At the time, perhaps I was shocked by such a display.

  But Galland’s murder had accomplished two things.

  Firstly—the commander of the Kholodian detachment was dead.

  Secondly—they could not simply sit there on the ridgeline, for all matters of honor, and not avenge their fallen leader.

  It was inevitable, then, that the roar of conflict would soon shatter the cold silence of the snow-covered pass.

  My battalion assembled at the front in a thin, one-line row—kneeling in a skirmishing formation—awaiting the first move of the Kholodian army.

  “They have a good two—or perhaps three thousand men,” Colonel Galland said, surveying the ridge with his spyglass. “Perhaps a hundred Streltsy.”

  I nodded, scanning the ridgeline nervously.

  Two or three thousand men was no small force—and their Vuk Streltsy were lethal, both from afar and close-up.

  We were severely outnumbered.

  My eye throbbed. I gripped my saber tighter and steadied my breath.

  This was it—the climax.

  The Kholodian forces, like a steady wave, let out a fierce yell and charged down the slope all at once.

  “By the Lord—what do they hope to accomplish by charging us?” Galland muttered, immediately looking around.

  He was wary.

  So was I.

  Undoubtedly, the death of the boyar couldn’t have driven them into such a foolish display.

  The wave of charging Kholodian soldiers swept down the slope, fierce cries and thundering footsteps stirring frigid air. From afar I could see their ranks: muskets, almost entirely. Their cavalry—light hussars—pressed around the flanks behind the men, waiting for a chance.

  Yet as they neared, the horde split.

  Half wheeled left. Half wheeled right.

  They halted—forming a wedge—then began digging in.

  They were a good four hundred meters away, well out of range of rifle fire. Cannon fire was a different story, but we held off. They held enough slope that round shot would have been a waste—and we were carrying light.

  Twenty cannonballs per gun.

  Hardly enough to blast apart their lines.

  I watched with unease as the Kholodians dug into frozen earth, establishing defensive positions along the ridge. Our cannons remained silent, conserving the limited ammunition we had dragged through the mountains.

  Wind whipped at our uniforms as we waited—huddled behind sparse cover on an open hillside.

  Then their cavalry began to maneuver.

  The hussars trotted steadily around us, circling like carrion birds.

  Galland’s face paled. He looked behind us—then forward.

  We were in an impasse.

  And I sensed danger.

  Incredible danger.

  “Sir,” I asked, “what are your orders?”

  Galland blinked.

  “O-order the men to fall back at once. We cannot—and must not—let their cavalry cut us off.”

  “But, sir…” I began. “Our orders were clear—”

  Through the dim fog of the pass, the old castle stood.

  I nodded slowly, heart heavy. Our orders had been unambiguous: secure the ridge and the ancient fortress at any cost.

  Yet our position was hopeless.

  Galland’s face was pale, but determined.

  “Damn the orders, Lieutenant. We choose life today, if we are to fight again tomorrow.”

  I steeled myself. He was right. Returning intact was better than throwing our lives away for pride.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll pass the order.”

  Quickly I moved among our ragged line, voices low but firm.

  “Fall back, lads. We’re pulling out.”

  Confusion flashed across some faces, but discipline held.

  Quietly we withdrew—step by cautious step.

  The Kholodians held their positions, perhaps as surprised as we were—

  Then they began to follow at a quick pace.

  We fell back down the slope—a dangerous prospect, and the Kholodians seemed to delight in it. The circling hussars broke into a double-quick, angling to flank around us—

  And then a shout rose from the Kholodians.

  Emboldened, perhaps, by the sight of us withdrawing, their infantry began to run forward—

  And the hussars charged.

  This was the worst situation in warfare: an organized retreat on the edge of turning into a rout.

  One had to act hastily.

  “First battalion! Square! Form a square!” I shouted, hopping off my horse. We had to buy time for Galland’s forces to regroup—otherwise we would be destroyed.

  The men around me hesitated at first.

  Weren’t we falling back?

  These green conscripts wanted nothing more than to keep running, clinging to the safety of the bulk of the force.

  But a chorus of shouted orders—square, square, square—echoed loud enough that men began to move, hastily forming it as the hussars bore down with wooden lances lowered, hooves thundering on packed snow.

  Around me, out of three hundred good men, I had perhaps a hundred—or two.

  The rest were either unaware—

  Or content to leave us to our fate.

  “Steady, lads!” I bellowed over the chaos.

  “Fire!”

  A ripple of smoke and flame erupted as lead tore into men and mounts. Horses reared and screamed; riders tumbled lifelessly into the snow.

  The hussars faltered—just a second—

  Then a trumpet blared, and they came again.

  “Reload!” I shouted.

  My men scrambled to reload with shaking hands as the thunder of hooves grew louder. Louder—earth-shaking.

  I nearly broke—

  Until I heard a horn blast behind us.

  Galland’s forces were regrouping to join us.

  Heartened, my men let loose another volley just as the hussars smashed into our fragile square. Men and beasts went down, but more followed behind.

  It was hardly the charge of famed Valtorean knights or Eclairean cuirassiers—

  But among us, lethal enough.

