voices, the distant ring of a hammer, the sharp bark of a dog. People stepped aside to make way, respectful — but didn’t stop working.

Henry looked around, quietly. Hans too. No one spoke.

The day was nearly spent. The sun had dipped behind the cliffs, and the cold in the shadow had turned sharp again.

In the middle of the yard, Bailiff Vatzek pulled up his horse.

“We’ll have to walk from here,” he said.

They all dismounted. Henry. Hans. Radzig. The king’s guards.

A young stableboy — clearly nervous — came to take the reins, one by one. Vatzek gave him a nod, then turned back to Henry.

“The upper bailey is reached by a stone stairway. Horses aren’t taken up there.”

He paused.

“In dire times — under siege — they could be led up. But only on foot. And very carefully,” he added.

Henry nodded. He watched his horse vanish beneath the stable roof — then turned toward the path ahead, vanishing into shade.

“These people,” he said, glancing toward the workers and craftsmen. “Are they here for the castle, or for the village?”

“For both,” the bailiff answered. “But since the house of Rotstein died out two winters ago — with no heirs — there’s been only a small garrison in the keep. So these days… mostly for the village.”

The path climbed higher, winding up the slope. First dirt. Then timber. Then stone — stairs carved between the rocks. Narrow in places. Steep. Lined by a low palisade.

They went one after the other. No words. Only breath. Footsteps. The soft rustle of cloaks.

Until they reached another ledge.

The upper bailey.

It curled along the western face of the cliffs, terraced and quiet. Already in half-shadow — though the last of the sun still glinted on the shingles of the highest shelter.

A few wooden storehouses. Timber lean-tos pressed against the stone. Two guards in the distance. A coal basket still smoking. A dented barrel. Dirty snow. Stillness.

And ahead — the inner gate.

Guarded by a trench and a narrow wall-walk, overlooking the village far below.

A man stood before it.

At the sight of them, he straightened.

A few paces off, couple of soldiers stirred. They snapped to attention.

The bailiff stepped forward and turned to Henry.

“This is Stibor, my lord. Captain of the garrison.”

The man was lean and serious — no more than thirty — clad in light mail. He gave a short bow.

“I am at your service, my lord.”

Henry nodded. “How many men are stationed here?”

Stibor shrugged lightly.

“At the moment… five. Not counting myself.”

Hans raised an eyebrow.

“Five?” he repeated under his breath.

He and Henry exchanged a glance — not alarmed, but surprised.

Then Henry turned back to the bailiff.

The man hesitated.

“Since the castle has had no lord… since it passed into the hands of the Crown…” He faltered. “And with King Wenceslas absent from Bohemia… we’ve done what we could. But it’s not easy to keep a larger force here under those conditions.”

“That is precisely why,” came Radzig’s calm voice behind them, “King Wenceslas, upon his return, granted this estate in fief to Lord Henry.”

He looked at him.

Henry slowly turned — taking in the gate, the soldiers, the quiet stone around them. And then he met Hans’s eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing.

Henry turned back to Stibor.

“There’s work to be done,” he said with a slight smile.

Bailiff Vatzek cleared his throat — loudly. There was relief in his face, though he tried to hide it.

“If the lords would permit,” he said, “we’re nearly at the castle.”

He nodded toward the wooden bridge that spanned the trench — linking the upper bailey to the castle keep.

Suspended high above the drop, stretched between two stone pillars.

Henry nodded.

They moved forward.

Stibor took the rear — joined by a few of his men, who fell in silently.

They crossed the bridge.

And stepped onto the main rock platform.

Before them stood a stone building — a two-storey keep with whitewashed walls, set straight into the cliff. Torchlight shimmered faintly across the plaster. The roof was steep and shingled, with a wide overhang.

Below it, the footing gave way to a strange, broken courtyard — or rather a series of uneven terraces, timber stairs and walkways woven among the rocks like a web.

There was no sound. Only the crunch of snow beneath boots — and the hiss of torches in the evening air.

Bailiff Vatzek stepped up to the doors of the keep and drew back the heavy bar. Then he gestured to one of the soldiers holding a torch — who stepped inside first.

Light began to rise from within.

The man walked through a narrow entry chamber, lighting torch after torch along the walls — and with each new flame, the great hall came into view. A stone hearth. A heavy table. A few thick chairs.

It was clean. But lifeless.

No curtains. No tapestries. Just bare walls and cold air — scented with sandstone and abandonment.

Henry, Hans, Radzig, Vatzek and Stibor entered. The king’s guards remained by the door. A few men from the garrison took position along the sides of the hall.

Radzig stepped over to one of the royal guards and retrieved a document from a leather case — a rolled parchment bearing the king’s seal. Henry knew it well.

Radzig looked to Vatzek.

The bailiff gave a small nod.

“Please, Sir Radzig.”

Radzig unrolled the parchment and began to read. Slowly. Clearly. His voice steady and firm.

“By the grace of God, we, Wenceslas…”

Henry heard the words as if from far away.

This time, the floor didn’t sway beneath him — not like it had back in Rattay. But the weight was still there. Different now. Quieter. Sober.

He felt, fully, that he was standing in the midst of something larger than himself. And that — perhaps for the first time — he felt responsible.

For Stibor. For Bailiff Vatzek. For the stableboy below. For the old woman who had bowed so carefully. For Rotstein, and Klokotsch. For the scattered cottages tucked into the valley.

And above all — for the man he knew would be there. Always. In all things.

His gaze found Hans.

He was standing off to the side, listening to Radzig, eyes fixed on the parchment. Henry realised, with a touch of guilt, that he was staring. That he was tracing the line of his jaw. The strand of hair that had fallen loose across his brow. His broad shoulders, and the curve of his waist.

His gaze had become a touch.

“Given by our hand and seal at Prague Castle, on the eleventh day of the month of November, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and three, on the feast of Saint Martin.”

Radzig finished reading.

He drew a breath. Rolled the parchment slowly — and looked first at Henry, then at Vatzek.

The bailiff stepped closer to Henry. He bowed his head with care. And when he raised it again, his eyes met Henry’s directly.

“We accept you, Lord Henry, as our liege and sovereign,” he said.

Henry gave the faintest of nods.

Vatzek held his gaze for a moment longer.

“Welcome to your castle and your land.”

Henry said nothing.

But the silence between them held more than just ceremony.

As it stretched, Vatzek shifted slightly on his feet.

“Does my lord have any first instructions?” he asked at last.

Henry parted his lips — then closed them again. He wasn’t ready for this moment. Not quite so soon.

“I believe,” Radzig said calmly, “his lordship wishes all current functions of the estate to remain in place — until he has had the chance to acquaint himself with every matter in full.”

Henry gave a quiet breath of relief — and smiled.

“Yes. That was exactly my intention.”

A flicker of a smile returned to Vatzek’s face. This time, it was genuine.

“You may rely on me, my lord.”

After that, the bailiff quickly showed them the rest of the keep.

He led them to two larger chambers — spacious, with carved trunks, heavy beds, and a view of the valley. Then two smaller ones — plain, but clean — and a small chapel. On the lowest floor, already carved into the stone itself, lay the black kitchen. Not far from it — the well.

“It goes down over twenty fathoms,” Vatzek explained. “Draws water from beneath the rock. It supplies the entire castle.”

He stopped there — placing one hand on the cold stone casing.

“This castle is very old. Much of it lies below us. Between the rocks. Inside them.”

He paused.

“But there’ll be time enough for a proper tour in the coming days.”

He turned back to them.

“For now, I’d like to show you the manor house in the village — where we first met. The keep hasn’t been lived in for some time. The nobility resided there instead.”

Henry nodded. And let his eyes travel across the bare hall once more.

The table. The hearth. The torches.

And then — toward the door.

As they crossed the bridge back toward the bailey, Hans nudged Henry lightly in the ribs. “Look,” he said, nodding forward.

Henry looked into the distance. The horizon had nearly vanished — but there, on the edge between darkening sky and the black line of the land, a shape still stood clear.

“Trosky,” Henry breathed.

“I didn’t expect we’d see it even from here,” Hans said softly.

He paused, thoughtful. Then smirked.

“Though maybe they’re the ones who should be nervous now. You’ve got them in plain sight.”

Henry gave a quiet smile — and rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go.” Night had already fallen by the time they returned to the manor at Klokotsch

The guards at the gate greeted them with a bow — and opened without a word. Torchlight spilled into the courtyard.

They rode in and dismounted. The stablehands came to take the horses, and the soldiers stepped back into the shadows.

They stood in the centre of the rectangular yard — quiet, snow-covered, but fully in use. Above them, the black mass of the castle cliff loomed against the night sky.

“That building across the yard is the noble residence,” said Vatzek, pointing to a two-storey house with a high-pitched roof and several windows.

“On the right — the stables, smithy, and storage. On the left — the staff quarters.”

Henry looked around, his eyes drifting from place to place. Until they stopped at the smithy.

It wasn’t large. But it was well-kept. A forge. An anvil. Tools hung in order. A clean floor. A canvas sheet pulled over the coal box.

Vatzek kept talking — but Henry heard only fragments.

“Most of the staff don’t live inside the manor. They’re from the village. And with no lord in residence… only four guards stayed here full-time. One or two servants. Depending on the need.”

Henry’s thoughts wandered. The horses would need new shoes — soon. And—

A light pat between the shoulder blades broke the thread.

He turned.

Hans was looking at him, mildly amused.

Radzig and Vatzek were both watching him.

Henry flushed.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I was thinking.”

Hans smiled.

“The bailiff was asking,” he said softly, “if you mind him using the lower room in the noble wing. While he’s still overseeing the estate.”

Henry thought for a moment — then nodded.

“Of course. It’s fine. Let him use it as long as needed.”

Vatzek gave a small bow.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Then he clapped his hands together.

“Well then — perhaps we should have a look inside. So the lords may settle in.”

They climbed the exterior wooden staircase to the upper floor.

Through the doors, they stepped into a corridor — long, light, with a timber-beamed ceiling. A smaller hallway branched off to the left just past the entrance.

“On the left are two guest rooms,” said Vatzek, pointing forward. “And on the right—” he nodded to the nearest door “—the lord’s quarters. Two chambers and an anteroom.”

He turned to Henry.

“May I, my lord?”

Henry nodded.

The bailiff opened the door on the right. They all stepped inside.

It was a spacious anteroom — with a small table, a bench, and two chairs. Ahead, another door. And another set — to the left wall.

Vatzek crossed to the left-hand doors and opened them.

Behind them lay a large, well-appointed chamber.

Along the longer wall stood a carved wooden bed — high-framed and thick with furs. Across from it — a fireplace already laid with logs. More furs on the floor. Tapestries along the walls — forests, animals, crags — and one of Rotstein itself. A cabinet. Two iron-bound trunks. Shelves. A writing desk and chair by the window. Another chair stood near the head of the bed.

“The lord’s main chamber,” said the bailiff. “I trust Lord Henry will make use of it.”

Henry walked quietly through the room. He ran his hand along the bedframe — then stopped by the window.

He looked out — into the dark, where only the cliff’s outline could be seen.

“What’s down there?” he asked after a while.

“I quite forgot to mention the garden,” Vatzek said. “It’s accessible from the courtyard. But in winter, it mostly serves to store firewood — under the lean-to.”

He paused.

“There’s a small gate at the far end. Leads out toward the cliffs. And the castle.”

Henry nodded.

Then he gestured to a smaller door in the side wall.

“And this?”

The bailiff crossed the room, opened it, and stepped aside.

“The lord’s second chamber.”

They walked in.

It was slightly smaller — but clean, well-appointed. Another bed. A trunk. A table and chair. Furs. Tapestries. A fireplace.

Vatzek walked through to the other end and opened a door on the far wall — leading back into the anteroom.

Henry, Hans, and Radzig took it all in silently.

Then the bailiff led them back to the main hallway and showed them the two rooms on the left-hand side.

Both were modest but solidly furnished. Clean. Tidy. Prepared.

“I’d rest here tonight — if you’ll allow it, son,” said Radzig with a smile, standing in the doorway of the larger one.

“Whatever you say, Dad,” Henry nodded.

But Radzig only shook his head — still smiling.

“Your word holds here now.”

Henry let out a quiet laugh and shook his head.

“All right. You have my leave.”

Vatzek smiled again — then cleared his throat.

“Before the lords retire to their chambers… I would like to show you the main hall. And I’ve taken the liberty of having a small supper prepared.”

At that, Hans turned to Henry and raised his eyebrows. Twice. Significantly.

The bailiff led them down a side hallway — and at the end, a staircase.

They descended into a spacious hall.

A single servant stood near the long table. Dishes had already been set out — vegetables, dried fruit, fresh bread, porridge. And the air carried the scent of something roasted.

“We even managed to get fish,” Vatzek said with clear satisfaction.

Henry sank into the nearest chair.

But Vatzek cleared his throat again — gently.

Henry looked up.

The bailiff nodded toward the wide chair at the head of the table.

“That is the lord’s seat.”

Henry sighed, stood — and was halfway to the chair when he stopped himself.

He smiled.

“Vatzek… the lord has decided he’ll be sitting here tonight.”

Behind him, Hans let out a quiet laugh.

The bailiff bowed his head.

“Of course, my lord. As you wish.”

He stepped aside.

“If it pleases you, I’ll leave one servant in the manor overnight — in case anything is needed. And in the morning… if my lord agrees… I’d be glad to give you a tour of the land around Klokotsch.”

Henry nodded.

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”

Vatzek gave a slight bow and was about to take his leave — when Henry spoke again.

“Master Vatzek.”

The bailiff turned.

“Thank you. You’ve done good work.”

Vatzek inclined his head. And bowed once more — this time, lower. Then turned and quietly left the hall.

Henry, Hans at his side, and Radzig across from them took their places at the table.

They began to eat in silence.

At first with appetite, with gratitude — like men who’ve come far, and know the road ahead will be longer still. For a while, it was only about the food, the warmth of the hearth, the hush of the night. Then they let the servant leave and poured red wine.

Radzig leaned back, took his goblet in hand, and turned it slowly between his fingers.

He looked across at Henry.

“You’re doing well so far, son.”

Henry glanced up at him — a little surprised. A little uncertain.

“You think so?” he murmured. “Feels like I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m doing.”

Hans turned toward him.

“If I may,” he began, “as someone who’s… been in your shoes—”

He paused. Met Henry’s gaze.

“I think most folk here didn’t know what to expect today. But you held your ground. And you’ll keep on holding it.”

Another pause. Then, softly — with certainty:

“I’ve no doubt about that.”

Henry smiled at him. Warmly — but not without tension. Something in him was still coiled. Still alert.

He turned back to Radzig.

“And what do you make of the estate?” he asked. “Its condition?”

Radzig rubbed his jaw.

“For a place without a lord these past few years… it’s in rather fine shape. Stable, I’d say. And that’s no small thing.”

Henry nodded.

“That’ll be Vatzek’s doing.”

“In any case,” said Radzig, “I believe you’ll be able to rely on him. And that’s worth a great deal.”

Hans set down his cup.

“If von Bergow’s holding land on both sides of us…” he said quietly, “then our numbers here are too thin.”

Radzig looked at him.

“Good point, Sir Hans.”

Then he turned back to Henry.

“First thing you’ll need to do — build up a garrison worthy of the name.”

Henry leaned forward, resting on the table.

“But how, Father?”

Radzig shrugged.

“That will be your decision.”

He paused. Took another drink. “I’ll leave you three of the royal guards from my escort. And in addition—”

He set the goblet down.

“The King has provided you with a considerable purse to begin with. So you can get on your feet quickly.”

Henry raised his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

Radzig nodded.

“And I’ve decided to give you something of my own as well. To start you off.”

Henry drew in breath, surprised.

“Father… you didn’t have to.”

But Radzig raised a hand — gently cutting him off.

“I know you’ll use it wisely. And well.”

Henry looked at him — silently. Something deep moved behind his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said at last.

Radzig drank once more, then set down the goblet.

“When I said I’d leave you the three guards… I meant tomorrow morning.”

Henry froze.

“You’re leaving already?”

Radzig nodded.

“I have to return to Prague. To the royal court. More duties than I care to count.”

Henry nodded slowly — though there was disappointment on his face. And perhaps a touch of loneliness.

Radzig looked at him.

“It’s yours now, Henry.”

He paused — and turned to look at Hans.

“Yours — both of you.”

Henry drew a deep breath.

“When will we see you again?”

Radzig squinted — as if counting weeks in his head.

“Perhaps sometime around the New Year. But…” He looked Henry in the eye. “…where am I to find you? Rattay? Or Rotstein?”

Henry looked to Hans — then back to Radzig.

“Do I actually have to move to Rotstein?”

Radzig shook his head.

“You don’t. But that makes it all the more important to build a strong garrison here. And a self-sufficient administration. One that can function — even in your absence.”

Henry nodded.

Radzig smiled.

“I’ll turn in. Want to be rested for the ride tomorrow.”

He rose from the table.

“And don’t keep the candle burning too long,” he added over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

Henry looked at Hans.

He smiled — a little tiredly.

Hans smiled back. And in the next moment, Henry felt his hand on his thigh. Warm. Still. A soft stroke of the thumb over the fabric.

Without a word, Henry slipped his own hand beneath the table — placed it over Hans’s. Firm, but tender.

“What are we going to do with all of this?” he said under his breath. “What now? How do we make it work…?”

Hans held his gaze.

His thumb moved again — slowly this time. As if the gesture could speak in place of words.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Honestly — I don’t know yet.”

He drew breath.

“But I know there’ll be two of us. And whatever the answer is… we’ll find it. Together.”

Henry smiled at him. Shy. And grateful.

Hans leaned in, just slightly.

“I’m never letting you go again, love.”

Henry looked at him. Just breathed. Then, almost inaudibly—

“I love you.”

Hans met his eyes. There was a faint smile on his lips — and Henry saw how the candlelight shimmered in them.

“We should sleep,” Hans murmured. “It’s been a long road. And tomorrow’s a new day.”

He paused.

“The people of this estate deserve to see their lord… fresh. And handsome,” he added with a wide grin.

Henry tilted his head.

He rolled his eyes — but the twitch of a smile gave him away.

Hans inhaled gently.

“Would you allow me,” he said, “to lodge in your second chamber?”

Henry sighed aloud.

“I’d rather lodge you in my bed,” he muttered. “But… maybe we should be careful for now.”

Hans smiled. Gave him a light swat on the arse.

“Come on.” Henry tossed two thick logs into the fire.

The wood thudded into place — and a moment later, the flames reached out. Slowly. As if tasting first — testing what they might take.

He stood still. Watching the fire spread. Watching it climb the bark and caress it like a lover. Then stretched out his hands to the heat — just briefly. Just to feel it.

He turned.

Walked slowly along the wall, letting the dim light play across the tapestries — hunters, riders, ramparts. He stopped at one. Rubbed his eyes. Shook his head. Exhaled.

He began to undress. Coat. Tunic. Breeches.

Barefoot now, in nothing but his underclothes, he crossed the soft fur rug and sat on the edge of the bed. Hands in his lap. Eyes drifting. His fingers traced the thick, warm quilt.

He turned his head slowly. Stretched his neck — first one side, then the other. Drew a deep breath. Lay down.

Closed his eyes.

In the quiet of the night — broken only by the soft crackle of wood — he heard the faint creak of a bedframe. From the next room. He smiled. Gently. Without opening his eyes.

He pictured Hans — rolling onto his side, pulling one leg up. How he might press against him, from behind. Wordless. Bury his nose in his hair. Let that warmth settle him. Feel the slow thrum of Hans’s heart beneath his arm.

He opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling.

The stillness surprised him. It could be this quiet here. Almost like Foxburrow. Where only the leaves whispered. Where they weren’t alone.

But this wasn’t Foxburrow.

There, it had only been them. Their days. Their breath.

He sat up. Let his feet find the floor. His eyes drifted to the tapestry — Rotstein. The cliff, the tower, the keep. A silhouette against the sky.

Then he rose and walked slowly to the window.

He leaned on the sill. Outside, only darkness. The light of a few torches far below casting faint reflections against the black.

This wasn’t Foxburrow. This was a castle. An estate. A village. People.

His people.

He closed his eyes.

How he wished he could be back there — in the warm wood of the hunting lodge. Thinking of the morning’s work — new horseshoes. Then off with Hans into the forest. To bring back supper.

He opened his eyes.

His breath left a soft bloom on the windowpane.

He lifted a finger and drew through it — watching the dark line form across the frost.

Henry turned.

Walked slowly back toward the bed — but didn’t sit. He stopped at the edge and stood still. Thinking.

Then turned again.

He walked to the door that joined his chamber to the next. Low, unassuming — wood, with heavy iron fittings.

He took the latch. Opened it — carefully, slowly — and stepped through.

Leaving only silence behind him.

He entered the dark.

Hans was asleep.

Peaceful. Still. Lying on his side, facing him, head resting on one arm. One hand peeked out from under the quilt. A few strands of hair had fallen across his brow. His breathing was soft and steady. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.

Henry felt a sudden ache in his chest.

He was so beautiful. So still. So unguarded.

He wanted to touch him. He wanted to lean down and kiss his temple.

But he did nothing.

He couldn’t bring himself to break his sleep. Not after this day. Not in this moment.

He stood still.

