Oleksandr stirs in the dim-lit darkness, his breath coming fast as the air feels thick with a tension he can't explain. His heart pounds against his chest, and sweat clings to his skin. The halls of the Montenegrin castle are before him again, as familiar as they are foreign in this state of unrest. The moonlight seeps through the narrow windows, casting long, eerie shadows that seem to stretch with malicious intent. He steps forward, the silence around him oppressive.

  A sudden noise pierces the stillness—a shrill, pained groan that rises into a tortured scream. Oleksandr’s blood runs cold. The scream is unmistakable. Savka. Her voice, raw with pain, slices through the air, a sound of anguish he knows all too well. His breath hitches in his throat, and before he knows it, his legs are moving, pushing him down the shadowed corridors.

  But the halls stretch on in maddening loops, growing darker with each step, each corner leading only to more emptiness. Desperation claws at him as he sprints, trying to follow the agonized wails. The sound seems to shift, stop, and start again, bouncing off the walls like a ghostly echo. He rounds another corner, but the familiar rooms of the castle have all faded into a nightmare—nothing is where it should be. Panic rises in him like a storm, his mind swirling as he fights against the nightmarish landscape. “Savka!” He shouts, his voice hoarse with fear, but the sound of his own voice is swallowed by the ever-deepening silence.

  Just as the scream reaches a fever pitch, Oleksandr’s pulse skips as he’s pulled abruptly from the dream. His eyes snap open, heart still racing, but it's silent, the only sound is the faint mewing of a cat. He blinks, disoriented, as a soft, warm weight presses against his face, the Norwegian forest cat nuzzling against him. Its gentle purring calms his racing thoughts, a contrast to the chaos of the dream. Oleksandr exhales slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. But in the back of his mind, the echoes of Savka’s scream linger, haunting him even in the waking world.

  The narrow room around him is quiet, dimly lit by a dying fire in the corner. He rubs his face, the shock of the nightmare slowly residing, replaced by grogginess, before he rises to his feet with a grunt. His movements are slow, deliberate, as he adjusts his tunic and straightens the fur-lined cloak draped over his broad shoulders.

  Then, faintly, the muffled sound of movement reaches his ears, coming from the great room at the front of the longhouse. He takes a moment to steady himself, rolling his shoulders to shake off the last remnants of the nightmare. His hand instinctively brushes over the hilt of his sword, a comforting weight at his side, before he begins to make his way forward. The wooden planks beneath his boots creak softly, the only sound in the otherwise quiet corridor. As he approaches the end of the hallway, the faint glow of firelight spills into view, and the murmurs grow louder.

  Oleksandr steps into the great room, the warmth of the fire casting flickering shadows across the towering beams. Oddvarr stands at the center, flanked by a handful of his warriors, their faces weathered and hard, their eyes gleaming with a mix of respect and suspicion. At the sound of Oleksandr’s boots on the wooden floor, Oddvarr turns, his sharp eyes narrowing in scrutiny. A grin curves his lips, half amusement, half challenge.

  "Ah, look who's finally awake," Oddvarr drawls, his voice carrying a rough edge of mockery. Oleksandr meets his gaze with the calm intensity of a man who refuses to be rattled. A single nod is his only reply, his silence louder than words. He feels the weight of the other men’s stares, their eyes trailing over him like wolves assessing new prey, but he stands unflinching, his focus locked on the chieftain. Oddvarr’s grin widens, his head tilting slightly as if considering a puzzle. "Tell me, boy," he says, his voice dripping with mock curiosity, "do you normally sleep for half the day, or is that some peculiar habit of yours?" Oleksandr’s lips twitch, a flicker of something that might be amusement or disdain, but his answer comes measured, steady, and sharp as a sword's edge.

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  "I sleep as much as a man needs to, no more."

  "Ah. I see." His gaze shifts as the longhouse doors creak open, letting in a gust of frigid air. A man stomps inside, hauling armfuls of holly and fresh logs for the fire, the scent of pine filling the space. Oddvarr spares the newcomer a brief glance before turning his attention back to Oleksandr. "Well, enough wasting time," Oddvarr says, brushing a hand through his thick beard. "The Yule games are happening this afternoon, and I expect you to accompany me."

  The words hang in the air, and Oleksandr’s brow arches slightly. The mention of Yule games piques his interest, but he keeps his face unreadable. "I'll accompany you," he says, his voice calm yet hard as hammered iron, his eyes boring into Oddvarr’s. "But let’s set a few things straight." He strides across the room with measured steps, the floor creaking faintly beneath his boots, stopping when he stands toe-to-toe with the chieftain. "I’m not one of your men," Oleksandr states, his voice low but firm, carrying the edge of a challenge. "I’m not here to play games."

  Oddvarr’s grin widens, a predator savoring a potential fight. His eyes, cold and calculating, meet Oleksandr’s unflinching gaze with an amused glint. "Oh, I know that," he replies smoothly, his tone light but laced with something darker. "You’re not like the others—I see that clear as day." He leans in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to add weight to his words. "But that doesn’t change anything. You're in my lands, boy. Under my roof, enjoying my hospitality. Being under my thumb means you'll partake in our customs. You’ll do as I say." Oleksandr’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding as the words sink in. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and edged with defiance.

  "And what if I don’t want to partake in your customs?"

  "Then you can march your Rus ass across this frozen tundra. See how far your pride gets you before the wolves do."

  Oleksandr scoffs, his anger barely restrained. His fists clench at his sides, his voice tight with defiance. "Is that supposed to be a threat?" He counters. "You really think I can't manage on my own? I've survived worse than your cold, old man."

  Oddvarr’s expression shifts, the sharpness in his gaze softening, his smirk fading into a look that seems paternal. He steps closer, placing a hand on Oleksandr’s shoulder. The touch is firm but not forceful, a gesture that speaks volumes. Oddvarr’s smile returns, but it’s different now—warmer, quieter, tinged with a flicker of emotion he doesn’t often allow himself to show. For a fleeting moment, something unspoken passes between them. The firelight dances in Oddvarr’s eyes, and his mind drifts to another time, another life. This fiery, stubborn man before him reminds him of the arguments he had with his lost teenaged sons, the heated clashes that would have made him feel alive as a father, if only the fates had been kinder…

  With a pat on Oleksandr’s shoulder, Oddvarr’s grin widens. "Maybe you have, boy. But surviving doesn’t make you invincible." His voice is gentle, as if he’s imparting wisdom rather than throwing a barb. Then, as quickly as the moment came, the warmth is gone, and the sly glint returns to his eyes. "Now quit your sulking and get ready. The Yule games wait for no man."