The pair departed at twilight, when the air was cold and grey and thick with mist. They carried with them only the bare necessities: rolled bedding, a pot for boiling clean water and another for cooking, utensils to eat. Nothing more. Hector preferred to travel light in these cases of travel, and thus had refused the accompaniment of men and wagons. If a northern ambassador was going to learn the country to their south, he’d learn it in its crudest ways. Hector would teach Zhenya how to hunt for himself, what to live off of, how to find warmth from a twigs and in a cave, and the beauty in all of it. As for protection— Hector was the only thing Zhenya would need. He’d assured the Empress the ambassador’s safety, and had it been anyone else to promise such a thing, she might’ve refused. But under Hector Geraud, the man who’d tussled with dragons, protection was guaranteed. Away from the spiders of court and their webs spun of secrets and deceit, Hector could could rest assured that the only danger that could face them was danger he could see, put a sword to without repercussion.

Hector’s pace was perhaps harsh, but only because he’d wanted Zhenya and himself as far away from the city as soon as possible. This meant no rest for them as they crossed the plains of greens that ebbed and flowed into rolling hills, not until the sun dipped down to set and they reached woodland. From here out, he’d pace their travel slower and a little kinder, but would put the challenge into hunting and gathering.

When they finally settled, it was in a small clearing surrounded by tall, thin trees. The moon had taken its place in a sky dark like velvet above them, and while the air was colder than usual for the season, but the crackle of a fire warmed the space between them. Much to Hector’s contentment, they were finally alone.

“How’re your legs?” Hector asked, roughly, as if the question served as a warning for Zhenya to mind any complaints. He’d spoken little to him throughout the day, scarce in his responses. But his grunt was softened by the handing of a smoothed wooden bowl filled with rice he’d cooked, garnished with a hearty mix of dried herbs, roots and vegetables that were now steamed back to plump vibrancy. “Eat well,” he encouraged, though again, his words were rough, enough to sound like he was giving Zhenya an order. “From this point on, we hunt.”