Didn’t even breathe fully — just quiet, shallow breaths. Barely there. He didn’t know how long he stood like that.

He only watched.

Then, slowly, he turned. Step by step, he moved back toward the door.

His fingers found the latch.

And in the silence — so fragile it felt like a glance could shatter it — came a quiet, drowsy voice.

“Jindro?”

He stopped. Turned.

Hans was propped on one elbow, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded with sleep — but looking right at him.

“Sorry,” Henry whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hans shifted, pulled the quilt back, and made room for him. Henry stepped closer and sat down. Hans reached out and brushed the back of one finger across his cheek.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured.

Henry let out a slow breath.

“I can’t sleep.”

Hans sat up beside him and placed a hand on his back. His thumb traced a slow, calm arc across his shoulder blade.

Henry was quiet for a while. Searching for the words.

“It all feels like… too much,” he said softly. “Everything that’s happening. Everything expected of me. All of it.”

Hans leaned in and kissed his hair. Lightly. Said nothing.

Henry drew a breath. Then spoke, slowly.

“It used to be simpler. I had you. And that was it. That was what made sense. I knew where I belonged.”

Hans lifted a hand.

Gently took his chin and turned his face to him. He looked into his eyes for a long moment — then leaned in and kissed him. Long. Slow. Until the world went still.

“I don’t think that’s changed,” he whispered. “We still belong together. You’ve just been given new duties. Hard ones. But you’re not alone in them.”

Henry smiled — faintly. His eyes glistened, but he smiled.

Hans went on.

“I used to doubt myself a lot. Whether I was good enough. Whether I could do what I was meant to. Whether I had it in me.”

He shook his head — with a smile meant only for him.

“But since we’ve been together… I’ve started to understand what really matters. And I don’t doubt myself anymore. And I certainly don’t doubt you.”

Henry looked up at him.

Then pulled him into a tight embrace. Close. Solid.

“I love you so damn much, Jendo.”

Hans held him tighter.

When they finally drew apart a little, Henry lowered his eyes.

He hesitated. Then smiled — shyly.

“I can’t sleep… also because…” He let the breath out slowly. “…because I just miss you.”

Hans tilted his head. That smile — soft, private. One he wouldn’t show anyone else.

He looked around the room.

Then stood. Naked. Barefoot. He padded quietly to the door leading to the anteroom. Opened it. And disappeared for a moment.

Henry heard only the gentle click of a latch.

When Hans returned, there was a spark in his eye.

He shut the door behind him. Walked back to the bed, and sat beside Henry. Leaned in. Kissed him.

Then smiled again.

“We just have to make sure we’re up before Radzig.”

Henry laughed. Not loudly. But with his mouth. His breath. His eyes.

He kissed him.

And with that kiss, he slowly lowered him back onto the bed.

They stayed like that. Held together. Mouths finding one another — again and again. Without need for words.

When their lips finally parted, they lay on their sides — face to face. Close enough to breathe the same breath.

Henry lifted his hand and ran his fingers through Hans’s hair.

He looked into his eyes.

“I’m looking forward to the morning,” he whispered.

Hans raised a brow. “Why?”

Henry smiled. Softly. Tenderly.

“Because I’ll wake up next to you.”

Hans closed his eyes and pressed against him — close. He rested his head beneath Henry’s chin. Henry wrapped his arms around him. Firm, but gentle.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

The scent of Hans’s hair — soft, familiar, his.

And then — on his chest — a small, barely-there kiss.

It didn’t take long. The warmth of them together lulled them both into sleep. Hooves slipped through the snow.

Each step sent powder flying — rising in glittering clouds that shimmered in the winter light like silver scales.

They were climbing uphill. Three riders, steady pace. The path wound between pines and bare beeches. The sun hung low but sharp, casting long shadows, gilding the trunks with warm gold.

Vatzek rode at the front, calm and straight-backed in the saddle. Hans and Henry side by side, horses close together. Steam rose from the animals’ nostrils. Now and then, one tossed its head.

The ride was easy. The silence broken only by the soft jingle of tack, the occasional snort.

The forest began to thin, the trees giving way to sky.

And then — the summit opened before them.

A wide, treeless plateau, blanketed in white as far as the eye could see. Quiet and open, with a view across the whole valley.

On the opposite side of the valley, Klokotsch nestled in the shimmering land — rooftops and fences, snow-laced trees, narrow tracks winding through.

In the distance, the rooftops of the manor caught the sun.

Vatzek reined in his horse and turned to face them.

“This is the highest point on the estate — and for miles around.”

Hans and Henry reached him, turned their horses, and looked out over the land.

Vatzek raised his arm.

“There lies Klokotsch. Largest village on the estate. Nearly two dozen homes — over a hundred and twenty souls. And every Tuesday, when the market sets up, it’s even livelier.”

Hans turned, slightly surprised.

“A weekly market?”

Vatzek straightened in the saddle — just a little. Proud.

“The right was granted by Emperor Charles himself. Sealed by his own hand.”

Hans nodded, impressed.

Vatzek gestured in another direction.

“Nearly a century ago, the entire estate was raided. Burned. Plundered.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. His expression darkened.

“Who did it?” he said, teeth clenched.

Vatzek shook his head.

“They say… over a hundred and fifty noblemen rode in and attacked the land.”

Hans’s eyes widened.

“A hundred and fifty?”

“That’s what they say.”

A hush followed. The wind stirred the snow — a slow, drifting swirl that fell again like powdered glass.

Henry stared out, his face distant. His jaw was locked.

“Most villages were rebuilt,” Vatzek went on. “Besides Klokotsch, there’s Loktush, Lautschky — there, in that direction — and Bukowina, just past that rise. That’s the border with Turnow.”

His arm swept across the horizon.

“And a few more hamlets, farms and holdings. Altogether, roughly eight hundred souls.”

Hans moved his lips silently for a moment, as if counting in his head.

“That’s almost the size of Rattay’s estate, Henry.”

Henry nodded. His gaze drifted back over the valley.

Vatzek nudged his horse forward a few paces.

“It’s a complex land. If I may be so bold — it would be wise for my lord to become well acquainted with it.”

Henry smiled.

“That’s the plan. Though likely more in spring.”

Then he turned his head northeast — toward the horizon, where something larger than any land they’d yet seen stretched blue against the sky.

“Look, Hans.”

A long mountain ridge arched across the sky. Clear and sharp. Treeless. Snowbound.

Vatzek looked that way too.

“Those are the Snowy Mountains,” he said. “On days like this, the view carries far.”

Hans said nothing. Only looked.

So did Henry.

Then Vatzek cleared his throat.

“If the lords wish to remain, or ride on through the estate, I’d be honoured to accompany them… But I have duties in the village I must return to.”

Hans turned to him.

“That’s no trouble at all, Bailiff.”

Vatzek shifted slightly in the saddle — uncertain. Hesitated.

Henry noticed.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Vatzek looked at him.

“My lord… may I?”

Henry’s expression was puzzled at first. Then he smiled — soft, instinctive.

“Master Vatzek — whatever Lord Capon says is as if I said it myself.”

Vatzek looked first to Hans. Then back to Henry.

He nodded.

“Of course, my lord.”

He turned to leave — but looked back once more.

“If I may — the lords should ride carefully. This hill once held gems. They used to mine these slopes. Now and then… the forest hides a hole.”

Henry nodded.

“We’ll watch our step.”

The bailiff raised his hand in farewell, turned his horse, and began his descent toward the village.

Silence returned.

Only the two of them remained on the mountaintop. And the snow. And the sun.

Henry dismounted and stretched his back.

Hans slid off right after him. He stepped close from behind, wrapped his arms around Henry’s waist, and rested his chin on his shoulder. For a while, he just stood there — breathing in his warmth, his scent.

Henry tilted his head slightly, brushing his temple against Hans’s.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Hans said softly.

Henry turned within his arms.

He kissed him. Slowly.

They smiled. Then kissed again — this time with more hunger.

Henry shifted slightly and glanced away. Hans knew that look far too well.

“What?”

Henry cleared his throat — and very lightly, almost imperceptibly, rolled his hips against his.

Hans felt the tension in his body.

Felt the heat of it.

He raised an eyebrow — a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face.

He kissed Henry long and deep — and let one hand drift between his legs. Firm. Through the fabric. Just enough to draw a soft, half-swallowed sound from Henry’s throat.

Hans leaned in close to his ear.

“I want you,” he whispered. “You know that.”

Henry held him tighter. Took a deep breath — and let it go.

“It’s been almost a week,” he murmured.

Hans gave a quiet laugh.

“Six days,” he corrected with a grin.

Then smacked him lightly on the arse.

“Let’s hope we fix that soon.”

He felt Henry’s breath — hot on his neck — then the press of lips, just below his ear.

A shiver ran through him.

Henry chuckled, low and quiet.

“Maybe we should head down,” he muttered. “Lead the horses. Wouldn’t want to end up in one of those holes Vatzek warned us about.”

Hans nodded.

Gave him one last kiss — brief and warm.

Then they each took their horse by the reins and began making their way down the slope. Through the woods. Slowly. In the gleaming snow.

They walked side by side, horses stepping carefully ahead. Now and then, they smiled at each other. Now and then, they touched — a brush of the arm, an elbow, a hand against the back of a hand.

Sunlight filtered through the trees. Snow crunched underfoot. Crystals glimmered on the branches.

After a while, Henry spoke.

“Think we could pass through Loktush?” he asked. “If there’s an inn… we might get something to eat.”

Hans burst out laughing.

“Love, do you think about anything other than food?”

Henry shrugged — with a sheepish grin.

“Food. And making love to you. That’s about it.”

Hans stopped. Tugged him closer with one arm and kissed him long and deep. Then shook his head.

“If you keep that up,” he murmured, “I swear I’ll throw you in the first snowdrift and take you right here.”

Henry met his gaze — steady, quiet, lips faintly curled.

“I can’t stop thinking about making love to you.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.

And with a slow kiss, he began leading him a few steps off the path — toward the wide trunk of a nearby tree.

He pressed him back against it. Didn’t leave his lips.

Henry let out a breath — part laugh, part moan.

They kissed again. Harder now. Bodies close, pressed tight. Hands gliding down backs, over hips, gripping thighs, chests, arms through layers of winter cloth.

Hans rocked against him. Henry moved with him — groin to groin, through fabric.

A breath escaped.

Hans pulled off his gloves. Looked up at him. Framed Henry’s face with both hands.

He stared into his eyes — wordless — then leaned in once more.

This time, his mouth drifted along his cheek. His jaw. To the line beneath his ear.

He felt Henry shiver.

One hand slid down. Pressed against him — firm, deliberate, through his trousers.

Henry raised a hand — touched the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Then kissed him back.

He moved to Hans’s throat — his mouth warm against his skin just as Hans’s hand touched him again.

Hans looked at him.

And then, without haste, he slowly dropped to his knees.

The snow beneath them gave a muted crunch under his weight, but he never once broke eye contact. He reached out — both palms sliding to the edge of Henry’s trousers. His fingers drifted up along the cloth, over the shape of his hips. He eased the fabric down, a little at a time, and freed him.

Henry drew in a long breath.

He was hard, hot, heavy. Hans felt it against his palms, and already on his lips as he bent to him. He raised his eyes, still watching him, while his breath skimmed the exposed skin.

Then he took him into his mouth.

Slowly. With all the care and tenderness of someone laying himself open.

Henry exhaled. No words. Just a thin, uneven breath that vanished into the cold air.

Hans lingered. He didn’t want more — only to feel him. To feel him tighten. To see his hips shift, the flicker of tension and wanting on his face, the silence. To feel the tremor in his fingers before they slid into his hair.

Henry's hand found the back of Hans’s head, the other his cheek — a touch so gentle it felt like he feared the moment would dissolve if he moved too quickly.

Hans’s lips glided slowly along his length, his tongue tracing him with patient care. He felt each tremor, each twitch, each slow surrender — and took it in as trust offered into his keeping. His palms roamed Henry’s thighs, cupping him at last. Not roughly but firmly — so he would know he was held, here.

Henry closed his eyes.

Everything else fell away. There was only Hans — his mouth, his breath… his tongue sliding along him, retreating, then drawing him back in. A rhythm, quiet and natural, rising inside him. His breathing quickened. Each slow plunge into the warm, wet dark pulled him closer.

Then Hans felt Henry’s hands tighten in his hair.

He paused. Looked up.

Henry met his gaze — and without a word told him everything.

Hans smiled, soft and small. Then bent to him again.

His mouth was softer now, his movements deeper. His fingers drifted over Henry’s skin, palms caressing him — and then he felt it fully.

The tension in his hips — and the sudden tightening of his belly. The held breath. The shiver spreading from his thighs to the very tips of his fingers.

And then —

Release.

Intense. Pulsing. Long.

Hans held him all the while, never pulling away. He felt the salt, the heat, the tremor, the breath. Felt him in every ripple of his body, in every tightening of his grip, in every quiet, lost sound.

Henry slowly stilled beneath him. And when he opened his eyes — still a little lost in that quiet height — his hand came to Hans’s cheek.

Hans rested his face against Henry’s thigh.

He stayed there a moment, unmoving. His breath was calm, but Henry could still feel it falling warm against his skin, real.

Then Hans rose. Slowly. He slipped back into Henry’s arms and let himself be held. They kissed. Deeply — but this time different.

Without tension.

Without hunger.

Only the touch of lips that belonged to them both — a seal on something long understood.

Henry rested his forehead against Hans’s temple, still faintly breathless. His palms had slid naturally to Hans’s hips, as if they’d always been meant to rest there.

“Love… this…” he whispered.

He said nothing more.

He didn’t need to.

Hans only smiled — that quiet, inward smile meant for him alone. He kissed him again — soft, fleeting. Then reached for Henry’s trousers, careful fingers dressing him back into the layers of cloth. The movements were deliberate, unhurried, the hands of someone who knew this skin too well to rush.

Henry watched him — his eyes full of warmth and wanting. He raised his brows slightly.

“And you…?” he murmured. “When do I take care of you…?”

Hans looked at him, a glint in his eye.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured back. “I’ll remind you.”

Then he gave him a playful slap on the arse — his hand lingering there a moment as he drew back.

“Come on,” he said with a smile.

Henry laughed. Not loudly — but with his mouth, his eyes, his whole body, which was now easy and quiet and loved.

“Let’s go find that tavern,” he said, glancing at Hans’s trousers. “Someone’s got knees to dry anyway,” he added with a soft snort.

Hans brushed the snow off his breeches with nonchalant flair. “Well. At least I’m not hungry anymore.” He smirked.

They took the horses by the reins — and headed down the trail toward the village. The forest ahead began to open up — between the trees, a soft light was showing. Further still, the suggestion of distant rooftops, pale against the sky.

And just then —

Voices. Blows. The muffled thud of metal striking wood.

They both stopped and exchanged a look.

Without a word, they pressed on.

And then — just ahead of them, a tree crashed down across the trail with a deafening crack. Snow and needles burst upward in a thick, cold cloud. The horses shied, but Henry calmed them quickly.

Moments later, several men stepped out from between the trees, all wielding axes. They were sweating, red-faced from the cold, clothes dusted in snow, sawdust in their beards.

“Hey!” one of them growled. “You’ve no business here!”

Hans straightened, eyes narrowing.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

The woodsman looked him over — then let his eyes flick to Henry as well. He saw the horses. The swords. The cut of their clothes.

His tone eased slightly.

“No,” he muttered. “But you’ve no business in our logging grounds.”

Hans turned briefly to Henry, then back to the men.

“This is the lord of Rotstein.”

A silence fell. Then the man shook his head.

“Rotstein has no lord. Place is empty.”

Henry stepped forward. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“It does now.”

The woodsman raised both hands, a small gesture of appeasement.

“My lord… we’re not looking for trouble. But we’re sworn to the lord von Bergow. And this here is Trosky land.”

Henry frowned. He glanced around.

“Trosky?” he muttered. “I don’t think so…”

“We’re just doing our work, sir,” another man offered — younger, with a heavy axe slung over one shoulder. “The foresters marked the trees. We’re taking what was assigned to us.”

Henry said nothing. His eyes scanned the marked trunks, the sled tracks on the ground.

Then he turned to Hans.

“I don’t like this.”

Hans nodded.

“We ought to find out what’s going on.”

They mounted their horses. As they rode out of the woods, the snow crunched softly beneath the hooves. Ahead, the shape of a snow-covered village began to form on the horizon.

It was only a handful of cottages and farmsteads scattered around a small green. Stillness. Quiet. Not frozen. Just sleepy. Smoke curled up from chimneys. Firewood lay stacked on doorsteps. The snow had been cleared, but no one was in sight.

They stopped by the tavern. Dismounted.

Just then, a man appeared in the doorway. He wore a fur-lined coat, a jug in one hand. When he saw them, he froze. His eyes widened — he stared a moment, then gave a slight bow.

“My lord,” he whispered.

And without another word, he hurried toward one of the cottages.

Hans and Henry stepped inside.

The tavern was dim, the hearth crackling in the corner. A few locals sat at two tables — three men, quiet, hands wrapped around their mugs. They looked up as the newcomers entered — then quickly lowered their eyes.

The innkeeper straightened. Gave them a quick once-over.

“My lord…” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t have expected… but we heard you’d arrived…”

He grabbed a cloth, wiped down the nearest table, and gestured toward the chairs.

Henry nodded, smiling.

“Thank you.”

They both sat down.

“What may I offer your lordships?” the innkeeper asked.

Henry looked up at him.

“Something warm…” he said kindly. “A hearty soup, fresh bread… whatever you have that’s good and filling.”

The innkeeper nodded and backed into the kitchen.

The tavern was small, but warm. Everything smelled of smoke and baked goods. On the walls hung bundles of onions and garlic, and wicker baskets. By the stove, an old cat lay curled into a ball. Outside, only the wind could be heard.

Hans looked around — then let his gaze settle on Henry.

“We should probably speak with Vatzek about those woodsmen,” he said quietly.

Henry nodded.

His expression was thoughtful. Darkened.

“Von Bergow…” he muttered. Then fell quiet.

Before long, two steaming bowls were set down before them. A thick soup, rich and hot. A basket of fresh bread alongside. The smell of legumes, herbs, marjoram.

The innkeeper was already about to leave when Henry stopped him.

“Good man…”

The host turned back.

Henry raised his head.

“By the edge of the forest there… is that still Rotstein land, or already Trosky?”

The innkeeper nodded toward the trees.

“Our forest, my lord? That’s our land.”

Hans frowned.

“Funny. We met woodsmen there who claimed it was Trosky.”

The innkeeper sighed. His voice dropped slightly.

“Since Rotstein lost its lord… the men from Trosky sometimes take liberties. The forest’s large — no one guards the borders. And the steward of Trosky… doesn’t take much heed.”

Henry gave a slow nod.

“I see.”

He thanked him.

Then he and Hans turned to their meal.

The soup was thick with lentils and sour cabbage — sharp, earthy, and warm enough to chase the cold from the bones. But it didn’t lift the mood. They ate in silence, and when they finished, Henry pulled out his pouch and paid generously.

The innkeeper bowed low in gratitude.

They stepped outside.

The air had grown sharper than before. A wind was rising from the north. They patted the horses and prepared to ride.

Hans straightened in the stirrups. Looked over his shoulder.

“Where to now?” he asked.

Henry looked at him.

“Home.” On the way back to Klokotsch, they spurred the horses into a canter.

Snow crunched beneath the hooves, the woods blurred around them, and the sky grew steadily brighter. Early afternoon light had begun to gild the landscape — and as they rode into the courtyard, everything shimmered like sugared honey.

They dismounted and handed the horses to the stable hands.

Henry headed straight toward one of the ground-floor rooms the bailiff used for official business.

“My lord!” a voice called out behind him.

He stopped and turned.

“If you’re looking for the bailiff…” the stablehand said, “…he rode off to Lautschky a while ago. He won’t be back today.”

Henry rubbed his brow between two fingers. Closed his eyes for a moment.

Hans leaned toward him. Calm. Quiet.

“Tomorrow’s another day. Come inside. Get warm.”

Henry nodded.

Together they climbed the stairs to the upper floor and entered his chamber. Henry went straight to the hearth. He knelt down and began to build a fire. Fingers in the ash, wood in his palms, flint and steel in hand.

Hans stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him with a faint smile. Then he stepped closer — and touched his shoulder gently.

The fire caught. Flames began to dance across the walls.

Henry stood and turned to him. Hans slipped an arm around his waist and kissed him. He could feel it — Henry wasn’t at ease.

“Don’t worry about it now,” he said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll speak with Vatzek. We’ll find out what’s going on. And we’ll start dealing with it.”

Henry looked at him for a while — then slowly nodded.

He let out a breath. Quiet, steady.

“It’s a shame my father isn’t here,” he said. “He’d know what to do.” Another pause. “And I… I’m not sure what to make of him leaving so soon.”

Hans studied him for a moment. Then he ran his hand gently along Henry’s arm.

“Your father has a great deal to carry.”

Henry gave a small nod — almost apologetic.

“And still, he made time. He brought you here himself. He stayed until the handover was done.” He tilted his head a little. “That should tell you something.”

Henry met his gaze — and slowly, a faint smile touched his lips. A little unsure. But warm.

Hans returned it — and laid his hand flat against Henry’s chest.

