#tearline

—

The sound of hooves broke the misty quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He led Pavel across the yard.

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

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

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

Mikush nodded without a word.

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

“Yes, sir,” Mikush replied calmly.

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

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

Mikush gave a nod. “Ay.”

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

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

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

A quiet sigh escaped him.

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

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

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

And then Henry was gone.

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

He rose from the bed and walked to the door.

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

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

The door closed behind them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hans remained like that for a while.

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

He felt the sting of tears gathering in his eyes.

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

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

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

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

A knock sounded.

Hans did not turn. “Yes?”

The door opened.

“Sir… Mikush is here.”

Hans gave a brief nod. “Send him in.”

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

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

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

Hans answered with a short nod of his own.

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

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

Another brief pause.

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

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

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

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

He hesitated.

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

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

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

“He’ll return when he returns.”

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

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

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

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

They halted by the door of the chamber.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And froze.

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

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

⸻

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Hans allowed himself a faint smile and beckoned him over.

Pavel ran to him. “Sir?”

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

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

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

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

“That’s Havel’s horse, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

A pause. “I’ll see to that myself.”

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

Pavel nodded and ran off.

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

He strode to the group of soldiers by the wall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hans swung himself into the saddle without a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hans dismounted.

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

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

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

“Wait here.”

He headed toward the house.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turned back again and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

“Sir…?”

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

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

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

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

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

“To leave Laurenz. And the Rattay estate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have lost all trust in you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed.”

A pause followed. Not long — but quiet.

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

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

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

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

Another silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanush shouted after him:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

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

Hans rose and stepped into the hall.

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

“Set it down,” Hans said quietly.

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

“I’m not truly hungry,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pavel stopped, lifting his gaze to him.

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

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

Hans shook his head. “No.”

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

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

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

Hans watched him in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he slowly knelt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was tired. Bone-deep exhausted.

But sleep did not come. Only restlessness.

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

Henry.

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

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

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

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

Hans opened his eyes into the darkness.

Is he…

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

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

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

He walked quietly into Henry’s chamber.

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

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

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

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