“He left,” he said softly, “because he believes you can do this.”

Henry didn’t speak. He only looked at him — then wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close.

Hans stroked his back — slow, steady, grounding.

Henry kissed the spot just behind his ear.

“I’m so damn glad you’re here,” he whispered. “That you’re here with me.”

Hans smiled.

“I’m where I’m meant to be.”

Henry drew back a little. Looked at him.

“I know… this isn’t Rattay. Or Pirkstein.”

Hans crossed to the window, where golden light poured in through the glass. Dust drifted through it slowly — glittering in the air like the surface of a memory.

He looked out, across the rooftops of the estate.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not Rattay.”

Then gave a faint, bitter smile.

“But it’s yours. And no one’s denying you that.”

Henry stepped up beside him. Slipped one arm around his waist.

For a while, they stood in silence — looking out the window together.

Then Henry turned to him.

Hans met his eyes.

Henry gave a slight shake of the head.

„It’s not mine alone.“

Smiled.

—

The string snapped — sharp, sudden — and the bolt cut through the air with a hiss. A beat later came a quiet grunt, and the bearded man in leather fell sideways to the ground. His chest heaved once more. Then nothing. He lay still, the bolt lodged clean in the centre of his chest.

Godwin spun around.

Jitka sat in her saddle. She was still holding the small crossbow — pointed toward the ground now, the stock resting against her thigh. Her gaze was calm. She hadn’t moved.

Godwin slowly lowered his sword. Blood still clung to the blade, running to the tip, dripping into the dust.

He scanned the road.

“That the last of ’em?” he muttered.

Hans was just pulling his sword from a corpse’s belly. The muscles in his forearm flexed as the steel slid out with a sickening sound.

He looked around him.

Three bodies lay on the path. Two more beneath the trees. Blood soaked into the pine needles.

“One got away,” he said. “Is anyone hurt?”

“They got young Janek,” came Janosh’s voice.

Hans flinched. He turned at once and strode over.

Janosh was crouched beside the young guardsman’s body. He closed his eyes with one hand, then let it rest there — gently, for a moment — on his brow.

Hans stopped beside him. His chest was rising fast, breath sharp and tight. His jaw was clenched hard.

“Fucking filth,” he hissed through his teeth.

Then he turned to the soldiers.

“Bury him. Properly. Don’t take all day — we ride as soon as it’s done.”

Godwin nodded toward the five bandits left strewn in the dirt.

“And them?”

Hans’s mouth drew tight.

“We’ve no time for that, Father. I want to be well away from Trosky as fast as we can. You can see for yourself what it’s like around here.”

He looked up — toward the ridgeline.

The forest opened in the distance, the hills falling back, the light gentler beyond.

“We’re close to Rotstein lands now,” he said quietly. “We’ll be safe there.”

The men began to dig.

The earth was hard, full of stone — but no one spoke.

Hans let his eyes sweep once more across the fallen bandits.

“Let the wolves take them,” he muttered.

Then he walked over to Jitka.

She held the reins of her horse and was finishing a quiet exchange with Zdislava.

He came to stand before her and laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. Eyes steady. After a time, the group moved on again.

Hans rode at the front, flanked by two guards. Their eyes swept every direction — the trees, already budding with spring’s first green, the grass beneath the hooves, the flickering shadows between the trunks. Hans himself kept scanning the edge of the woods, the thickets, every patch of darkness where more than leaves might be hiding.

Behind them rode Jitka and Godwin, side by side, with Zdislava close behind. A step further back rattled the wagon, heavy with supplies — Janosh held the reins, and beside him sat Pavel, his face lifted to the warm spring sunlight as he quietly took in the road and the world around him. Two more men brought up the rear — silent, watchful. One of them led a riderless horse by the reins.

Janek’s.

Still, Hans kept scanning the trees. Each rustle of undergrowth, each glint of something pale where it shouldn’t be — none of it escaped his eye. Only when the trees thinned and the woods gave way to wide meadows drenched in sunlight did the tension finally ease from his shoulders.

Open land. Clear view. Safety.

Jitka caught up and rode beside him for a while.

“How much farther?” she asked.

Hans looked ahead.

“That dip — then over the rise… and we should be crossing into Rotstein land.”

Jitka smiled.

“I can’t wait to see Henry.”

Hans turned his head, tilting it slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“What should I say, then?”

Jitka gave a soft snort of laughter.

“He’ll be furious when he finds out. About the attack,” she added more quietly.

Hans gave a nod. “Most likely.”

His gaze drifted toward the horizon again.

“And to think… back in winter, Henry and I rode this road four times there, four times back. Not a scratch.”

Jitka was silent for a moment. Then nodded, slowly.

“Maybe the loaded wagon drew them out.”

Hans shrugged.

“Makes sense.”

Then he glanced back over his shoulder.

“All well back there?” he called out. “Everyone?”

Janosh raised a hand. “My arse feels like an old ox’s, but aye, we’re alive!”

Pavel burst into laughter — just as the wheel hit a rock. He lurched sideways, threw his arms out to steady himself, nearly tumbled from the bench — and laughed even harder.

Jitka shook her head with a chuckle. Hans smiled at her — then turned his gaze forward again, toward the horizon slowly drawing near. As they crested the rise, Hans raised a hand, and the group came to a halt.

The last hoofbeats faded into stillness. One by one, they dismounted, turning toward the view spread out before them.

Below stretched a broad, open valley, flooded with spring. The woods lining the slopes were pale green now — fresh leaves trembling in the warm wind like wings newly unfurled. Here and there, among the crowns, burst flashes of white and blush-pink: cherry and plum trees in bloom, scattering pale clouds across the green.

Flocks of sheep grazed in loose clusters on the meadows below — drifting white tufts that looked as though they’d always been part of the land. From the woods came birdsong — and high above, tethered almost to the sky itself, the clear, unbroken trill of a lark, its tireless voice holding all that spring together.

Beneath their boots, the grass was dotted with flowers — violet, yellow, white. The air was thick with scent: damp earth, fresh growth, blooming branches, unfolding leaf. Bees drifted between blossoms.

No one spoke.

But every gaze — drawn as if by a single invisible thread — turned in the same direction. Toward the rocks. And the castle above them.

Rotstein.

It perched there, hewn straight from the stone — as if it had grown from it. Steep, raw, defiant — the tower rose above the forest, like a clenched fist held to the sky.

Hans looked around at the others. At Jitka’s face, Godwin’s, Janosh and Pavel leaning against the wagon bench. They all stood still. Watching.

He smiled faintly.

“The Lord of Rotstein had the very same look when he first saw it,” he said — and laughed.

Then he turned to Jitka. “Though… the only one eager to settle there was Dry Devil.”

He gave her a glance — open, but with a spark behind it.

“You’ll soon see how cosy the manor in Klokotsch is.”

Jitka raised a brow, shook her head just slightly — a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Behind them, Godwin’s voice rose.

“Henry described it to me. The rocks. The castle. But still… seeing it with your own eyes — it knocks the wind out of you a little.”

Hans drew in a deep breath. Sunlight touched his face.

He slipped one foot into the stirrup. Looked at them all.

“Well then… let’s ride home.” The group rode on through the valley. Their pace was calm, but wariness lingered in their eyes. When, in the distance near Klokotsch, a trio of riders appeared heading their way, no one spoke — only their gazes sharpened, hands drifting a little closer to hilts.

Still, they rode. Hans at the front, eyes fixed ahead.

As the riders drew nearer, he caught sight of their garb. All three wore white surcoats marked by a single diagonal stripe of gold across the chest.

Hans raised his hand, and the column came to a halt. The horses beneath them shifted and snorted.

He turned slightly in the saddle.

“Those are Henry’s colours.”

The riders came closer. The one in front was a tall young man, not long out of boyhood — broad-shouldered, straight-backed, solid in the saddle.

He brought his horse to a stop.

“My lord of Pirkstein, and your lady — unless I’m mistaken?” he called in a friendly tone.

Hans gave a nod. “You’re not mistaken. And who might you be?”

The young man dismounted and gave a quick bow. “Lukas Vatzek, my lord. I’m to escort you to Klokotsch.”

Hans swung down from his horse as well. A thoughtful look flickered across his face.

“Vatzek, did you say?”

Lukas nodded again. “Son of the bailiff. Lord Henry’s taken me into his service.”

“Mm.” Hans let out a short hum, eyeing him briefly.

A striking young man. Fair hair, trimmed short but not crudely. Eyes a piercing blue — so vivid they seemed to hold the whole sky above them.

Hans was quiet for a moment. Then gave a slow shake of the head.

“But why send an escort at all? I know this road well enough.”

Lukas bowed again.

“The stream — the Stebenka — has risen, my lord. Snowmelt from the mountains. I’ll lead you to a safe ford.”

“That’s kind of you,” Jitka said gently, her hand resting lightly on Hans’s forearm.

Hans turned to her.

“Ay… of course.”

Then looked back at Lukas and the two riders behind him.

“I see you’re all wearing the Rotstein colours now.”

Lukas nodded. “Every man has a new livery, my lord. Courtesy of the lord himself.”

Hans paused.

“Every man? And that means how many, exactly?”

The lad hesitated. Counted silently.

“It must be… nearly four dozen.”

Hans raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Four dozen?”

He glanced at Godwin with a crooked grin.

“Seems Henry and Dry Devil haven’t been idle these past weeks.”

Lukas drew a breath.

“Dry Devil — I mean, Sir Hynek — he’s building a proper force at the castle.”

Hans gave a calm nod, slipping one foot back into the stirrup already.

Behind him, the others were mounting as well.

“Tell me, boy,” he said, “Lukas, was it? Why didn’t Lord Henry come to meet us himself?”

Lukas straightened in the saddle.

“Lord Henry rode to Vesetz this morning, my lord. He had a matter to attend to.”

Hans stared ahead for a moment.

Then nodded once.

“Very well then. Lead the way, son of Vatzek.”

They rode on in silence for a while.

The valley stretched quietly around them — trees on the slopes, wide meadows, and the gentle curve of the path winding between forested ridges.

From time to time Hans cast a glance at Lukas. The young man held the reins with practiced ease, sitting tall and steady in the saddle — but not stiff. There was an easy lightness to his movements, as if he’d been born riding.

Hans let his gaze linger a little longer.

At that exact moment, Lukas turned to look at him.

Hans glanced away just in time.

“If I may, my lord…” the young man said quietly, yet with confidence. “I couldn’t help but notice — your company looks as though you’ve had trouble on the road.”

He nodded slightly toward Hans’s side — where the sword hung, its crossguard stained with blood.

Hans looked at him. His face stayed calm, but something in his eyes — half surprise, half restraint — flickered. Then he gave a small nod.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Not far from Trosky, we were ambushed by a larger band of outlaws.”

He paused.

“We drove them off,” he added after a moment. “But we lost one man.”

Lukas lowered his gaze. He looked at his horse’s mane for a moment, then back at Hans.

“I’m sorry to hear that, my lord.”

Hans took a long breath, then exhaled. His eyes swept the land ahead.

“They’re clearly still roaming around Trosky. Something to be mindful of.”

Lukas frowned slightly, thoughtful. Then spoke again — carefully.

“That does surprise me a little, my lord. I’d heard there hadn’t been any bandits there lately… Folk say the new steward at Trosky cleaned them out. Rather harshly, too.”

Hans raised an eyebrow.

“Well. Not all of them, it seems,” he said curtly, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

The road bent between two alders — and suddenly, the stream came into view.

In winter, it had been shallow, quiet, even frozen in places. But now it looked different. Swollen, murky, rushing over rocks, dragging leaves and twigs and blades of grass in its wake. Its voice was loud enough to drown the hoofbeats.

Lukas drew to a stop and turned in the saddle.

“Please ride close behind me. The current’s stronger than it looks.”

Hans gave a faint roll of his eyes, but nudged his horse forward and followed.

The others came after them, one by one.

The current was strong. It surged around their horses’ legs, frothing white against stone. The riverbed was slick, but Lukas led them with precision — calm and sure. Hans and the rest followed him across without trouble.

On the far bank, the stream fanned out into a low, marshy field — and just beyond it, the slope began to rise.

And on that slope, the first houses of Klokotsch.

They rode through the village at a slow pace.

Klokotsch unfolded before them like a painted scene — low cottages with thatched roofs, farmyards bright with blossoms, empty carts leaning against timbered walls. Children stood by the roadside. Elderly women with kerchiefs over their hair. Men with tools in hand, frozen mid-motion.

Hans kept his gaze fixed ahead — toward the manor standing below the rocky heights of Rotstein. He barely registered the details. Only the rhythm of hoofbeats, the ring of iron on the road, and the soft rush of the Stebenka murmuring behind them.

But the others looked.

Jitka rode tall, silent and dignified. Her eyes passed over every house and yard without lingering, like a lady taking quiet measure.

Pavel gawked like a lad at a fair — head turning, mouth half-open, wide-eyed with wonder.

The villagers greeted them with nods, small bows, the occasional smile — quick, but genuine. Children peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts, watching wide-eyed.

Godwin, brow furrowed by habit, caught the gaze of a young boy laughing unabashedly — and couldn’t help but smile back.

Janosh suddenly sniffed in deeply. He nudged Pavel with an elbow and jerked his chin toward the inn as they passed. Smoke drifted lazily from the open window; bunches of herbs hung beneath the eaves.

“You smell that, lad?” he beamed. “Sausages!”

Pavel closed his eyes and sniffed.

“I’m starving…”

They passed the last houses, and the manor rose before them. White and gold banners flew from the tower and walls — several hung from the windows, rippling in the breeze.

They rode through the gate into the courtyard.

At its center stood Bailiff Vatzek.

“Welcome, Lord Capon!” he called with a smile. “Welcome, Lady Jitka! Welcome, all of you, to Klokotsch!”

Hans was the first to dismount. The others followed.

Janosh guided the wagon toward the right side of the yard, stopping beside the storeroom. The wheels creaked briefly over the gravel.

Lukas swung down from his horse and made his way to his father.

“See to the horses, boy,” the bailiff said with a nod. Lukas gave a quick bow and jogged off toward the stables.

The elder Vatzek turned back to Hans. “I trust my son received you properly… and brought you here safe?”

Hans drew a breath. Slowly. He looked around the courtyard — the roofs, the stone, the people who had ridden with him. Only then did he meet the bailiff’s eyes.

“Is Lord Henry back yet?”

Vatzek shook his head.

“Not yet, my lord. But everything is ready, just as he instructed.”

Hans studied him for a moment without a word. Then turned to the others.

Their eyes were on him.

He drew a quiet breath, then spoke — clearly, though not loudly.

“My lady… friends…”

He paused.

“Welcome to Rotstein. Welcome to Klokotsch.”

His gaze drifted to the castle rock.

“Welcome home.”

From the gate came a voice — dry and rasping, like gravel sliding down a cliff face.

“Well, well — look what the cat dragged home!” A moment later, laughter rattled through the air, sharp and amused.

“Uncle!” Jitka called out, eyes bright as she turned and waved. Kubyenka trailed behind Dry Devil, his cheeks and nose red, lips curled in a grin.

“How’d you know we were here already?” Janosh blurted.

Devil barked a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder — hard enough to echo.

“Caught sight of you from the castle the moment you crossed into our lands.”

Hans stepped up and clasped his forearm in greeting. “I can hardly believe the force you’re building here,” he said with a smile.

Devil grinned, teeth flashing. “Old Hynek’s doing what he can. But this—” he gestured vaguely toward the castle “—this is just the beginning.”

Then he swept a glance toward Jitka and the others, nodding in their direction.

“And Pirkstein? Still standing?”

Hans gave a firm nod. “I believe so. Bernard and Zizka have it well in hand — as always.”

Devil clicked his tongue and shook his head with a chuckle. “Pity that old bastard didn’t ride with you. Though from what I gather, he made more than a few enemies in this region back in the day — so he’s not exactly keen to show his face.”

Hans gave a faint smile — with something bitter at the edge of it. “I’m beginning to see that’s Zizka’s way. Piss off the authorities. Wherever he goes.”

“Ay,” Devil nodded with a grin. “Old Jan of Trocnov’s even better at it than I am.”

He paused, then gave a shrug. “Still don’t get what that Katherine sees in him,” he muttered — and burst out laughing again.

Hans shook his head, smiling wryly. “Can you make sure the men who rode with us are looked after?”

Then he turned to the bailiff. “And Master Vatzek, if you please — see to our company. Let them settle in. And I wouldn’t say no to a bit of supper.”

The bailiff dipped his head — without ceremony.

“Follow me, if you would.”

He turned and led them toward the manor’s residential wing.

“For Lady Jitka and Father Godwin, chambers are prepared on the upper floor,” he explained as they crossed the courtyard, “right across the hallway from the rooms of Lords Henry and Capon.”

Godwin let out a low grunt.

“I’d be fine with a bench by the hearth.”

Vatzek glanced back at him and offered a small shrug. “Lord Henry’s instructions, sir.”

He gestured toward a nearby door.

“Lady Jitka’s maid will have her own little room downstairs, on the ground floor. And just next to it — a chamber already prepared with two beds for—”

He stopped, looking slightly uncertain, as his eyes landed on Janosh and Pavel.

“Name’s Janosh, good sir,” Janosh said with a grin. “And this fine lad is Pavel.”

“Then for Janosh and Pavel,” Vatzek finished, offering a small bow.

Hans lingered in the courtyard for a while, watching the others disappear into the manor. Then, without a word, he turned and made his way toward the gate, climbing the steps that led up to the wall walk.

He stopped at the battlement and rested both hands on the stone. His gaze drifted toward Vesetz.

The valley below lay bathed in the light of early evening. Fields and meadows rippled gently in the warm breeze. In gardens and hedgerows, the fruit trees were in bloom — and Hans could’ve sworn he caught the faint sweetness of their scent on the air.

His gaze followed the road that led toward Klokotsch. Then wandered to the hills and woods across the valley on the far side.

After a while, he straightened, exhaled, and descended again to the courtyard.

He took a few steps, then paused — turned — and walked to the guard by the gate.

“When Lord Henry returns,” he said, “tell him the Pirkstein company has arrived.”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard nodded.

Hans gave a small nod in return, then headed toward the manor with a decisive stride. He climbed the stairs.

Muted sounds filtered through the doors — the creak of floorboards, the soft thud of chests, the low murmur of voices. The others were already settling in. Hans opened the door to the antechamber and stepped inside his own room.

He glanced around.

He set his sword down on the bench near the wall, unfastened his doublet, and laid it across the bed. Then he crossed to the window and looked down at the courtyard below. The sun was dipping toward the hills, and the last rays of the day caught the walls in a warm golden hue.

After a moment, he turned and walked to the side door.

It creaked faintly as he opened it and stepped into Henry’s chamber.

It was nearly set up. A longbow hung from a hook on the wall. A helmet rested beside the chest. Clothes — folded, if hastily — lay on the bench. On the table, scrolls and loose parchment, a quill, ink. And in the air — that familiar scent.

Wood. Leather. Iron. And Henry.

Hans smiled. Quietly. Just to himself.

He crossed to the chest, where one of Henry’s doublets had been left draped. He brushed the fabric with the back of his hand, fingers pausing over the embroidery.

Then he knelt by the hearth. Placed a few logs inside, and within moments the fire crackled to life. The flame flickered in his eyes as he stood and turned toward the door.

He meant to leave — but something caught his eye.

He looked at the bed.

Stepped closer. Pulled the quilt back slightly — and there, peeking from beneath the pillow, was the edge of a shirt.

He drew it out, just a little.

It was his shirt.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then smiled — not like before. Something shifted in his eyes. A flicker, light as breath.

A sound from the hallway pulled him from his thoughts — the muted step, the soft creak of a door. Hans gave the bed one last glance, then turned and stepped back into the antechamber.

In the corridor, he crossed paths with Godwin.

“All well?” he asked.

Godwin nodded. “Quite.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Hans offered a brief smile. “I’m heading down for a bite. Will you join me?”

“Jitka’s already gone down. And the others,” Godwin said with a tilt of the head.

Hans gave a quiet nod. Together, they descended the stairs. Around the table in the hall, the others were already enjoying a simple but hearty supper. Warm bread, lard, cheese, onions. A pot of thick stew. Jugs of beer.

Hans sat down without a word, tore off a piece of bread, and stared ahead for a moment.

Jitka smiled at him.

“It’s… rather cosy here, actually.”

Hans nodded.

“I like it.”

They sat in silence a moment.

“And Henry?” she asked softly. “Still not back?”

He lowered his eyes. Shook his head.

“No.”

Jitka shrugged gently.

“I was hoping to see him tonight. But I think I’ll turn in… I feel like I’ve been put through a wine press. And I’m tired.”

Hans reached out and placed a hand on her forearm.

“Rest, then. You’ve earned it. And you need it.”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“You’ll see him tomorrow. We all will.”

She nodded, her smile drowsy but content.

Hans glanced around the hall.

“Where’s Devil? And Kubyenka? They gone already?”

Janosh nodded — mid-swallow — and promptly choked on a mouthful. He sputtered, coughing, until Pavel gave him a firm thump on the back that nearly knocked the tears from his eyes.

“They went up already,” he managed at last. “To the castle.”

“He said,” Pavel added with a grin, “that this may be a fine noble manor… but that castle up there — now that’s a proper beast’s den!”

He burst out laughing. Janosh followed, wheezing.

Hans simply smiled and shook his head, amused. Soon, one by one, they began to rise — slow and tired, heavy from the road and the meal. Hans, too, bid them good night and made his way back to his chamber.

He moved quietly for a while, unpacking, shifting things from satchel to chest. Then he paused.

From outside came the faint bark of a dog.

And something more.

So soft it could’ve gone unnoticed — but not by him. Hooves. The chime of iron on stone.

He stilled. Listened.

Then — footsteps on the stairs. Steady. Quick.

Familiar.

Hans rose to his feet — just as the door swung open.

And there— his hair windswept, cheeks flushed, eyes alight.

Henry.

He froze only for a heartbeat.

Then he crossed the room in two swift steps — and Hans met him halfway. So fast, so fierce, that when Henry pulled him into his arms, Hans nearly leapt into the embrace.

“Love…” Henry breathed against his ear.

He held him tight — fiercely — and before Hans could even catch a breath, his face was showered with kisses. Temples. Cheeks. Lips. His chest rose quickly, breath catching with each one.

“Three weeks,” Henry murmured between them. “Three fucking weeks.”

Hans kissed him back. Again. And again. Kisses tangled with laughter, smiles pressed to lips, mouths chasing air between them. Hands touched, held, moved across fabric and skin like they needed to know again — to make sure the other was truly there.

And then — their mouths found each other, fully.

A moment that became the whole world. Warmth. Time suspended.

Henry buried his fingers in Hans’s hair. Hans held him around the waist, palms slipping under the doublet — hot, sure. Neither moved. Only breath. Only heartbeats.

When they finally pulled back, just enough to see, their eyes met in silence — shining.

Hans looked at him.

This face — he hadn’t seen it like this before. The beard. Short, thick, neatly kept.

He tilted his head slightly.

Ran a hand along Henry’s temple, then combed his fingers gently through the beard.

“What’s this?” he asked with a small smile.

Henry flushed a little, then shrugged.

“Well…” A shy grin. “Do you like it?”

Hans cupped his face in both hands.

Ran his thumbs slowly along the line of his beard, thoughtful. He studied him for a beat — then pulled him back in and kissed him again. Deeper. Slower.

When he drew away, his eyes gleamed, and that smile — the one meant for Henry alone — played at his mouth.

“Lord of Rotstein,” he said quietly.

“You’re the most handsome man that’s ever walked this kingdom.”

Henry laughed softly and crushed him in a tight embrace.

“I love you so damn much…” he whispered into his ear.

They stayed like that a while longer — close, unmoving. Just breath and touch. Nothing more.

When they finally pulled back enough to meet each other’s eyes, Henry’s expression sobered.

“Was the journey peaceful? Did everyone make it here safely?”

Hans exhaled — something dimming in his gaze. He shook his head.

Henry’s brow creased at once.

“What happened?”

“Past Trosky,” Hans said quietly. “We were ambushed. Bandits.”

Henry’s eyes flew wide — but Hans laid a hand on his chest.

“We cut them down. One got away. But… we lost someone. Young Janek.”

Henry fell silent. His expression clouded.

“I thought that road was safe.”

“So did I,” Hans murmured.

Henry’s gaze hardened.

“Maybe we need to ride through Trosky with more caution. Or with a stronger escort.”

He paused — something shifting behind his eyes.

“But we’ve built a decent garrison already. Devil’s got a good pool of men to draw from.”

Hans allowed a faint smile.

“The bailiff’s son… he mentioned as much.”

Henry’s attention focused.

“Lukas? Young Vatzek? He’s sharp, that one. What do you think of him?”

Hans glanced away, drew in a breath.

“Sharp lad. As you said.”

He let the words hang. Then lifted his eyes again.

“Where were you today, anyway?”

Henry scratched at the back of his head.

“Vesetz. Took a look at a spot by the river with the locals… we’re thinking of building a new mill there.”

Then he smiled — reached out and brushed a hand down Hans’s cheek.

“I’ve tried not to be idle these three weeks. Because I knew that once you came back…”

He shook his head, smile still tugging at his lips.

“…I’d want to give you all of me.”

Hans’s gaze melted. He leaned in and kissed him.

Something lit up in Henry’s eyes.

“I’ve explored a little already. And tomorrow I want to take you riding. Just us.”

Hans nodded. Drew him close again — into the stillness that only belonged to the two of them.

Henry was quiet for a moment, then looked at him again.

“You must be worn out after that journey.”

Hans, held in his arms, gave a soft nod.

“We’re going to bed,” Henry said with quiet certainty. “I’ll catch up with the others in the morning. Before we ride out.”

He simply looked into his eyes, for a beat.

Then shook his head — slowly, with a tender smile.

“God,” he whispered. “How I’ve missed you.” Sunlight spilled through the window frame.

Long golden bands stretched across the floor, sliding over the fur rug, the wooden chest — climbing higher, into corners that, until moments ago, still belonged to the shadows. In the quiet air, motes of dust danced like pollen. Outside, a chorus of birds sang — muffled by walls, but unrelenting.

On the bed, two sweat-slicked bodies gleamed. Naked. Entwined. Still echoing with movement, worn with pleasure — and yet, somehow, full of life.

Hans lay on his back, eyes closed, breath still slightly fast. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, strands of damp hair stuck to his temples. A slow hand drifted across his chest.

Henry watched his own fingers gliding over Hans’s warm skin, then let his gaze lift — to Hans’s face. To the lips, slightly parted. The eyelids that still fluttered faintly, like the last tremble of a string after song.

Then they opened.

Hans turned his head toward him. Looked at him — at the face he knew better than his own. Only now framed in beard, softened by morning light, touched with a gold that made it seem almost unfamiliar.

Henry was smiling. His eyes still lit with something that hadn’t yet burned out — a fire that had been all theirs.

Hans reached up and stroked his cheek. Fingers moved through the beard — gently, as if it were still a secret. Then he leaned in and kissed him. Softly.

His hand slid down, over Henry’s neck, shoulder, resting at his waist. Just a touch — but sure. Present.

“I’m looking forward to that ride,” Hans whispered.

Henry glanced toward the window.

The panes glowed with a day already in bloom outside.

“Looks like it’s going to be beautiful,” he smiled.

Hans’s hand still rested at his waist. He gave Henry’s bare arse a light smack.

“Then let’s not waste the bloody thing,” he said with a smirk.

Henry laughed and leaned over him, their faces barely apart. He studied him for a moment — then lowered his lips and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

“Let’s get up,” he said, smiling. As they descended into the hall, they were met by the soft light of morning.

Only two remained at the table — Godwin and Jitka, seated side by side, each with a steaming cup cradled in hand. The scent of mint and honey hung warmly in the air.

Jitka looked up at them and gave a wry smile.

“Someone had trouble leaving bed this morning…”

Henry faltered for a second.

“Is it that late already?”

Godwin shrugged and took a sip from his cup.

“Everyone’s already eaten. Janosh and Pavel went off to explore the village — thoroughly.”

He grinned.

“I suspect their exploration will focus chiefly on the local tavern.”

Hans and Henry both chuckled.

Henry stepped in to give Godwin a quick side-hug, then leaned over to wrap one arm around Jitka’s shoulders. Just for a moment — his temple touched hers.

She smiled up at him.

Then they settled at the table.

Jitka reached for the pitcher and poured them each a fragrant herbal brew.

“And what about you, Godwin?” Henry asked. “No plans to join them?”

The priest nodded toward the door.

“I’m heading up the hill. Thought it was time I had a proper look at that famous castle of yours. And I’ve still got a few things to discuss with Devil.”

Jitka nodded.

“I’ll go with Godwin. I barely saw Hynek last night — barely said a word to him.”

Henry smiled, faintly.

“Hope you catch him. Lately he’s always off somewhere — even riding with the patrols.”

Hans glanced at him, mildly surprised. Henry straightened, a flicker lighting in his eyes.

“We’ve got seven patrols out every day now. Covering all main roads and the borders.”

Hans raised an eyebrow, lips pressing together in an impressed little nod.

“Well then… fine work, Lord of Rotstein.”

Henry’s smile faded. He lowered his eyes.

“Still it couldn’t protect you from that ambush near Trosky,” he said quietly.

He looked at Jitka. “Hans told me.”

She sighed and shook her head. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

Then her gaze softened. “I’m so sorry about young Janek.”

She paused.

“But Hans and the others held them off. Protected us.”

Godwin leaned back in his chair. “So did Jitka. Took down one of those bastards herself.”

Henry frowned. “Still. It troubles me.”

Jitka reached across the table and placed a hand on his forearm. Her touch, gentle.

“I know,” she said softly. “You carry more than your share — but not everything is yours to bear.”

She gave his arm a light squeeze. “But tell me — do you two have anything nice planned for today?”

Hans looked at her.

Henry gave a small smile.

“After breakfast, we’ll ride out. I want to show Hans the land — what I’ve already found… and…”

He paused. His eyes drifted for a moment to the table.

Jitka tilted her head just slightly, and a quiet, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth — amused, but gentle.

“I know,” she said. “Three weeks.”

Henry looked up at her — and under his brows, gave a sheepish little smile.

Jitka turned back to Godwin.

“Well then, Father,” she said brightly, “would you be so kind as to escort a noble lady with child to the castle?”

Godwin chuckled, seized the pitcher, and stood.

“With pleasure, my lady.” After breakfast, Henry stopped by the kitchen. A few apples, a hunk of bread, some dried meat — and a moment later, he stepped out into the courtyard.

The sun wasn’t high yet, but its warmth was already reaching them. The air smelled of spring — fresh, green, still heavy with dew.

Hans stood a little ways off, playing with Mutt. He was throwing a stick, and the dog dashed after it each time, bounding back with his tail wagging furiously. When Henry reached them, Mutt trotted up to greet him without hesitation.

“Well now, handsome,” Henry chuckled, crouching to scratch him behind the ears. “Coming with us? Want to see the woods?”

Mutt stared up at him with solemn focus. Tilted his head one way… then the other.

Hans let out a low laugh.

“Looks like that’s a yes.”

Together, they made their way to the stables.

“And where exactly are we going?” Hans asked.

Henry already had one hand on the saddle and a foot in the stirrup. He turned to him with a grin full of mischief.

“You’ll see, Lord Capon. Just trust me.”

Hans rolled his eyes, but smiled. He swung into the saddle and nudged his horse toward the gate.

As they rode through, Henry glanced back at the guard.

“We’ll be back sometime this afternoon.”

The guard nodded.

Then the two riders, with their dog trotting behind, set off at an easy pace — toward the village, toward the rocks, toward the forest’s edge.

They passed between the rocky outcrops above Klokotsch, climbing a narrow, stony path where the last of the shadows clung between roots.

But then the road bent left — and the woods opened wide before them.

A narrow valley, cradled on both sides by slopes thick with beech and oak, opened before them like a green breath. A slender brook wound through the trees — bright and restless — its banks crowded with ferns so dense that the water all but vanished beneath them in places.

They rode in silence, slow, as if the hush itself were sacred. Their horses’ hooves fell softly onto the fresh spring earth — grass so vivid and green it looked as though it had sprouted just for this day. Among its blades, white wood anemones and violet wild sweet peas peeked through — like the forest had spilled its jewels across the ground. Every inch of earth was in bloom.

Sunlight filtered down through the canopy, gilding the young leaves and trickling through them into the shadows. The forest shimmered with it — like thousands of golden flecks drifting between the trunks. The wind whispered in the high branches, soft but constant, carrying the scent of damp soil, budding leaves, and something sharper — bark, perhaps, or the bloom of wild juniper.

All around them rose the unending symphony of birdsong. From high above came the hollow, rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker. It hammered at a trunk somewhere overhead — strike after strike, precise and unyielding, as if trying to coax the world itself from within the wood.

Bees and bumblebees hummed low in the grass, dragonflies skimmed the surface of the brook. A robin darted from the branches and vanished into green.

The air pulsed with life. Soft. Drenched in dew and morning sun.

And the horses moved on — calmly, instinctively, like the forest had known their names all along.

Eventually, the path narrowed again and dipped between the trees. And then — suddenly — the rocks appeared.

They rose from the ground like silent towers, moss-covered and tangled in bilberries. Some smooth, others cracked and jagged — all still, tall, and ancient. Henry pulled the reins and came to a stop.

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Let’s stretch our legs.”

He dismounted and looped the reins over a low branch. Hans followed suit.

“Why here?” Hans asked.

Henry stepped in close, slipped an arm around his shoulders, and brushed his cheek lightly against Hans’s.

Then he turned him gently toward the rocks and pointed.

“See? Up there…”

Hans narrowed his eyes.

And yes — nestled among the branches near the top of one of the rocky spires was a small wooden structure. Like a bird’s nest pressed into stone. He’d almost missed it.

“What is that?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“Drzewolis,” Henry replied, smiling.

“Drzewo– what?”

“That’s what it’s called. A little rock keep. It’s been abandoned for quite a few years now.”

Henry led him on — through a narrow crevice between the rocks, so tight they had to turn sideways to pass. Then up a step, along a stone ledge that curved around the rock like a ribbon, climbing higher with each careful footfall.

At the very top stood the cabin — low-built but sturdy, its shingled roof weathered to grey, beams darkened by years of sun and rain. On the neighboring crag stood the broken remnants of what had once been a wooden watchtower — now only jagged stumps of timber jutting from stone.

Henry opened the door.

Inside was a single room — plain, but inviting. Two old beds, a simple hearth, shelves along the wall. A place that held more silence than words.

Henry turned to him.

“I know it’s no Foxburrow… but if we ever wanted to go hunting. Or just… into the woods. Away from people.”

Hans looked at him for a long moment. Then pulled him close by the waist and kissed him.

He glanced toward the wall — and let out a short laugh.

“The only thing is… I’m not convinced that bed would hold the two of us. Let alone if we…”

Henry pressed in to him, hands resting on his hips.

“Oh, the things you think of, Lord of Pirkstein…” he murmured into his ear.

Hans chuckled, shook his head, and raised a brow.

“Don’t tell me, my dear Henry, that it didn’t cross your mind.”

Henry gave a little shrug — but his eyes were glinting with laughter.

“Honestly, it’s all I’ve been thinking of.”

Hans moved slowly toward the door, pausing on the threshold. The treetops seemed close enough to touch.

He drew a deep breath.

“I believe, Henry… we’re overdue for a hunting trip.”

A moment later, he felt Henry’s arms slide around his waist from behind. And the brush of lips against his neck.

“As you command, my lord,” Henry whispered into his ear. When they returned to the horses — where Mutt waited impatiently — Hans looked out over the forest.

“Where to now?”

Henry swung into the saddle and pointed through the trees.

“Bukowina.”

Hans furrowed his brow in thought.

“That’s the village Vatzek mentioned, isn’t it? Back in winter, when he showed us the land?”

Henry nodded.

“Indeed.”

They rode through light woods, where shrubs grew between the trunks and sun played across the shaded ground. Then, slowly, the trees began to thin — and without warning, the forest fell away.

They emerged into open country.

A broad slope stretched out below them, covered in spring grass, and nestled at the bottom of the valley was a small village. Low roofs. Smoke from chimneys. Small fields scattered along the edge.

They both reined in and came to a stop.

Dismounting, they let the horses graze nearby. Mutt flopped down into the grass with a grunt, panting, tongue lolling.

Henry stretched, rolled his shoulders, and with a quiet sigh, drew Hans into his arms. A contented murmur rumbled from his chest.

Hans gave him a puzzled smile.

“And why exactly did you want to bring me here?”

Henry shrugged off his doublet and hung it from a low branch. Then tugged his shirt off and laid it in the grass. He gestured toward it.

“Sit.”

Hans hesitated — only for a heartbeat — then took off his own doublet and sat down. Henry lowered himself beside him, leaning on one hand, the other slipping around Hans’s back.

He smiled.

Hans turned his head toward him, a quiet question in his eyes. Henry only gave a little shrug.

“I brought you here… because I like the view,” he said.

“And I missed you the last time I sat here.”

Hans shook his head lightly. Then leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He looked out across the valley.

“That’s Bukowina, isn’t it?”

Henry nodded silently.

Hans tilted his chin toward the horizon.

“And way out there?”

“Turnow,” Henry said softly. “That’s where our dear neighbour resides.”

Hans rolled his eyes.

“Von Bergow,” he muttered.

Henry nodded again, then stared off into the distance and gave an exaggerated wave.

“Good day to you, Lord Otto!”

They both laughed.

Hans let himself be drawn in close, and when Henry lay back in the grass, he rested his head on Henry’s chest. Together, they watched the sky — wide and blue above them.

White clouds drifted by, slow and idle.

Henry’s fingers wandered absently across Hans’s chest — just over the fabric of his shirt, but with quiet precision, as if the cloth weren’t even there. He traced the ridge of his collarbone, thoughtful.

After a while, Hans shifted — then reached up without a word and pulled his shirt over his head. He tossed it into the grass and settled against Henry’s bare chest. His skin was warm and carried his scent.

Henry wrapped an arm around him without hesitation — and Hans placed his hand over it. Gently. As if to anchor them both.

They lay there in silence for a long time. All around them, the world held still — only the wind played now and then with the grass, and from the village below came the distant sound of chickens.

Then Hans spoke — quietly.

“It troubles me, Henry… that I broke my word.”

His fingers moved slowly along the arm resting across his body.

Henry lifted his head to look at him.

“What word?”

Hans turned toward him. Smiled — but there was something apologetic in it.

“That I’d never let you ride out alone again.”

Henry gave a slight shake of the head.

“But nothing happened.”

“It didn’t,” Hans agreed. But he drew in a breath — and his voice deepened.

“But…”

He paused. Then sat up.

Henry rose with him, slowly. He looked at him — but said nothing.

Hans held his gaze for a moment.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he said at last.

He reached out, ran a hand down the firm line of Henry’s arm.

“Of course you can,” he added softly.

But his eyes dropped.

Henry leaned closer, brushed a hand against his cheek. Then gently cupped his chin, lifted it.

Hans looked up at him again.

“It’s just…” he murmured. Then fell silent, his eyes drifting to something distant, invisible. “…after everything we’ve been through. That helplessness. Not being able to do anything — if something happened. Anything…”

The words were quiet. Nearly breathless.

Henry watched him a moment. Then drew him close, wrapped both arms around him.

Hans curled into him — wordless, still. Henry pressed his lips to Hans’s hair, one hand slowly stroking over his shoulder. Again and again.

Then a faint smile touched his lips — just for a moment.

“Now that I’ve finally got you here,” he murmured, “you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

And he kissed him again — gently — in his hair.

After a while, Hans straightened and cleared his throat softly. His eyes wandered to the horizon, where the rooftops and spires of Turnow shimmered faintly in the haze. The sun leaned into the fields below, and the wind played gently with the young grass.

“You know…” he said thoughtfully, “it’s true that thanks to you being here ahead of us, there’s so much of you already showing in this place.”

He turned back slowly. There was a quiet smile in his eyes.

“When I saw those riders yesterday… in your colours. Then the banners… I’ll be honest — it caught me by surprise. But damn, I was proud.”

Henry gave a small, almost shy smile. His hand brushed across his thigh without thinking.

“It felt right — that our men should wear our colours. That people would know who they belonged to.” “And that Rotstein had a lord again,” he added after a moment.

Hans nodded — then looked back into the distance.

“And the borders? No trouble lately?”

He glanced back over his shoulder.

Henry scratched the side of his head with a wry little smile.

“It’s been quiet these past weeks. Might have something to do with the patrols riding through every day.”

He snorted.

“More than once with Dry Devil himself at the lead. So maybe they all just flee before he even comes into sight.”

Hans chuckled and laid a hand on his knee.

“It really is impressive — how hard you’ve thrown yourself into all this.”

Something lit in Henry’s eyes. That spark — the one that always flared when something truly drove him forward.

“And I want to build a new mill — I told you already,” he said. “That’s why I was in Vesetz yesterday. Or maybe… maybe Loktush. The slope’s better there.”

Hans leaned in with a look of quiet disbelief.

“You’re unstoppable,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

They sat in silence for a while, looking out over the land. Henry raised an eyebrow.

“And what about Pirkstein? How are things there?”

Hans’s gaze grew calmer. He stared off into the distance. Shrugged.

“They’ll manage. But… Bernard and Zizka have got their hands full. We still haven’t found anyone to replace Mikush.”

Henry’s face darkened.

“Ah… Mikush.”

He said nothing else. Just sat there, staring into the distance.

“I still can’t make sense of it,” he said quietly at last. He shook his head, slow and faint. “That he was the one feeding information to Hanush.”

Hans drew in a long breath — and let it out again in one heavy exhale, like he was trying to push the whole thing out of his chest in one go.

“I didn’t want to believe it either,” he admitted. “When Bernard brought it to me — when he exposed him — I thought it had to be a mistake. But then… when Mikush confessed…”

He trailed off. The words faded into the wind.

For a while, there was only silence. The birds calling somewhere high in the canopy. The low hum of insects in the air.

“You were right to dismiss him,” Henry said at last.

Hans looked up at him — searching his face.

“You think so?”

Henry nodded. Slowly. But with quiet certainty.

“In a situation like this… you can’t afford to rely on someone you can’t fully trust anymore.”

Hans shifted closer, resting his head on Henry’s shoulder. Henry wrapped an arm around his back. Pulled him in, hand resting lightly on his waist.

They sat there, wordless. Just present. Just two men, in a land that was slowly becoming their own.

The stillness was broken by the loud growl of Henry’s stomach.

Hans burst out laughing.

“That!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s what I missed most over those three weeks!”

They both laughed. Then Hans rolled across Henry’s side and pushed him gently back into the grass, kissing him. He paused there — braced on his elbows above him. A soft smile still lingered on their lips. And a glint in their eyes that wasn’t just the sun.

“Greedy thing,” Hans whispered with a grin — and brushed the tip of his nose along Henry’s cheek.

Then, in the next instant, he leapt to his feet. Brushed off his hands. And strode over to the horses. He rummaged through a saddlebag — tossing a few things aside until he found what he was looking for. Then turned, calling over his shoulder:

“Would his lordship care for some lunch?”

A few minutes later, they were sitting in the shade nearby. Mutt sprawled beside them, watching every twitch of their hands with great interest. The air smelled of dried meat, bread — and spring.

Henry took a bite and muttered through his mouthful, “Should’ve brought more.”

Hans chewed, raised an eyebrow.

“You said we’re riding through Loktush, didn’t you?”

Henry nodded.

Hans shrugged and smiled. “Well, there’s a tavern there, right?” After the meal, they rose, dressed, saddled the horses, and set off again. The sun was high now. The sky clear. And the land below breathed in a quiet, steady rhythm.

They skirted Bukowina along the forest’s edge. In the trees, it was cool and shadowed — but only a few steps further, the slopes were bathed in warmth again. They descended to the Stebenka stream, winding through a shallow valley. The water ran fast and murky still, carrying leaves and grass. Along the banks bloomed coltsfoot and blue fumewort. Insects buzzed through the air, and the meadows rippled like the surface of a pond.

On a slope, a young shepherd dozed in the grass — slouched against the twisted trunk of a low apple tree, its gnarled branches covered in pink blossoms. His hat was pulled low over his brow, a long blade of grass hanging from the corner of his mouth. A small flock of sheep grazed nearby — and among them, a few lambs bleated and flitted about, quick and fluffy, like little clouds that had grown legs and ears and bounded straight from the heavens onto the springtime field.

Here and there, cottages crouched low in the hollow — some tucked between trees, others within sight of the road. In the fields, people were at work: women bent over garden beds, men with hoes or baskets slung over their shoulders. When they noticed the riders, a few straightened up to look. Some simply watched in silence. Others gave a slight bow — a nod of the head, or a fuller gesture.

Hans glanced sideways, watching Henry. He saw how Henry met each gaze — never shying away. There was nothing forced about it — just a quiet awareness that he was being seen. And in return, he offered a soft smile.

Hans kept his eyes on him a moment longer. And then, to no one but himself, he smiled.

As they rode between two wooded ridges, the view opened before them — Loktush in the distance, its rooftops warmed by the sun, a haze of forest beyond, and the land rolling gently beneath the sky.

Hans reined in sharply.

Henry pulled his horse up beside him. He opened his mouth — but Hans simply raised a hand and pointed ahead.

“Look.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. And then he saw them.

Three riders burst from the treeline at full gallop. And behind them—

“That’s our patrol!” he shouted.

“They’re chasing someone!”

He kicked his horse into motion. Hans followed without hesitation. They veered off the road, angling downhill toward the riders in flight.

As they closed the distance, Henry got a clearer look. No colours. No heraldry.

He glanced back at Hans, jerked his head, and shouted, “Try cutting them off from the right!”

Hans nodded and arced his horse outward. Henry veered slightly left — directly into their path.

The strangers spotted him. One turned, confused. Then another. They slowed. Tugged at the reins. One began to wheel his horse around — only for Hans to emerge from the trees, straight ahead of them.

They stopped. Frozen in the saddle.

Henry charged from the front. His horse reared, hooves slicing the air with a whinny. Dirt flew in clumps beneath them.

At that same moment, the patrol broke from the trees behind — four mounted men, with Dry Devil at their head.

“Hold!” he barked.

The soldiers raised their crossbows — steady, silent, aimed.

Devil grinned, turning to Hans and Henry.

“Nice of you to herd ’em right into our jaws,” he said, low and amused.

Then he nodded toward the captives.

“Off your horses!”

The men hesitated — but then, one by one, they began to dismount.

Henry didn’t move. He looked down on them from the saddle.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, quiet but firm.

Devil swung down and walked toward him at a lazy pace.

“Caught ’em over a fresh kill, a stag,” he said. “Already gutting a doe. Poachers, Henry.”

“That’s a lie!” one of the men blurted. “We’ve got permission to hunt!”

Henry turned his gaze on him. Long. Measuring.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to hunt in my woods.”

He paused. His voice remained even.

“In fact… I don’t recall ever seeing you at all.”

The man faltered. Glanced at the others.

“These are Trosky woods,” he muttered.

Hans lifted an eyebrow.

“Trosky, is it?” he said slowly. “You’re from Trosky?”

The men nodded. Silent now.

Devil spat on the ground.

Then looked up at Henry.

“What do we do with ’em?” he asked with a dark little chuckle. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Henry was quiet.

He looked at the three men. One. Then the next. Then the third.

Then his eyes flicked briefly to Hans’s.

A short, near-invisible nod.

Henry turned back to Devil.

“Take them to Rotstein. Put them in the castle dungeon.”

He faced the poachers.

—

The sun had been up for some time, yet the great hall of Rotstein Castle still held a hush of shadow.

Beams of morning light slipped through the narrow windows — pale gold, hushed and slanting. Along the walls, the last of the torches crackled softly, their flames flickering just enough to stir their own wavering shadows.

At the head of the table sat Henry, unmoving.

One hand rested on the arm of his chair, the other beside an empty cup. His eyes lingered on the table where Bailiff Vatzek sat, hunched slightly over a stack of papers, lips parted just faintly — as if mouthing the words to himself.

To Henry’s right sat Hans — composed, thoughtful, his knuckles lightly brushing his jaw, gaze steady and alert. A little farther along, Godwin leaned forward slightly, hands folded before him. His face was carved from stillness.

Near the door, Lukas stood tall — back straight, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed ahead. He didn’t flinch when the door opened.

Henry lifted his gaze.

Dry Devil stepped inside.

For a moment, he paused where the light from outside caught him — and looked straight at Henry. His expression didn’t change. Henry gave a single nod.

Without a word, Devil stepped aside.

Behind him came two armed guards, flanking three men with bound hands. Their hair was unkempt, their faces shadowed with stubble. Their clothes were soiled, torn in places. One kept his eyes low, fixed on the floor. Another glanced about, like a cornered man weighing his chances. The third stood still.

The guards urged them forward.

Their footsteps rang dully against the floor as they were marched across the room — and halted at the far end of the table, directly opposite the lord.

Henry didn’t move.

He simply raised his eyes and looked them straight in the face.

He kept his gaze fixed on the three men.

They shifted under it. Now and then, one would meet his eyes — and just as quickly look away. One stared down at the ground. Another at the table. The third into nothing at all.

Vatzek stirred slightly in his seat.

Henry tilted his head toward him.

“Master Vatzek.”

The bailiff glanced up, then looked over the accused before returning his eyes to the lord. He stood. Straightened his coat. Cleared his throat.

“Lord Henry… these men stand accused of poaching,” he began. “They were taken in the woods of your estate. The charge is brought by Sir Hynek — the commander of the patrol that caught them.”

Henry nodded once.

Vatzek sat again without a word. His gaze stayed on the papers in front of him — though he no longer reached for them. His fingers halted just short of the quill lying to the side.

Henry turned back to the three.

He looked them over — slow.

Then his gaze settled on the first of the three.

What met him was a glare — hard, unflinching. A clenched jaw. Rigid neck.

“What’s your name?” Henry asked, voice firm.

The man said nothing. Kept his eyes on Henry. Didn’t so much as blink.

“Speak, you cur,” Devil hissed from near the wall.

Henry raised his hand. Only slightly.

A low, guttural grumble came from Devil’s throat — displeased, restrained — but he said no more.

Hans’s gaze moved — from Henry, to the accused, to Vatzek. Then—

Lukas.

The young man hadn’t budged, not once. But Hans watched him a moment longer. The way he didn’t even blink. The shallow rise and fall of his breath. The tension in his spine — quiet, coiled.

Lukas’s eyes remained fixed. He was looking only at Henry.

Henry, meanwhile, turned to the second man.

“And you? What do they call you?”

Silence again. The man stared at the ground. His lips didn’t move.

Henry leaned back in the chair. Flexed his fingers.

Then turned to the third. Met his gaze.

“Well? Will you speak?”

No reply.

Henry drew a slow breath through his nose.

“Very well, then…”

He glanced toward Lukas and gave a brief nod.

The young man stepped forward at once — his steps even, purposeful. He stopped beside Henry’s chair.

Henry gestured with his hand — a small motion — and Lukas leaned in.

Henry spoke low, barely above a whisper. His lips almost brushed the Lukas’s ear.

Hans watched from beneath his brow. Didn’t move.

Lukas straightened. Nodded. Then turned on his heel and left the hall without a word. The doors shut quietly behind him.

Henry gave a faint shake of the head. His eyes moved to Dry Devil.

“Sir Hynek… state your charge.”

Devil gave a crooked smile — snorted through his nose, then stepped forward. He stopped just before the accused.

“These three sorry bast—” He caught himself. His lips curled. “These three,” he went on, unable to keep the disgust from his tone, “we caught yesterday afternoon, in the woods near Loktush. They’d just dropped a prize stag. And already had a gutted doe beside them.”

He paused. His eyes swept briefly around the hall.

Henry watched him — closely, silently.

Hans shifted ever so slightly. A glance toward Godwin. Nothing more — just a faint lift of the brow, the ghost of a thought. The priest tipped his head.

Vatzek’s quill scratched steadily. The sound rang clear — sharp and focused. Ink trailed behind the shape of each letter, drying as it came.

Devil went on.

“We caught ’em on the run — both lords saw it. They owned up to the hunting, but said it wasn’t on our land. Claimed it was Trosky’s.”

He looked back to Henry.

Nodded once.

And stepped aside.

The doors opened.

Lukas entered.

He carried Henry’s sword in both hands — careful, reverent — and walked straight toward the head of the table.

Henry rose.

The lad gave a small bow and offered the blade.

Henry took it. Lifted it — as though testing the weight — then glanced over the scabbard, the guard, the hilt.

Without a word, he laid it before him. It landed across the table with a soft, deliberate thud.

Then he sat.

His gaze returned to the three men.

Still, he said nothing.

But the sword drew their eyes — as if it held its own gravity, a pull none of them could resist.

It lay quiet, unspoken — resting askew across the table, the scabbard slightly tilted, the guard turned toward its master.

Hans raised an eyebrow. His eyes moved — slowly — to Henry.

Henry met his look.

They held each other’s gaze a moment. No word passed between them.

Then Henry turned back to the men.

“Have you anything to say in your defence?”

No answer.

A fleeting glance passed between the three — uncertain, flickering.

Then all three looked away. Downward.

None of them spoke.

Henry’s voice shifted.

It grew firmer. Lower.

“Very well…”

He paused.

Studied them once more.

“Are you aware of the weight of the charge brought against you?”

Silence.

The men didn’t move. Only the one in the middle swallowed — dry.

Henry exhaled softly. Turned his gaze to Godwin.

The priest met it. Then gave the faintest shake of the head.

Henry looked down at the sword.

He reached out — ran his fingers along the guard.

The steel rasped faintly as it slid across the wood.

All three poachers flinched at once — and turned their heads to follow the sound.

Henry watched them.

Then spoke, low and clear.

“If you are guilty… the penalty for poaching is severe.”

Stillness.

He straightened.

Placed both hands flat upon the table — steady, unshaking.

He looked them straight in the face.

“Take them back to the hold.”

His voice rang out, firm and final.

The guards stepped forward at once. They seized the men by the shoulders and turned them sharply toward the door.

None of the three resisted. They walked in silence.

Dry Devil followed.

At the doorway, he paused.

Turned.

Looked back at Henry — and gave a dark, crooked grin.

Then he vanished after them. The doors shut behind.

“Master Vatzek,” Henry said, turning to the bailiff, “we’ll resume tomorrow morning.”

Vatzek nodded. Gathered the pages from the table, aligned them with care, tucked the quill into his belt. He gave a quiet nod to his son, and together they slipped out. The door clicked shut behind them.

Once the hall was emptied — just Godwin, Hans, and Henry remaining — the strain began to ease.

Henry let out a breath, shoulders loosening. He looked over at Hans and gave a tired smile.

Hans tilted his head slightly. Set a hand on his forearm — warm, steady.

A soft clearing of the throat followed.

Godwin rose to his feet.

“I’ve a few things to see to, lads.” His voice held its usual calm — with perhaps a trace of amusement.

He turned and laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“You’re doing well, Henry. Truly.”

Henry gave a small shrug. “Thanks… I’d like to ask your counsel later.” He glanced toward Hans. “All of you.”

Godwin’s lips curled faintly. “If there’s advice to give, I’ll gladly offer it.”

And then he left.

Henry leaned forward — elbows on the table — and buried his face in his hands. His breath was quiet, but deep.

After a moment, he felt Hans’s palm at his back. It moved slowly — certain — then slid up to the nape of his neck.

Henry looked up at him.

Tired eyes. Honest.

“I had no idea what I was meant to say.”

Hans smiled. “Didn’t show.”

Henry watched him for a while — and let the warmth of his hand remain there, at the base of his neck.

“What now?” he asked softly.

Hans gave a slow shrug. “We still need to think it all through.”

Henry lifted a hand — brushed it gently along Hans’s cheek.

“We’ve got time.”

Hans laid his palm atop Henry’s hand. Held it there. Lightly.

Henry studied him.

“I promised I’d make time for you.”

Hans let out a soft sigh. “You need to tend to what matters, love.”

Henry’s mouth twitched at one corner.

“That’s what I mean.”

He leaned in — and kissed him. Lightly.

“Shall we ride?” he asked, with a quiet smile.

A spark lit in Hans’s eyes.

He nodded.

Henry reached for his sword.

Took it up — calm, near ceremonial — and with Hans beside him, stepped out of the hall. The warmth of spring morning wrapped around them as they stepped into the courtyard. The air carried the scent of green leaves, damp soil, and wood. The sun had risen higher, but had yet to bite — it only brushed the skin, light as breath.

They made their way down through the castle at a quiet pace.

Hans felt it — the difference.

When they’d first come here, back at the edge of winter, Rotstein had been still. Hollow. As if the stone itself had yet to remember what it meant to be lived in.

Now — There were footsteps. Voices. Laughter.

Life.

The upper bailey was busy as they passed through. Men moved among weapons, benches, bundles of supplies. Some were cleaning their gear, others sat against the wall, breaking bread.

At a glance, Hans spotted Dry Devil leaning in to speak with Stibor. Devil gestured sharply as he spoke, and the soldier listened, focused.

Henry followed his gaze. Leant in slightly — just enough.

And as if hearing the thought behind his eyes, he murmured:

“It’s beginning to look like a castle at last.”

Hans turned to him — and smiled.

“Radzig would be proud.”

Henry gave a small shrug, half-doubtful. “You truly think so?”

Hans didn’t hesitate.

“Without a doubt.”

They went on.

Passed more men — some working, some resting, a few merely watching the day go by. Now and then, Hans or Henry returned a glance or a nod.

When they reached the lower bailey, a stablehand who’d been napping by the gate scrambled to his feet. Moments later, their horses were brought forward.

They mounted without a word.

Set out down the path — the slope gentle beneath their hooves, the breeze tugging playfully at their hair.

For a while, neither spoke. Only hoofbeats and birdsong filled the morning.

Then Hans looked over at him.

“Have you any sense when your father might pay a visit?”

Henry shook his head — thoughtful, almost rueful.

“You remember, Hans… after the Christmas, when he came to Pirkstein — he said he’d come in spring. Once we were settled.”

Hans nodded. Didn’t speak.

Henry glanced his way — then gave a small smile.

“So perhaps… not too long from now.” In the courtyard of the manor, leaning against a post by the stables, stood Lukas.

He stared upward — absent-mindedly — watching the breeze tug at the white-and-gold banner fluttering atop the tower.

The fabric rose and fell in steady rhythm. As if it breathed.

But when Henry and Hans rode through the gate, Lukas stirred.

He straightened and stepped forward with brisk, sure strides.

He approached Henry’s horse and took the reins with a slight bow.

“Shall I see to your horse, my lord?”

Henry shook his head.

“I’ll be riding out again shortly, Lukas. Don’t stable him.”

The lad nodded, standing tall. “Would my lord wish me to accompany him?”

“We’ll be going alone,” Henry said. “Just Lord Hans and I.”

Lukas gave another nod. He said nothing.

But his eyes followed Hans as he dismounted.

Henry and Hans turned toward the residential wing.

Hans was silent. His brow drawn, his step a little slower. Thoughts clouded his face.

He didn’t return fully to the world until Henry gave him a small nudge with his elbow and tipped his chin toward an open gate in the garden wall.

“I want to show you something,” he whispered.

They stepped through the gate — and stopped short.

On a bench near the wall, bathed in a warm ribbon of sunlight, sat Jitka.

She was resting easily, head tilted back, her face turned toward the light. Her eyes were half-closed, her breath calm. The sun played softly through her hair. One hand lay on her belly — stroking gently through the fabric of her dress.

Henry looked over at Hans.

They both smiled.

Neither said a word. They simply stood — quiet — as if they feared disturbing the moment.

Then her voice reached them — smooth, faintly hoarse with sunlit ease.

“How did the hearing go, boys?”

Only now did she lower her head. Blink. Look at them.

They stepped closer. Henry shifted slightly.

“It’ll continue tomorrow,” he said. “They’ve refused to speak so far.”

Jitka nodded — slowly, as if weighing something.

“Perhaps they’re afraid…”

She paused.

“Or perhaps they aren’t afraid enough,” she added, with a small shrug.

“We didn’t mean to disturb you,” Hans said.

Jitka waved a hand. “I’m just stealing a moment in the sun.”

Her eyes wandered over the garden.

“Those beds could be restored, you know.” Then her gaze settled on a flowering tree near the wall.

“But the fruit — that we’ll have for certain.”

Henry nodded. “I thought the same. But there’s always something more urgent.”

Jitka gave a wry smile.

“And then we arrived,” she said, nodding toward Hans.

A faint blush crept into Henry’s cheeks.

She stood, placed her hand on his arm, and kissed his cheek lightly.

“I’m teasing you, Henry.”

Then she turned to Hans.

“I heard there’s a market here every Tuesday.”

Hans nodded. “The bailiff told us back in winter.”

Henry confirmed it. “That’s right. So — shall we go next Tuesday?”

“I’d love that,” Jitka replied at once. “That’s why I asked.”

Henry smiled. Nodded again.

Then she turned toward the kitchen doors.

“Will you excuse me, boys? I mean to steal something from the cook — then have a bit more rest.”

She left with a soft smile, disappearing through the doorway.

They stayed alone in the garden. Just sunlight, the scent of earth, the hush of trees, and the clean breath of spring wind.

After a while, Hans turned to Henry.

“So what was it you wanted to show me?”

Henry slapped his palm to his forehead.

“I nearly forgot.”

He led him to the far side of the garden, where a lean-to with firewood stood against the wall. There was a patch of bare ground beside it.

“Here… if we extended it all the way to the wall, added a front— we could build it in, and inside—”

“A bathing tub,” Hans breathed.

Henry nodded, eyes bright.

For a moment, Hans’s expression dimmed. Only slightly — a flicker — but Henry saw it.

The branches above them cast shifting shadows across his face.

“What is it?” Henry asked quietly.

Hans gave a small shake of the head. A half-smile, held in place.

“I was just thinking… what that tub must look like now. The one in Foxburrow.” He turned a little — as if trying to see through stone and slope, southward. “All of Foxburrow, really.”

Henry stepped closer. Set his palm gently between Hans’s shoulder blades — warm, steady.

His hand moved — just faintly. A silent touch.

Then he smiled — softly.

“Remember when we built that little aqueduct from pine bark?”

Hans looked at him. Smiled back. Sighed.

“It feels like… ages ago. Maybe because of all that’s happened since.”

Henry nodded. Slowly.

Quiet fell again. A breeze stirred the leaves above them, and the tree whispered.

Then Henry’s face brightened again. He drew a breath — lighter now — and the weight of thought eased from his brow.

“Well then, my lord,” he said with a crooked smile, giving him a playful nudge, “where shall we ride today?”

Hans furrowed his brow — thinking.

“What about that tall hill… the one we rode up to in winter?”

Henry raised his eyebrows. Leant in, his lips faintly brushing Hans’s ear.

“You mean the hill where you pressed me up against a tree with no warning?”

A quiet snort of laughter escaped him.

Hans gave a look of perfect innocence. Shook his head — but his mouth twitched.

“I did warn you,” he said, with mock gravity.

Henry leaned back against the garden wall and rolled his shoulders.

“All right…” he said at last, smiling. “Let’s ride to Kozakov.” Midday sunlight filtered through the trees.

It fell in wide, golden bands across the forest floor — soft and damp, scattered with dry needles and leaves. The grass between the trunks stirred gently as the wind swept over Kozakov’s flanks. The air was thick with sap, resin, and earth.

Something stirred beneath the low branches of a larch.

A large sow — dark, glossy — nosed through the undergrowth with slow, steady rhythm. She grunted quietly, focused, rooting out beetles and shoots, worms and bulbs, with no haste, no fear.

Around her danced a band of piglets — six in all, striped and wide-eyed, their tiny snouts twitching, squeaking endlessly. The ground seemed to shimmer with their movement — nudging, tumbling over mossy mounds, wandering too far before darting back.

But always, they returned. There was an order to it all.

For a while, it seemed the whole forest listened — to the faint chirps of the young and the soft rustling of needles beneath them.

Then the sow froze.

She lifted her head, ears pricked, snout twitching.

She blinked. Sniffed sharply — once, twice.

The scent of horses. And men.

Stillness. Then a low grunt — deep and warning — before she turned toward the thicket.

One of the piglets squealed. Then another.

And in seconds, all six fell in behind her — neat as a stripe-backed, bristly procession.

They vanished into the brush. No sound. No stir. Only the faint trace of hoofprints in the softened earth.

From a respectful distance, at the edge of a shallow hollow, Hans and Henry watched them quietly from their saddles.

“I told you there was a boar,” Hans muttered after a moment.

Henry gave a small shrug. “Reckon I might not’ve noticed them at all…”

Hans raised a brow — smug. “Well, that’s because you, my dear Henry, were not born a hunter.”

A flicker of amusement tugged at Henry’s mouth.

Hans squinted at him.

“What?”

Henry broke.

He laughed — breathless, sudden.

“Oh aye,” he said, catching his breath, “when it comes to wild swine… no one matches your mastery.”

And he burst out laughing.

Hans tried to stay solemn. But it was a losing battle. His mouth twitched, his shoulders betrayed him, and at last he gave in with a loud slap to Henry's thigh.

Henry doubled over in the saddle, laughter spilling freely. His horse stepped once, twice, snorted — restless from the commotion.

Hans was shaking too now, barely holding himself upright. Another few seconds, and he would’ve slipped clean off the saddle.

Then he gave an exaggerated sigh — and shook his head with theatrical misery.

“What did I do to deserve such an insufferable man?”

Henry tilted his head and pursed his lips.

“Keep complaining,” he grinned, “and I’ll make it worse.”

He leaned over, laid a hand on Hans’s thigh, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

Then nudged his horse forward.

Hans took a long breath — still smiling — rolled his eyes and followed. The forest rose around them into a gentle slope. The trees thinned as they climbed, and more light filtered through the canopy — pale shafts falling across bark and moss.

Hans drew his horse alongside Henry’s, and for a while they rode in silence.

Then Henry turned his head.

“When you mentioned Foxburrow earlier…”

Hans glanced over — curious, one brow raised.

“Hm?”

“I was thinking,” Henry said, “maybe we could stop there. Just for a day. Or two.” He hesitated. “On the way to Rattay.”

Hans narrowed his eyes slightly, a quiet smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

“When were you thinking?”

Henry gave a small shrug.

“When you go check on how Bernard and Zizka are faring.”

This time, Hans’s smile broke wide.

“You’ll come with me, love?”

Henry smiled too — slower now, with something deeper behind it. He drew a breath.

“Those three weeks without you…” He shook his head. “They were awful.”

Then his voice shifted — low, unsteady.

“And with the roads as dangerous as they seem now…”

Hans looked at him again — gently, with something soft in his expression, something grateful.

He parted his lips to reply —

— but froze.

His eyes darted past Henry’s shoulder.

He slowed his horse. Then brought it to a full stop.

“Wait.”

Henry halted too. “What is it?”

Hans nodded toward the trees, just below the path.

On the slope beneath them, half-hidden among ferns and birch roots, a dark streak of fresh earth glinted in the light. A low mound — clawed apart at one end, yet clearly recent.

Henry frowned. Dismounted. He walked toward it slowly, eyes scanning.

Hans followed.

The mound led to a low rock — more a boulder than a cliff — its top covered in moss. At its base gaped a dark hole, raw and uneven. The soil around it had been crudely dug, scattered in clumps. A shallow wicker basket lay overturned in the grass nearby.

Henry crouched. Scooped a handful of the loosened soil — gritty with pebbles — and rubbed it between his fingers.

“Not old,” he murmured. “A few days at most.”

He stood again, brushing his hands against his thighs. His eyes swept the treeline. The woods were still. Only birdsong — and the wind high in the branches.

Hans stood off to the side, hands on his hips.

“Vatzek said people used to search for gemstones up here.”

Henry glanced his way.

“You’re right, Hans.”

Hans frowned.

“But they’re not allowed to dig for them. Not without the lord’s leave.”

“They’re not,” Henry said. He looked back at the hole, then at the churned-up ground.

“We should ask the bailiff if anyone’s been granted permission.”

Hans tilted his head, thinking.

“He’d have said so back in winter, wouldn’t he? When it came up?”

Henry shrugged.

“Still — I’ll ask.”

They stood silent a moment longer. Somewhere above, a bird cried out — sharp, sudden — and a bush rustled nearby.

“You don’t think it could be someone from Trosky?” Hans asked. “Gemstones are a greater prize than game.”

Henry didn’t reply at once. He gave only the faintest nod.

“Maybe… I don’t know.”

Then he let out a breath.

“Come on. We’re nearly at the top.”

They mounted again and rode upward — into the wind, into the thinning light, between the trees.

After a while they reached the summit — a broad, open crest of grass, bare to the sky and to all directions. The full strength of the spring sun bathed them in warmth. Wind tugged playfully at their horses’ manes and stirred the hillside grasses. Below them, the land stretched wide like a painted map — a world they now half-possessed.

They dismounted.

Hans turned to face the sun, closed his eyes, and spread his arms wide. His whole body stretched with the kind of breath that fills the lungs and loosens the bones.

Henry stepped up behind him — quiet, sure — and wrapped both arms around his chest. His hands settled over Hans’s ribs, familiar, grounded.

Hans tilted his head, resting his cheek against Henry’s. When he felt the scratch of Henry’s beard on his skin, he brushed against it softly — up and down — and smiled.

“I love you so much,” Henry whispered against his ear.

Hans didn’t answer at first. Just stood in that hold.

Then he said quietly, “Do you remember, Jindro — that summer morning… in the farmstead ruins, when we danced?”

Henry’s hands paused. Just for a breath.

Then Hans felt the warm exhale at his neck.

“I’ll never forget it,” Henry whispered.

Hans turned in his arms and kissed him — slow, deep, and unhurried. A kiss cut of time.

When they parted, Hans looked past his shoulder — and stilled. His eyes fixed on the horizon. He gave a small nod, almost to himself.

Henry turned to follow his gaze.

Far to the south, in the crystalline clarity of day, two dark towers rose from a jagged hilltop — perched like eyes, watching the land. There was no mistaking them.

Trosky.

They stood a moment in silence, both watching.

“What do you mean to do with the poachers?” Hans asked, low.

Henry shook his head. “I’m not sure yet.”

“We should talk it through with the others,” Hans offered. “When we’re back.”

Henry nodded.

Hans took a few steps forward, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the land below.

“If those poachers say nothing… you’ve still got Devil’s testimony. That alone would be enough to convict them. And pass sentence.”

He paused. Then turned back to face Henry.

“But—” he said, “I’d sleep easier if they spoke. So you could be sure. Truly sure.”

Henry looked at him for a long moment.

Then nodded. Slowly.

“I’m truly glad to hear you say that, Hans.” “That I’m not the only one who feels it.”

Hans stepped back to him — his hand running along Henry’s arm, light and steady.

“Come on,” he said gently. “We should start heading back, if we’re to make it in time.”

He turned toward the horses.

But before he could take a step, Henry caught him by the arm and pulled him close — held him, firm and full.

Both arms wrapped tight around Hans’s body. As if he needed to feel him again — not gently, not later, but now.

His hands roamed slowly along Hans’s back — sometimes higher, sometimes lower — until they reached his hips, and the firm curve of his arse.

Hans’s hands answered in kind. Grasping, seeking — pulling him closer still.

The kiss that followed was long.

Deep. Wanting.

When they parted, just barely, Hans gave him a grin — winked — and smacked him sharply on the backside.

“Come on, then.”

He swung into the saddle.

Henry lingered on the ground, head tilted — his face caught somewhere between amusement and surrender. He looked down at himself — then back up at Hans.

Hans laughed.

“Love,” he said, “I’m not any less hard than you are — but duty calls!”

Henry snorted. Still laughing, he climbed into the saddle. By the time they returned to Klokotsch, a fine but steady rain had begun to fall. It drummed softly on the shingles, soaked their shoulders, and darkened the horses beneath them, whose flanks steamed faintly in the damp air.

They rode through the gate and nodded to the guard in passing, then drew to a halt in the centre of the courtyard. From the storehouse, Pavel emerged — sleeves rolled, cheeks flushed with work.

Both men dismounted.

Henry took a moment to glance around. The yard, slick with rain, was nearly empty. He gathered the reins of both horses and headed toward the stables.

Hans, meanwhile, turned to Pavel.

“Go to the kitchens, will you? Tell them supper should be prepared.”

Pavel gave a quick nod and made to leave — but Hans stopped him with a gesture.

“And then ride up to the castle,” he added. “Tell Devil we’d be pleased to have him join us for the meal.”

He paused a beat, then smiled.

“You as well, Pavel.”

Pavel’s face grew solemn with that small honour. He nodded again and jogged off toward the kitchen door.

Hans turned.

Henry was just coming back from the stables, brushing the rain from his face with one hand.

“We should invite Devil to supper,” he remarked.

Hans smirked. “Already done.”

Henry gave a slight shake of the head — half amused, half surprised.

“Come then, Lord Capon. Let’s get out of the rain.”

They headed toward the stairs.

A few steps in, Hans cast a glance back over his shoulder. Something unreadable passed through his eyes. He gave a faint shake of the head — and kept walking. By evening, the rain had thickened. It beat against the window ledges with a steady, sonorous rhythm.

In the main hall, warmth had settled into the stone. The fire in the hearth gave off a deep, pulsing heat, while the torches along the walls sent restless shadows flickering over the plaster and beams.

The table in the centre stood laid for supper. Seated at it already were Jitka and Godwin. Their conversation had dwindled to a hush — and now fell silent as the sound of footsteps echoed on the stair.

Hans stepped in and gave a nod of greeting.

“Henry’s still with the bailiff,” he said as he took the seat beside Jitka. “But he should be along shortly.”

Jitka offered a soft smile and inclined her head.

Before her stood a wooden bowl filled with pickled mushrooms — boletes and chanterelles in vinegar and salt, seasoned with herbs. Beside it, dried apples and plums, drizzled with honey.

Hans glanced between the dishes — and back again — faintly puzzled.

Then turned to Jitka, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and caution.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“Don’t ask, Hans,” she said — dry, unbothered — and shrugged.

Hans gave a low chuckle, then turned to Godwin.

“And what did they bring you?”

Godwin raised a brow and gestured toward his plate — a wedge of rye bread, a slice of cold smoked meat, a generous helping of grated horseradish.

Hans nodded with approval and gave a brief motion to the maid by the door.

“The same for me. And a jug of wine, if you please.”

She dipped her head and slipped away through the side room.

Just then, the main door swung open, and three figures stepped into the hall — rain-dark cloaks, damp hair, boots heavy with water.

Henry. Dry Devil. Pavel.

“We crossed paths in the yard,” Henry said, brushing droplets from his shoulder with a half-smile.

Hans smiled back and shifted to make space.

Henry took the seat beside him — the place at the head of the table remained unclaimed.

The serving girl returned just then, bearing a plate and a jug. Henry turned to her.

“Bring supper for all, Judita, if you would.”

He glanced round the table, then raked a hand through his wet hair, scattering beads of water.

Hans leaned toward him.

“So — what did Vatzek say?”

Henry looked down at the table.

“It’s just as we thought. The bailiff says no one’s been granted leave to dig on Kozakov in years.”

Hans nodded — slowly, his gaze distant.

“What’s all this, then?” Devil growled from the other side of the table.

Henry looked up.

“There’s a pit up on the Kozakov slope. Someone’s been digging — likely for gemstones. The ground’s been worked before.”

Devil narrowed his eyes. Gave a slow nod.

“Gemstones, is it…” He clicked his tongue. “You reckon that’s Trosky filth again?”

Hans shook his head.

“We don’t know. But… I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Godwin leaned in slightly.

“And those three we’ve got locked up? Might they know something of it?”

Hans gave a slow shrug.

“Perhaps. But if they won’t speak, it does little good.”

Henry nodded.

“We need one of them to talk. Just one.”

The door opened once more. The maid and the cook entered, bearing a broad wooden tray, and began to arrange the supper on the table: smoked meat, coarse bread, a round of cheese, onions, horseradish. Pitchers of wine and water. They set everything down in silence, with the quiet deference of women long used to household ritual, then bowed and slipped back out.

Dry Devil reached for his knife. He dragged a strip of smoked meat toward him — but before he cut, his hand stilled, and he regarded the edge of the blade.

“You know, Henry,” he said, “a man can be made to talk… in more ways than one.”

Then the knife came down. He carved off a slice, put it between his teeth, and began to chew with slow, deliberate strokes of his jaw.

Hans cast Henry a searching glance — a flicker of worry in it. Henry drew a long breath, let it out, and shook his head.

“Some things… I would rather not lay my hands to.”

Dry Devil snorted, gave a brief shrug.

“Truth has never been won by soft hands,” he muttered, and gave a low laugh without lifting his eyes from his plate.

After a moment, Henry turned to Godwin.

“What if you try speaking with them?” he asked softly. “As a priest. You might fare bette with them than we.”

Godwin scratched the crown of his head, then rubbed a hand through the stubble along his jaw.

“Well… I’ve heard tell of all manner of miracles. Read of a few as well.” He blinked, lips quirking in a faint smile. “But if that did the trick, it’d be fit to stand among them.”

Henry smiled — briefly, wearily — then sighed and let his gaze fall to the table.

Silence settled.

Hans straightened a little, eyes fixed on the flames in the hearth.

“They may change their mind on their own,” he murmured. “After what they saw today.”

Henry looked toward him — brows drawn, searching for the meaning behind the words.

Hans rested his jaw against his knuckles.

“What you did with the sword — it spoke loudly enough.”

Jitka turned, eyebrow arched.

“What did you do with a sword?”

Henry spread his hands a little on the table — a helpless, embarrassed gesture — and said nothing.

Hans answered for him.

“At one point he sent for his blade,” he said. “Then set it on the table. Without a word. Straight before the three of them.”

He paused, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Their faces were worth the sight.”

Pavel watched him with his mouth slightly open, then glanced at Henry with new, round-eyed awe.

Jitka pursed her lips, thoughtful, and gave a small nod.

“It may well serve.”

Godwin cleared his throat. He studied Henry over the rim of his cup.

“And if it does?” A soft pause. “What sentence would you lay upon them, Henry?”

Henry lowered his gaze to his hands. Rubbed his thumb across the other palm.

“The punishments I can give them vary… greatly.”

“Just so,” Godwin murmured, and cast a brief look at Pavel, who watched Henry with taut attention.

Hans shifted in his seat.

“And what if,” he said slowly, “in such a case… you asked their lord for his word on the matter?”

Henry turned to him.

“Give von Bergow a say?”

Hans inclined his head. A spark lit his eyes.

“And let him know we’re holding his subjects. For poaching on your land.”

Henry looked to Jitka. Then to Godwin.

The priest gave a single, measured nod.

“Hans’s wits are keen.”

Henry’s gaze drifted, quick and thoughtful, as though the pieces of something unseen were settling into place.

When he spoke again, his voice had softened — contemplative, almost tentative.

“What von Bergow chose to answer… might reveal more than he intends.”

A rasping chuckle broke the hush — rough, derisive.

“Oh, fuck me,” Dry Devil grumbled, “you’ve the softness of monks.”

And he barked out a coarse laugh.

“Well,” Henry murmured, lifting his cup of wine in a pensive tilt, “we’ll know more come morning.”

The chair scraped quietly as Jitka rose from the table. Her face bore the weariness of the day, and her movements were stiff, deliberate.

“I’ll turn in. My back aches like I’ve been ploughing fields.”

Hans straightened at once and sprang to his feet.

“I’ll walk you up.”

She gave him a faint, grateful smile, her gaze soft as it passed over him. Before climbing the stairs, she offered a quiet nod to the others still seated. Then she and Hans disappeared into the upper floor.

Dry Devil stretched, joints cracking like dry twigs.

“I’ll head back up to the castle myself.”

He stood, unhurried, and made for the door.

Only Godwin and Pavel remained at the table with him now.

Henry took a small sip of wine, his mouth twitching into a smile. He nodded toward the boy.

“And how about you, Pavel? How are you liking it here so far?”

He tilted his head, considering.

“I do like it. Feels a bit like halfway between Rattay and Cirkwitz…” He glanced at Henry. “That’s my village. Where I’m from.”

Then he chuckled.

“Though it’s fairer here, I’d say.”

Henry shook his head, amused.

Pavel’s voice dropped a little.

“I just… haven’t had much to do yet. Back in Rattay I helped Mikush — took care of Foxburrow…”

Henry reached out and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry. There’s always work for a lad who knows what he’s doing. And I’m glad you came with us.”

Godwin’s voice drifted in.

“He hasn’t been idle. Asked me if I’d start teaching him to read and write.”

Henry looked up, eyebrows raised, then turned back to Pavel — this time with a nod of real respect.

“Well now. That’s something.”

He pushed his hands against the table and stood.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me — I think I’ll turn in myself. I’m worn out.”

“We were going to study a bit after supper anyway,” said Godwin, nodding toward Pavel.

Henry stepped toward the stairs — but paused at the base, glancing back at the priest.

“If Hans comes—”

Godwin silenced him with a quiet smile and nod. Henry climbed the stairs and rounded the corner of the corridor — and nearly walked straight into Hans.

“All is well?” Henry asked, his voice low.

Hans nodded.

“She’s well enough. Her back’s bothering her, that’s all. But she’s fine.”

He hesitated for a moment.

“Shall we go to bed?”

Henry nodded back, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s been a long day… more than I knew.”

They stepped through the antechamber and into Henry’s room. Hans shrugged off his doublet, folded it over the chest, and sat down on the edge of the bed while Henry knelt by the hearth, coaxing the fire to life. When the dry wood caught and the flames began to rise, he straightened slowly, stretched with a weary sigh, then peeled off his own doublet and crossed the room.

He let himself fall backwards onto the bed, his head resting in Hans’s lap.

Hans looked down at him with a faint smile and threaded his fingers gently through his hair.

Henry reached up and brushed his knuckles across Hans’s cheek. His thumb grazed the ridge of Hans’s cheekbone, then his hand dropped back to the coverlet.

“There’s this feeling in my head…” he murmured, “like something’s beginning to shift. Slowly. But surely.”

Hans was quiet for a moment.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said at last.

Then his mouth tugged into a small, bitter smile.

“I’m starting to think peace never lingers long around us.”

Henry returned the smile — soft, tired.

Hans lifted his gaze to the flames, watching them twist and dance along the logs. The firelight played across the walls, flickering in slow patterns. From somewhere deep in the hearth came the quiet crackle of settling wood.

His fingers drifted still, idly, through Henry’s hair.

“I miss our nights at Foxburrow,” he said softly, not looking down. “I really do.”

Then he glanced back at him.

Henry’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. His breathing was even. A faint, almost inaudible snore escaped him.

Hans smiled to himself. He brushed a gentle line above Henry’s ear.

“My love,” he whispered — barely a sound at all. Three men sat hunched in the dungeon of Rotstein Castle. Their backs pressed against damp stone, their limbs stiff with cold. The straw beneath them was sodden and reeked of mould and old rot.

From the narrow window high above, the endless murmur of rain drifted down. The chill crept in with it — slow and heavy, like water through cloth.

Only a faint, flickering light broke the gloom. It seeped through a crack in the wooden door — the orange sway of a torch beyond. The men stared toward it, unmoving. Silent.

Then came another sound.

A slow, scraping drag — metal against stone. Drawing nearer.

A moment later, the jangle of keys.

The men straightened instinctively, shoulders tight, drawing close.

The lock rattled.

The door creaked open.

A figure filled the torchlight. His face was cast in shadow. In one hand, he held an iron poker — loosely, like a shepherd’s crook. Its tip, resting on the stone floor, glowed faintly red in the gloom.

Dry Devil stood motionless for a while. Just watching.

Then his teeth flashed in a crooked grin.

“Well then, sweethearts,” he drawled. “Still not in the mood for a little chat?”

Silence.

He dragged the poker slowly across the floor — a long, scraping screech curling up the walls.

“You see,” he said softly, “the Lord of Rotstein has the right of the sword from the king himself.”

He lifted the poker, examined the glowing end.

“Which I imagine you knew.”

A pause. Another smile.

“What you might not know,” he went on, “is that this includes the right of torture.”

Stillness deepened, if such a thing were possible.

Devil looked at them — and in the dark of his eyes, two sparks of light.

“Sleep well, little doves,” he murmured.

He chuckled, turned, and stepped out.

The door groaned shut. The key rattled home.

Footsteps faded. Metal scraped once more over stone, dragging into distance.

And then nothing — Save for the soft whisper of rain. And night. The great hall of Rotstein Castle echoed with the drumming of rain — steady, relentless, unbroken since nightfall.

The door creaked open.

Three men were ushered inside, shoved forward by the guards behind them. Their leather jerkins were soaked through, boots caked in mud, hair plastered to their skulls, fingers stiff with cold.

At the far end of the hall, Henry sat at the high table. His hands were clasped, elbows resting on the board. To his right, Hans tapped his fingers absently against the edge, shadows dark beneath his brows. To his left, Godwin sat in silence, his expression unreadable. A little further on Bailiff Vatzek, a small pile of papers beside him, with an inkwell and quill.

Between the two worlds lay Henry’s sword — stretched across the table like a line drawn.

The three men halted. Water dripped from hair, sleeves, and beards. Behind them, their shadows flickered and bent in the light of the torches.

Hans watched them.

The way they stood. The way they looked.

They seemed changed now. Not broken. But… emptied. As if something inside them had already fallen before they’d stepped through the door.

Henry leaned forward slightly, fingers still steepled, and looked at them through his hands.

“Have you anything to say for yourselves?”

His voice was firm. Unyielding.

Only the sound of rain answered.

At last the man on the left raised his eyes.

“My lord…”

Henry held his gaze for a moment.

“What is your name?”

“Leshek, my lord.” His voice was dull. He nodded toward the two beside him. “That’s Franz. And Milota.”

The others glanced over at him — blank-faced, silent.

Henry gave a slight nod.

“Very well, Leshek. Have you anything to offer in your defence?”

The man lowered his head. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“The doe. And the stag,” he mumbled at last. “We did bring them down.”

“On Rotstein land?”

Another pause. Then a quiet nod.

A drop of water fell from his beard to the flagstones.

Henry didn’t move. His hands remained joined. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Then why claim it was on Trosky lands?”

The man in the middle spoke next. His voice was hoarse, like it hadn’t been used in days.

“The castle steward… he told us to go there. Said Trosky still held the claim.”

A wooden chair scraped softly. Hans leaned forward slightly.

“But you knew it belonged to Rotstein,” he said sharply.

All three turned to him. The speaker nodded again. Then looked down — slowly.

“We knew.”

“And the steward must’ve known as well,” said Henry. “Didn’t he?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Henry leaned back and drew a breath through his nose. His eyes didn’t soften.

“So you admit to poaching on my land?”

Silence again.

Only the rain outside. And from the shadowed corner… the faint creak of leather as Devil stretched lazily. He said nothing.

The poachers glanced at him. Then back to Henry.

“Yes, my lord,” Leshek murmured.

Henry turned to the second.

“I confess.”

And the third.

“So do I.”

Henry sat back. His gaze drifted to Godwin — who gave a faint nod. Then to Hans.

Hans said nothing for a moment. Then leaned forward again.

“And the digging? On Kozakov hill?” His voice was low. “Do you know anything of that?”

Only Milota looked up.

“No, my lord,” he said, shaking his head. “The steward sent us to hunt. Nothing more.”

Henry’s face did not change.

“Anyone else from Trosky?” he asked. “Might it have been another?”

None of them spoke. Their eyes stayed down. Their shoulders taut.

Henry studied them for a while. Then turned back to Vatzek.

“Master Vatzek. Have you written everything down?”

The bailiff gave a wordless nod, his eyes never leaving the page.

“Take them away,” Henry said.

The guards stepped forward. The poachers didn’t resist. They turned, said nothing, and let themselves be led out. The doors opened. The sound of rain surged briefly — then faded again as the doors shut behind them.

Silence settled once more.

Hans raised an eyebrow and looked over at Henry.

“So. What do we do now?”

Henry’s eyes lingered on the doors for a moment longer. Then he turned back, met Hans’s gaze, and gave a faint, grim smile.

“Now we write to our neighbour.”

He turned toward the bailiff.

“Master Vatzek — may I?”

Vatzek nodded and rose from his seat.

Henry stood, walked over, and sat down in his place. He reached for a blank sheet and dipped the quill.

Before he began to write, he glanced over his shoulder.

In the shadows beneath the beam at the back of the hall stood young Lukas.

“Get ready, Lukas,” Henry said. “You shall ride to Turnow.” The battlements of the manor at Klokotsch glistened in the aftermath of rain. Noon sunlight pierced through ragged shreds of cloud drifting across the sky, striking droplets on stone, on rooftops, on the leaves of every tree. Everything shimmered.

The air hung thick and close — warm, heavy with moisture.

Hans rested his palms on the stone and bowed his head.

“Do you think this will be the end of it?” he asked quietly.

Henry stepped closer and halted just beside him, his elbow nearly brushing Hans’s arm. He looked out across the valley. Thick coils of steam were rising slowly from the forest. The woods were wet and breathing — like a living thing, drenched and watchful.

“I don’t know, Hans,” he said. “I truly don’t.”

He turned toward him, studied his face for a long moment.

“What if von Bergow tells us to go to hell — or doesn’t reply at all…” His voice dropped. “What am I meant to do with those three, Hans?”

Hans met his gaze. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he gave a slow shake of the head.

“Don’t think about that now,” he murmured. “Let’s see what Lukas brings. Then you’ll decide.”

Henry nodded. Just faintly. And drew in a long breath.

“Maybe you’re right, love…”

He leaned his hip against the stone and wrapped both hands around the edge. His eyes turned back to the valley.

“I just… I wanted this to be home,” he said. “Here. Rotstein. For everyone. A place of quiet. Of safety.”

He paused. His gaze swept the forests, the path, shingled roofs.

“For Jitka, for Godwin, Pavel, all of them… for Heinrich…” He looked back to Hans. “For the two of us.”

Hans reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Steady fingers. Warm.

He met his eyes.

“And why shouldn’t it be, Henry?”

A faint smile tugged at Henry’s lips. But his eyes remained tired.

“That border trouble…” he said. “The bandits who ambushed you… and who knows what else.”

“All of it’s in our hands,” Hans cut in. “We’ll manage, and—”

He broke off.

His gaze shifted past Henry’s shoulder.

“Lukas,” he said, nodding with his chin.

Henry turned.

A rider was approaching down the track.

They descended from the battlements just as the bailiff’s son came through the gate. Soaked to the bone, his horse’s flanks spattered with mud. He pulled up, dismounted, and bowed sharply.

His face was flushed from the ride, hair plastered to his brow, lips drawn tight.

Henry stepped forward.

“Well?” His voice was tight with tension. “What news from von Bergow? Do you carry a reply?”

Lukas shifted, straightening just a little.

“My lord—” he began, then faltered.

His gaze dropped.

“I do not.”

Henry frowned.

—

He felt it before he opened his eyes — a tug at his shoulder. Not rough, but insistent. The kind of gesture that came after the hundredth try.

He blinked into the dim light.

There he was. The familiar shape — arms crossed, face drawn tight, brow like a thundercloud. His father.

“Up. It’s the Lord’s day.”

Lukas groaned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the quilt over his head. “Lord Henry’s not here…”

He didn’t finish. His father grabbed his shoulder and turned him back with a brisk hand — cold fingers, no room for argument.

“The lords may be gone. But Lady Jitka stayed. And today you’ll see her to church.”

Lukas sat up, slow and heavy. He dragged a hand across his face and blinked at the morning.

Vatzek had already turned away. He crouched by the table, rifling through his scuffed leather satchel.

“Get dressed,” he muttered, not looking back. “And mind you reach the manor before even the scullery boys do — if there’s any pride left in you.”

He pulled out a bundle of papers, thin and bound with string, turned around, and held it out.

“Leave these in Lord Henry’s chambers.”

Lukas stared at him for a moment.

Then took the bundle without a word. Sullen. Unwilling.

Vatzek gave a short nod. “Move.”

The door shut behind him.

Lukas stayed where he was. Sitting in the half-light, bare-chested, tousled, staring into nothing. The bundle still in his hand, untouched. The only sounds were a rooster crowing somewhere outside and the old beams creaking softly overhead.

He slowly eased back onto the bed.

Laid the papers on his chest. They rose and fell with each breath — quiet and even. His gaze drifted to the ceiling. He followed the crooked beams, the cracks in the planks, the dark little holes where worms had chewed through the wood.

Then his eyes dropped.

He raised the bundle to the light. Studied it a moment, tilted his head — as if he could divine its contents by weight and silence alone.

A sigh escaped him.

He sat up again.

Paused. Then reached for his trousers. The door to Henry’s chamber closed with a soft creak.

Lukas paused on the threshold.

As though he owed the silence an apology for breaking it.

The room held its breath. In a shaft of light slanting through the windows, specks of dust drifted lazily — rising, falling — as if they too were breathing.

His gaze moved slowly across the space.

The broad bed, neatly made. One of Lord Henry’s doublets folded over the chest at its foot. Two goblets on the low table. A woven cloth pushed askew. A chair — and on it, a tunic Lukas had never seen on Henry before. Not on Henry.

He drew in a breath. There was something familiar in the air. The scent of wood, wax, leather — and beneath it all, a warmth he could not quite name. Subtle, but persistent.

He walked toward the table.

Scrolls lay unrolled across the surface, alongside folded papers, a stick of sealing wax, an inkwell, and a sheet with a sketched outline.

Lukas set down the bundle he had brought. Hesitated. Then reached to square the stack, straighten a corner, smooth an edge. Too carefully. Too long.

He turned and paced the room, one measured step at a time.

At the far wall, he stopped.

A tapestry hung there — large, heavy, rich in colour. At its centre rose a crag, and on it, a fortress. Clear and unmistakable.

Rotstein.

He stared at it in silence.

Then turned slowly. His eyes came to rest on the bed.

He stood still for a long moment.

Then began to walk again — back toward the door.

At the chest, he stopped once more.

Reached out, and with the back of his fingers, brushed the fabric of the doublet. Gently. Tentatively. A fleeting touch — the kind one gives to something they do not dare to claim.

He drew a slow breath. Let it out — quiet, deep.

One last glance around the room.

And he left. As he stepped into the courtyard, the light struck him hard — sudden and blinding.

He paused beneath the steps, blinking into the glare.

A figure stood there already, clad in white and crimson.

An alb. A scarlet stole. And draped across the shoulders, a heavy red chasuble.

Godwin.

Lukas stared — almost in surprise. He couldn’t look away.

The priest caught the gaze. At first, he met it directly, almost sternly — but then the corners of his mouth twitched, and his voice cut through the silence between them.

“What are you staring at, boy?”

Lukas dropped his eyes. “Forgive me, Father… I just… I’d never seen you so robed before.”

Godwin gave a low chuckle. It carried the weight of weariness, but not unkindness.

“Truth be told, I’d half thought I’d never wear these vestments again.”

He squinted up at the sun, fell quiet for a moment — then gave a small nod, as if answering some unspoken thought.

“Lord Henry asked me to celebrate the Pentecost mass.”

He shrugged, half-smiling.

“And one does not refuse Henry lightly.”

Lukas watched him a moment longer, then simply nodded.

Godwin tilted his head, studying him. Then scratched the back of his neck.

“What weighs on you, Lukas?”

The lad looked up, caught off guard. The priest smiled — gently, warmly.

“It’s not hard to see you’re wandering like a soul unmoored.”

Lukas stared down at his hands. Said nothing for a moment.

“I…” he began, quietly. “It’s just… I thought, since I’m Lord Henry’s page… I thought he’d take me with him.”

His voice faltered. His gaze fixed on the tips of his boots.

Godwin took his time before answering — as though weighing the shape of each word.

“You know, lad… Lord Henry’s been riding with Lord Hans for a long time. Since the days when he was his page.”

Lukas looked up. There was a flicker of surprise in his face.

Godwin smiled.

“You didn’t know? Before he became a lord himself, Henry served under Lord Capon. Faithfully. Rode with him into battle, even.”

Lukas shook his head. The silence settled again, soft as dust on the packed earth.

“But Lord Hans did take his page with him,” he said quietly.

Godwin exhaled, then gave a slow shake of the head — but paused.

“And tell me this — were you not here, who would bear the cross in today’s procession?”

Lukas lifted his head. “Me?” he asked, surprised.

The priest nodded.

“So stand tall, young man.” He clapped a hand on Lukas’s shoulder. “The day is holy. And you’ve your place in it.”

They turned at once.

Beyond the gate, the world was already stirring. Villagers had begun to gather along the road — women in Sunday coifs, men with bare heads, children in white shirts and fluttering ribbons. Footsteps rustled, voices murmured low, the wheels of a cart creaked, someone dropped to one knee to fix a hem. Faces peered through the open gate, curious, impatient.

“Is everything ready?” came a warm voice behind them.

They turned — and saw Jitka.

She wore a deep green gown and a light silk mantle the colour of milk. A fine net glimmered in her hair, threaded with gold; at her neck, a pale blue ribbon held a pendant carved from ash wood — Saint Anne, with the Virgin and Child, rendered in delicate detail.

“Almost,” Godwin nodded. “Lukas will bear the cross.”

Jitka looked to him. Her gaze lingered on his face for a breath, then she gave a slow nod — with the faintest smile of approval.

“Then he ought to have it in his hands by now,” she said, amusement flickering in her tone.

Godwin slapped his forehead.

“Saints preserve us…” he muttered. “It lies yet upon the bench. Lukas, go and fetch it.”

He raised a hand, but Lukas was already on his way.

The priest turned back to Jitka.

“Have you chosen who shall lead you?” he asked. “Or shall you walk alone?”

She tilted her head. The corners of her mouth curled with quiet mischief.

“One name did occur to me,” she said, near conspiratorially.

Just then, the sound of hooves struck the yard.

A rider passed through the gate — tall, upright, dressed in a dark tunic with embroidered trim, a mantle slung over one shoulder, a fine belt at his waist. Clean-shaven, freshly washed, hair neatly combed.

Godwin stared, mouth ajar.

“Well, I’ll be—” he began, before remembering the red chasuble on his shoulders. He fell silent.

Dry Devil dismounted without a word, tossed the reins over the railing, and walked toward them.

Jitka smiled. “Uncle… I’m truly glad you came.”

Sir Hynek gave her a slight bow. Then glanced sidelong at Godwin’s half-scandalised expression.

“For you alone, dear niece,” he grumbled — though a hint of a smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

He offered his arm.

She took it without hesitation. Nodded to Godwin, and with Hynek beside her, walked step by step toward the gate — where the crowd was swelling. As Jitka and Dry Devil stepped through, the murmuring hushed.

A hundred heads turned toward them.

Jitka slowed — and dipped her head just slightly.

Near the gate, a few men followed suit. Some women curtsied, one laid a hand over her heart. Two others crossed themselves.

“God keep you, my lady,” came a soft voice from within the crowd.

Jitka let her gaze pass over them — calm in her eyes, a quiet smile on her lips, both gracious and composed.

A little further off, Captain Thomas stood speaking low with Bailiff Vatzek. Neither had joined the procession yet.

Then, from the first row, a few dropped to one knee. Others crossed themselves again. One head after another turned — toward the manor gate.

Jitka glanced back over her shoulder.

Godwin had just emerged from the yard. The red chasuble billowed gently with his stride, his steps measured and sure.

Jitka nodded in greeting. The priest returned it.

Then took his place at the front.

Behind him stood Jitka, her hand resting lightly on Sir Hynek’s forearm. A step behind followed Vatzek and Thomas. Half a pace further: Zdislava and Pavel. And beyond them — the people of the village. Women, men, and children.

All eyes turned again toward the manor yard.

In the gate stood a tall figure — and above him, the wooden processional cross.

Lukas did not falter. He bore it in both hands, steady and unhurried. With a calm, deliberate step, he moved through the gathering, carrying with him a hush that rippled outward from the gate and down the road.

He came to a halt before Godwin.

The priest reached out and gave him a quiet blessing. Lukas bowed his head, then turned — facing the village.

Godwin watched him for a moment, his gaze resting on the boy’s back. Then he turned to Jitka. And further still — to the crowd.

Silence settled once more. Deeper now. More certain. No one moved. They waited.

“In nomine Patri—” Godwin began.

He stopped.

An unexpected pause, stretched taut across the stillness.

He looked to Jitka. Then back to the gathered faces. Each held something different — expectation, belief, curiosity, a quiet kind of reverence.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said at last, clearly.

For a heartbeat, the stillness held. Some blinked. A few looked up — stilled by the sound of sacred words in their own tongue.

“Amen,” the people answered.

Godwin slowly raised his hands.

“Send us Thy gifts, O Holy Spirit… upon this people, and upon this land.”

A moment passed. Then he drew a long breath — and began to sing.

Veni, Creator Spiritus…

His voice was not strong, but it was steady. The words drifted through the air like a tide — and one by one, other voices rose to join him.

The procession began to move.

Slowly, calmly, down the road toward the village square.

Jitka only half-heard the singing that flowed around her.

The words dissolved into rhythm: into footsteps, breath, and quiet unity. Her mind wandered somewhere between.

Sunlight warmed her face.

The day was mild — not hot, but kind.

Her gaze found the cross, glinting above Lukas’s head. The polished wood caught the golden light. Her eyes followed its line downward — along the shaft, to the young man’s hands. Steady, sure. Across his shoulders, broad and upright — and beyond him.

Her eyes moved outward — over the village rooftops, between trees and homesteads, down narrow paths that wove through garden beds and small fields, and on to the rising meadows that stretched toward the tree-lined ridge on the far side of the valley.

A breeze touched her cheek.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment. The scents of blossom, straw, and wood mingled on the air, full and clear with spring.

Something inside her loosened.

The small life she carried — which, only moments ago at the gate, had made itself known with every movement — had gone still.

She smiled. To herself. Quietly. Inwardly.

She had long noticed how walking settled the world inside her.

Meanwhile, the head of the procession was nearing the church.

It stood on a gentle rise, its wooden doors flung wide. In the shadow beneath the roof, the golden flicker of candles trembled — barely visible in the bright day.

Godwin turned slightly to glance over his shoulder.

His eyes met Jitka’s — and he smiled. Just faintly. A smile not meant to be seen, but to be shared. Jitka slipped the silk mantle from her shoulders, folded it carefully, and laid it on the bed.

Her chamber was quiet. Only the faint birdsong from the trees outside reached her ears.

She sat at the table, unpinned the gold-threaded net from her hair, and set it gently aside. Then reached for her comb.

Slowly, she drew it through her hair. Stroke after stroke. Long, unhurried. Lost in thought.

After a time, her hand grew slower — until it stilled altogether. Her gaze wandered toward the window.

Beyond the glass lay a green meadow, half-veiled by the trees. In the distance, a pale rock rose from the earth, stark against the shadowed edge of the forest.

She let out a quiet breath.

After the mass, when she had bid Dry Devil farewell and stood watching him mount and ride away — tall in the saddle, swift and unburdened — she’d caught herself in a thought that left a flicker of shame.

Perhaps, in that moment, she had envied him.

Not the sword. Not the life he lived. But the simple power to rise, to ride, to vanish at a gallop between fields. To dissolve into a land without borders.

She sighed again. Quietly. Set the comb down, and laid her hand over her belly.

Her palm came to rest lightly on the fabric. And then — after a moment — she felt the faintest stir beneath it.

A smile touched her lips.

“You don’t care for sitting indoors either, do you…” she murmured.

She sat in silence a while longer. Then rose, crossed to one of the chests, and lifted the lid.

She gazed inside.

There, folded with care, lay her riding garments. Dark, sturdy, and well-worn.

Her hand brushed across the cloth.

And for a moment — perhaps only a moment — it felt as if the fabric remembered her. Not by warmth. Not by movement. But by that quiet, familiar sensation that comes when skin meets something it once called its own.

She lifted her head.

Turned slightly.

And let out a breath. The sound of wood striking wood echoed through the courtyard.

A sharp clash. A thrust. The hiss of breath. The whisper of gravel beneath boots.

Lukas stepped back, sword still raised.

“When I come from below, from the right,” he said between breaths, “you must meet me at the shoulder. Not the hand.”

Pavel nodded across from him, sweat glistening on his brow, his cheeks flushed. He rubbed at his forearm where the wooden blade had struck harder than he liked.

Lukas adjusted his stance. “Again.”

Pavel hesitated just a moment, then lunged forward.

Clash.

The wooden blades met with a clean, ringing note. Lukas caught the blow squarely, held firm, let Pavel press in — then pushed him off by half a step.

“Well done,” he said with a satisfied nod.

Pavel inhaled deeply, eyes wide — but not confused this time.

Nearby, half-shadowed, stood Captain Thomas. Arms folded across his chest, face unreadable. Only his gaze — calm, keen, falcon-like in its focus — followed their every move.

They exchanged a few more blows. Then, suddenly, the door of the main wing swung open.

The creak of hinges cut across the yard, drowning the next strike.

Lukas turned instinctively.

Jitka stepped into the light.

Riding garb. High boots. A stance like the wind — unwavering.

“My lady… I don’t believe a ride is altogether wise—” came Zdislava’s voice from behind her, laced with frustration. She followed close, hands half-raised in protest.

“That is mine to judge,” Jitka snapped over her shoulder without breaking stride.

She crossed the yard with such single-minded purpose that both Lukas and Pavel turned to watch her without thinking. Their blades dipped.

Jitka turned to them.

“Lukas, saddle Mira for me, please.”

“At once, my lady,” he answered, laid down the practice sword and headed for the stables without another word.

“My lady…” Zdislava tried again, more urgently this time.

“What?!” Jitka’s voice cracked sharp, almost too sharp — as if something had come close to breaking loose.

“Only that… Lord Hans would surely worry for your safety. And the child’s.”

Jitka inhaled — slowly, deeply — but said nothing.

“And Lord Henry, too, would be… unsettled by it,” Zdislava added more softly, though still with urgency.

Silence fell across the courtyard.

Then Thomas stepped forward from the shadow.

“It would be my honour to ride with you and see to your safety, my lady,” he said calmly.

Just then, Lukas led out Mira — the chestnut mare with smooth flanks, a flowing mane, and a white star on her brow. Strong, well-built, calm in the eyes.

Thomas gave a slight nod.

“Lukas, I daresay, would also ride at your side.”

The young man straightened. “It would be my honour, my lady.”

Jitka paused. Her gaze moved from one to the other — then, with one brow slightly raised, she turned back to her maid.

“Well then, Zdislava… it seems I shall be safer than this manor itself.”

The maid sighed and lowered her head. “Of course, my lady…”

Jitka’s expression softened.

She stepped closer and laid a hand gently on Zdislava’s forearm.

“There is no cause for worry. I seek only a gentle ride — the day is beautiful.”

Zdislava looked up at her.

“I’ll fetch something for the road,” she murmured, and slipped away toward the kitchen.

Jitka turned to the mare. She ran her palm down Mira’s neck and checked the saddle’s buckles with a quick, practiced hand.

Then she looked to Thomas — and gave him a faint, knowing smile.

He nodded once, then turned.

With a measured pace, he walked toward the stables — but after a few steps, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Jitka had just swung into the saddle in one smooth, practiced motion. She adjusted her dress with a flick of the hand, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and sat tall.

Poised. Steady.

As if she had been born to ride into the world and not look back. A lizard lay sunning itself on the stone cross by the roadside beyond Klokotsch — vivid green against the pale grey, so still it seemed part of the rock itself. Only now and then did its flank twitch with breath. Around it, the grass swayed softly in the breeze, and insects droned — lazy, tireless, eternal. Then the lizard turned its head and slipped soundlessly down the stone, vanishing into the stems below as if it had never been there at all.

A moment later, hoofbeats stirred the dust on the road.

One. Then another. Then another. And another.

Jitka rode at the head, her posture tall and at ease, her pace unhurried. The mare beneath her moved lightly, steadily, giving the occasional toss of the head — as if she, too, were alive to the gentleness of the day. A horse’s length behind followed Captain Thomas, his seat precise, his body held in watchful balance. His eyes moved across the landscape — not in wonder, but in vigilance, seeking out whatever didn’t belong. Further back rode Lukas and one of the Klokotsch guards.

Meadows stretched on either side of the road, broken here and there by orchard, wild hedgerow, or small plots of barley and wheat. All around them, May glowed fresh and full. The sun warmed without burning. The wind stirred Jitka’s hair and cooled her cheeks. She breathed in the scent of horses, dust, and blooming fields — and with each breath, something within her began to loosen. To soften. To spread.

Then they passed beneath the trees.

The world changed.

It quieted — and yet grew fuller. Birds sang on every side, high in the canopy and low in the thickets. The green light beneath the leaves shimmered like breath. A doe and fawn darted from the undergrowth and crossed the path before vanishing into the brambles.

After a while, Thomas urged his horse forward.

He drew level with her.

“To where are we bound, my lady?” he asked after a stretch of silence.

Jitka kept her gaze ahead. Her eyes drifted along the forest trail, into the curve where it disappeared.

A slow smile touched her lips.

Then she turned to Thomas.

Gave a small shrug.

“When we come to it… I shall know.”

He looked at her for a moment. There was a softness in his face.

He nodded once.

And let his horse fall in with her pace.

For a while they rode in silence. The hooves sounded dully on the soft path, wind rustled in the branches above, and now and then a shaft of sunlight fell between the trees.

“Do you know this land well, Captain?” Jitka asked, without lifting her eyes from the trail.

Thomas thought for a moment.

“I served at Trosky,” he said, “but I was born in Turnow. That’s where I grew up. So… much of this domain is already familiar to me.”

Jitka nodded. Said nothing more. Silence returned.

Their horses moved calmly down the path, as if they too sensed there was no need to hurry. The forest sang all around them — blackbirds, finches, thrushes. Everything alive, and yet at peace.

“Was it never your wish to return to Turnow, after leaving Trosky?” Jitka asked again, her voice quiet, her eyes still forward.

Thomas didn’t answer at once. He seemed to be searching for the words. Then he turned toward her and shook his head gently.

“After our parents died, there was only my sister and I in Turnow,” he said. “We had no one else. We managed as best we could.”

His gaze drifted off — somewhere into the trees.

“We went to Trosky together. We both served there.”

He shrugged — not for her, but to himself.

“She married last autumn. Left the castle.”

He looked down, to the horse’s mane beneath his hands.

“So Turnow holds nothing for me now.”

Jitka turned to him. Watched him for a moment, without a word.

Then faced the path once more.

And carried on.

Lukas rode at the rear, just ahead of the last guardsman. His eyes wandered through the shifting shadows of the forest, his thoughts drifting where they pleased.

He had always liked this road.

The last time he’d taken it was at the start of spring, when—

His gaze drifted into the distance — though more into memory than landscape.

Back then, he had been showing Lord Henry the villages of the estate. When the new lord had come to stay for good.

He remembered how unsure and awkward he’d felt. How his father had offered his service as a page. How he had hardly dared to look his lord in the eye — even though he could not have been more than a few years his elder.

A faint smile crossed his face — absent, quiet.

And how quickly he’d come to know the kind of man Lord Henry truly was.

Warm. Gentle. Keen of wit. From the very first days, there had been something calm and grounded in him — as if he had been born to this land. As if he belonged to it.

The snort of a horse pulled Lukas from his reverie.

He looked ahead — to where Jitka and Thomas were riding side by side. He watched them for a moment.

And then his thoughts returned elsewhere.

Lord Henry had never made him ride behind. He wanted him beside him. And those rides… Lukas had loved them.

When it was just the two of them, everything felt right. Exactly as it ought to be.

Sometimes they would travel the whole day, in silence or in talk, and when they paused for a meal, Lord Henry would share his food with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Like that one time, on the hillside above a little green valley—

The very valley they were now quietly approaching.

Lukas drew a breath. And let it go.

Up ahead, Jitka and Thomas drew to a halt. The forest parted before them.

They stood at the edge of a gentle slope, where trees thinned and light spilled like gold from an untied purse. The meadow below was fresh — soft and wind-stirred, dappled with restless shadows drifting across the grass. At the bottom, a path curled between low willows, winding, as if remembering the way. Scattered trees bent overhead, their branches newly unfurled, each crown a different shade of green — from deep emerald to veils of near-yellow.

Beyond the grassy hollow, the far slope rose again, clad in tall forest. A wall of dark pines stretched across the ridge, and at its foot, the sunlight broke enticingly into shade.

It was the sort of place caught between two breaths — one of those places where a rider might stop, say nothing, and realise they were hearing more than birdsong.

Jitka held her reins loose, but her gaze lingered. Not on one detail — rather on the whole of it. Beside her, Thomas remained silent. Only when Lukas and the other rider caught up did the horses shift and nicker, as if to remind them that the day was not yet done.

Jitka turned in the saddle.

“I wish to linger here a while.”

She dismounted, placed her hands on her hips, and looked down into the valley. Thomas gave a simple nod. He, too, dismounted — and for a time, walked the edge of the wood with slow, steady steps, scanning the trees and brush before returning.

Jitka remained where she was, standing tall on the slope, her palms braced against the small of her back. Her gaze moved slowly across the valley, as if to carve it into memory. Then she closed her eyes.

And listened.

The rustling of leaves. Birdsong. She felt the wind brushing her cheek — full of blossoms, soil, and the scent of new-grown green.

Lukas and the guardsman tied their horses at the edge of the trees. No one gave orders. No words were spoken.

There was no need.

The moment had asked for quiet — and they answered.

Jitka chose a place beneath the wide crown of a beech tree, its shade dappled and cool. She sank to her knees in the grass, settled back on her heels, and folded her hands in her lap. Thomas remained standing a few steps away, arms crossed, eyes drifting silently over the valley.

Lukas had stretched out in the grass, flat on his back, hands folded behind his head. He closed his eyes. The sunlight played across his face, filtered through his lids, and a breeze stirred his hair. Slowly, his body began to loosen. Through the hush of forest and meadow, he heard Jitka’s voice.

“You needn’t stand, Captain.”

Thomas shifted slightly, then offered a faint, almost apologetic smile.

“It wouldn’t seem proper, not in the presence of a lady.”

Jitka gave a quiet laugh and lifted one shoulder.

“Well, I’m only a guest here… on Lord Henry’s land.”

The captain glanced at her, but said nothing. His gaze returned to the horizon. It was some time before Jitka turned back to him.

“I believe you met Lord Henry and Lord Hans at Trosky?”

He nodded. A brief smile touched his lips.

“Close by, yes. Though only Hans Capon was a lord then.”

Jitka chuckled.

“Of course.”

The captain’s brow furrowed slightly. “Things turned quickly after that… and dangerously.”

He watched her for a moment, then drew in a long, steady breath.

“In truth, I only came to know them when Henry saved my life. And he did it to save Lord Hans.”

Jitka looked at him in silence for a while. Then her gaze dropped to the grass. She ran a hand across the fabric of her riding dress.

“The first time I met Henry, he saved me from being torn apart by wolves. In the woods near Rattay. They’d already killed my escort. And Henry — he appeared as if sent from heaven.”

Thomas turned to her, surprise softening into quiet understanding.

“I didn’t know that, my lady,” he said gently.

Lukas still lay with his eyes shut. In his mind, the images took shape — Henry, sword in hand. The wolves, fierce and frenzied, lunging one after another. Each blow of his blade meeting them, sure and deadly. His face was hard, focused — and then, all at once, it softened. A calm voice. An outstretched hand. A gaze with no fear in it — only gentleness and certainty.

A lone bird cried out from the valley below.

“Shall we ride on?” Jitka’s voice came again — quiet, but firm.

Lukas and the guard moved without a word. They brought the horses to the path, tightened the tack, and checked the saddles. The air was still warm, but the light had begun to shift. Long shadows drew delicate lines between the trees.

They set out again.

The road dipped into the valley and led them on — first through underbrush and woodland, then along gentler banks where the meadows opened like arms. The land widened around them. The path turned east, toward Lautschky.

They passed a scattering of cottages and two smoking charcoal kilns, their sweetness thick on the air. The scent of coal mingled with damp earth. When they rode into the forest again, the sun was already low, slanting gold through the canopy. The road began to rise, and the horses slowed, breath quickening.

Then the trees gave way. At the crest of the hill, the land unfurled before them — Lautschky lay scattered across the slope, its cottages like crumbs on a green cloth, stitched through with plots of barley and rye. And there — above it all — smoke.

A column, rising from one of the barns on the far edge of the village. Then — flame. It leapt from the roof, red and ravenous. Tiny figures darted around it, frantic against the stillness of the landscape — with buckets, with sticks, with cries.

The riders drew to a halt.

Eyes met.

Jitka’s gaze locked on the burning barn. Then, without a word, she pressed her heels to her mare’s flanks and steered her across the meadow, straight toward the blaze.

“My lady—!” Thomas called, rising in his stirrups. “This may not be wise—”

But he didn’t finish — only tightened his seat, pulled the reins, and sped after her. Lukas and the guard were close behind.

The smoke reached them long before they came close.

It hung thick in the air — sweet and stinging, the scent of scorched straw and resin-heavy beams. Before they reached the village, they could feel the light shift — not from the sun, but from the red shimmer cast by the fire now slowly devouring the tall thatched roof. Glowing embers spun above the barn like restless stars, rising in a whirling haze, then falling in a slow and treacherous drift.

The smoke rose pale-grey and dense, climbing like a tower. At the foot of it, shadows dashed — men with buckets dousing the eaves, water hissing and vanishing at once as the flames climbed higher, ever further.

Stock screamed in the adjoining sheds. The panicked squeals of pigs, the strangled whinnies of horses — as if terror itself had found voice.

A little off to the side, near a low wattle fence, stood a young woman. A broad shawl was tied across her chest, cradling an infant tight against her breast, while three other children clung to her skirts. She held them with both arms, as if her body alone might shield them, her eyes fixed on the roof. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked, falling past her jaw to her throat.

The farmer — a lean man in a soot-blackened cap — caught sight of the riders from the corner of his eye. He turned toward them, his face drawn taut with helpless rage — then snapped back to the blaze.

He looked to the others, struggling with buckets and smoke.

“Bring the roof down!” he shouted.

Several men scattered — filthy, barefoot — and returned with long poles and iron hooks. Thomas dismounted at once and joined them. Lukas didn’t wait for a command — he grabbed a pole and broke into a run toward the barn. The guard followed close behind.

Jitka, meanwhile, had turned toward the woman and her children. She stepped closer and touched the mother’s arm with quiet care.

“Is anyone still inside?” she asked softly.

The woman shook her head. Her cheeks were streaked with soot and tears, and she didn’t bother to wipe them.

The space before the barn grew dense with motion. Hooks tore into the thatch, tearing away whole swathes before the fire reached them — but even those clumps smouldered. And the moment the flames found the tightly bound straw at the peak of the roof, they raced across the ridge like fire along a soaked fuse.

They all froze.

Every last one.

Flames leapt along the full length of the roof — sudden, ravenous, dancing from every side. The silence broke only for the crackle of timbers, the high-pitched screams of animals, and the distant cries of despair.

“Our pigs… all of them…” the woman sobbed.

Lukas glanced over his shoulder.

His gaze shifted — from her tear-streaked face to the children clinging at her skirts. Then back to the barn. And again, to the pole in his hand.

He dropped it.

Without a word, he turned and ran — straight to the barn doors. They stood ajar, spewing smoke into the air. He threw his shoulder against them and vanished into the dark.

“Lukas!” Thomas shouted.

Too late.

Jitka stood frozen — one hand pressed to her mouth, the other clenched around the pendant at her neck. Her lips moved in silence.

The farmer came to her side, stunned. “My lady… why — it’s madness —”

But the words faltered and died before they left him.

A groan rose from the structure. The roof dipped slightly. Sparks burst into the sky in a fountain of fire.

Then — movement.

A sow burst out of the doorway, squealing, her eyes wide and wild, hooves skidding in the mud. Piglets followed close behind, tumbling out in a frantic line. People rushed to catch them, to form a circle, to calm them. But no one spoke.

Every face turned back toward the doorway.

The roof was fully aflame.

Then the doors shifted.

A black wave of smoke spilled outward — thick, choking — and through it came a shape. Lukas, hunched and staggering, emerged with a fistful of mane in either hand. Two horses came with him, pressed close to his sides — stumbling, snorting, their eyes gleaming with fear.

He let them go. Gave a quick pat to their necks.

They bolted — galloping toward the village, trailed by a few who rushed to corral them.

Thomas ran to meet Lukas. Caught him just as his knees began to give.

“Come,” he breathed, throwing an arm around him and guiding him toward the grass.

Lukas collapsed — falling to his knees in deep, heaving, painful bursts of coughing that shook his frame. Ash clung to his lashes, streaked his face. His eyes burned red, tears cutting clean lines down soot-streaked cheeks.

Jitka dropped to her knees beside him.

“Did you take harm?”

He tried to answer — but coughed again, hard, doubling over. Then, without warning, he vomited into the grass.

Jitka laid a hand on his back. Slow. Steady. Quiet.

A loud crack split the air.

They turned.

The roof had begun to fall. Not with a crash — but as if fainting. First the front beam gave way, then the ridgepole — and then the whole of it collapsed in a rush of burning thatch, sending up a tower of ash and sparks — trembling as if the sky itself had flinched.

No one spoke.

Only the wind moved, sifting through the ashes that drifted down among them.

The villagers began to stir.

They seized their buckets again, ran for more water, threw it on the glowing skeleton of the barn. The smoke lay low across the earth. Someone shouted names. Someone else prayed aloud. A few men brought forward the sweating horses that Lukas had led from the fire. They trembled, tossed their heads — but slowly, they settled.

Thomas had gone to his horse. He unfastened the water skin and brought it back, kneeling beside Lukas, who still sat hunched in the grass, head down.

Lukas drank. Greedily. Wordless. When he finished, he wiped his face with his sleeve — then his eyes. And slowly looked up.

Before him stood the farmer’s wife.

Dark hair. A face smudged with soot and tears. Her gaze — calm now. Still.

She took his hand in both of hers. Met his eyes.

“God bless you, lad,” she said softly. “God bless you.”

Lukas looked at her. Silent. Unmoving. The infant on her chest gave a quiet murmur.

He nodded. Just once.

The farmer had come to Thomas’s side, his posture uneasy, his face flushed with shame.

“Sir… thank you. And your men…”

His voice broke. He turned then to Jitka — and stopped short. His eyes searched her face. He stared for a moment. At last, he pulled off his cap and bowed low.

“My lady?… It is you.”

Jitka glanced toward the woman and children standing near him. “Your wife and children?” she asked.

The man nodded.

Thomas stood with arms folded, his gaze on the charred skeleton of the barn. A pensive look had settled in his eyes.

“How did the fire start?” he asked. “No storm passed this day.”

The farmer shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Truly, I don’t.”

A rasping voice cut through the quiet.

“It was the black rider.”

They turned.

Not far off stood an older woman — a shawl draped over her shoulders, a flinty look in her eyes.

The farmer raised his brows, then shook his head and turned back to Thomas.

“Pay no mind to old Pfeifer’s wife, sir. She talks, that one does.”

“My man once saw him. By the woods. Just after sundown,” the woman muttered. “Black horse, black armour, black cloak… no face.”

Thomas studied her a moment, then looked again to the farmer.

“Could’ve been anything, my lord,” the man said, shaking his head once more.

Jitka looked from the wife to the children at her skirts. She paused.

“You’ll be given three bushels of rye from the Klokotsch granary,” she said at last. “That should last you till harvest.”

The farmer blinked. “My lady…”

“It shall be brought to you on the morrow,” she said calmly.

She turned to Thomas. “See it done, Captain.”

The man bowed deeper than before. “God bless you, my lady… thank you.”

Jitka let her gaze drift back to the smouldering beams.

“Your name?” she asked.

The farmer swallowed. “Marek, my lady.”

“When Lord Henry returns,” she said quietly, “ask him for a remission of dues, Marek. I’ve no doubt he’ll grant it.”

She fell silent.

Then blinked — a flash of light behind her eyes, the world dimming for just a moment. Her body swayed.

Thomas caught her instantly. His arms came around her with firm steadiness.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked softly.

Jitka rubbed her eyes. Drew in a long breath. Set her feet more firmly.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured. “Just a turn of the head.”

Thomas watched her, concern in his gaze. Then turned to Lukas, who had just risen.

“We should return to Klokotsch,” he said. “It’s growing late.”

Jitka had seized the saddle and was about to mount when something stopped her.

A sudden grip on her left forearm — thin fingers, sharp, clinging.

She turned swiftly. Her braid slipped over her shoulder.

It was the old woman.

Wrinkled face, scarf slipped down her back, eyes wide and fixed.

“It’s the Devil, my lady…” she whispered hoarsely. “The Devil himself!”

“Step back!” the guard snapped, striding forward. He seized her by the shoulder and shoved her aside. The woman staggered, but did not fall.

Jitka looked at her for a long moment.

Her brow furrowed, her gaze narrowed — but there was no fear in it. No scorn. Only a quiet, attentive stillness.

Then she swung up into the saddle.

She turned to the others. Lukas had one foot in the stirrup, but his grip faltered. Thomas reached over without a word and steadied him, one hand at his back. The young man made it up — a bit pale, breathing hard, but upright.

Thomas glanced toward Jitka — then mounted his own horse in a single, smooth motion. The guard was stepping back toward his own mount.

Jitka gave a small nod.

“We ride home.”

And so they rode — toward the south, beneath a sky deepening to indigo, where the first stars trembled into being like breath on glass. Hans lay with his eyes closed, listening.

The linden tree above whispered gently, its old crown rustling with the hush of leaves. From beyond the edge of the woods came the soft chirring of crickets.

He was stretched out on his back along the wide bench, one leg bent, foot resting on the ground. His head lay cradled in Henry’s lap. His breath came slow and even. One arm rested along his side, slack with quiet ease.

Henry’s fingers traced lightly along his forearm — slow circles, barely felt, as though time itself moved differently between them.

Then he leaned down and kissed him.

Long and soft. Just once.

When he drew back, Hans opened his eyes.

A smile flickered across his face. He lifted a hand, ran his fingers gently over Henry’s cheek, then along the edge of his jaw. For a moment, he looked only at him.

His gaze shifted upward.

Beyond the branches, the first stars had begun to show — pale and cold, scattered across the sky deepening above Foxburrow.

His expression changed, just slightly.

“Where do your thoughts wander?” Henry asked softly.

Hans didn’t answer for a moment.

His eyes stayed on the stars.