  A hussar’s lance caught me in the shoulder, knocking me down. It shattered against my breastplate—

  And my arm broke.

  I struggled to rise as a shadow fell over me.

  A Kholodian officer raised his saber for the killing blow.

  Then his face exploded in a shower of gore as Rottmann appeared above me.

  “Sir! Sir!” he shouted, hauling me up.

  Around us, melee surged—desperate—while the bulk of the Kholodian force was perhaps a minute or two away.

  The sounds of battle faded as I slipped in and out of consciousness.

  Rottmann dragged me behind our ragged line, propping me against an icy boulder. Through screams and smoke I saw our men falling back again as the main Kholodian force descended the ridge.

  We had bought time.

  At a significant cost.

  Snow around me stained crimson, bodies and wrecked mounts strewn about. My shoulder throbbed where the lance struck. My arm hung limp.

  Still, I knew I had to rally what remained.

  “Sir—come on. We’re getting the hell out of he—”

  “No,” I rasped, forcing myself up. A handful of men rushing past me—maybe there was still a chance.

  “To me!” I cried hoarsely. “Reform on me!”

  A few men turned.

  A few others looked, then kept running downhill.

  But the fear of being a coward could motivate a man—especially in front of an officer.

  I steadied myself through the pain, raising my saber high.

  “Volley fire into their flank—now!”

  The Kholodian and Valtorean armies had clashed. Kholodian volleys tore into our ranks as their hussars pulled away.

  “Steady, lads! One more volley!” I shouted, shoulder screaming, forcing the pain aside.

  Kholodian regimental banners snapped in the icy wind as they launched into their charge. They were seconds from overwhelming our main force entirely.

  Skirmishers’ shots hissed past us—seeking to pick us off.

  “Aim!” I croaked.

  Muskets leveled at the oncoming tide, the mountains themselves seeming to shake under that ferocious charge.

  “Fire!”

  Smoke and thunder.

  Men fell on both sides.

  The Kholodian advance—numbering in the thousands—hardly slowed, but for a heartbeat I saw their banner topple.

  A small consolation.

  “Kaelitz, damn it—it’s lost. We need to go!” Rottmann shouted.

  Our little knot of a hundred men would do very little here.

  It was true.

  I gritted my teeth as Rottmann tried to pull me away. Battle raged around us, but my eyes were fixed on the Valtorean banner.

  We still fought.

  How could I abandon them?

  “No. Not yet,” I said, wrenching my good arm free. I would not abandon my men—not while I still drew breath.

  At this crescendo of battle, another volley would be too slow.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  I staggered forward, raising my sword.

  “Bayonets!”

  My voice cracked across the din.

  These men—my men—were shaken already.

  Who was I to call them into the fray? To send them to death?

  As if ignoring me, they continued to load their muskets.

  Even Rottmann blinked.

  “Damn you—bayonets! Now! There’s not a minute to lose!”

  At the second command, the men slowly fixed bayonets with trembling hands. Fear was plain in their eyes—so was resolve. They knew what I asked. Many would not return.

  But it was our only chance.

  Bullets whizzed past; men flinched and ducked as they braced themselves.

  It was time for audacity.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  For courage.

  I drew my saber, grabbed a fallen Valtorean banner, and waved it high.

  “Who will come with me?!”

  My voice—hoarse and strained—barely carried over the din, but I lifted the banner higher, willing it to spark something in them.

  A few men stepped forward, bayonets fixed, eyes locked on me as if searching my stance for courage.

  I didn’t dare look back to see how many followed.

  It was do or die.

  Ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder, I broke into a run down the slope.

  The men followed, boots pounding frozen earth as we built speed. Kholodian ranks grew closer with each stride.

  One hundred paces.

  And still they hadn’t reacted—focused on the main body of our army.

  Then we slammed into their flank.

  Bayonet charges were a shocking thing. Pike warfare was bad enough—but a brawl with bayonets was primal and brutal. My men’s blades thrust forward in violent, desperate jabs. Steel rang against steel over gunfire and screams.

  We were few, but surprise and momentum lent us a brief advantage.

  Snow turned to slush beneath our boots—mud and blood.

  My shoulder screamed with every movement, dizziness clawing at my skull.

  Perhaps they thought more of us charged than the beleaguered forty we truly were, because for a second the Kholodians relented from pushing the Valtorean line—just long enough to focus on us.

  Those precious seconds.

  It was a desperate melee—no more than a minute or two of a fool’s glory—before the sheer number of Kholodians swallowed us.

  We fought. We slashed. We stabbed.

  Yet it was as if we were engulfed by a deluge of men.

  Then a Kholodian infantryman struck me with a musket stock.

  The world flipped.

  Snow rushed up—

  And I went under, unconscious.

  Coldness enveloped me.

  Was I dead?

  The first sensation was the icy embrace of snow, cradling me like a mother would her child—yet dispassionately indifferent. The din of battle was distant now, muffled, dreamlike. Numbness crept over me—not just body, but spirit.

  I lay there, the weight of failure pressing down upon me like the banner that had spurred my foolhardy charge.

  Thoughts of my father drifted through the fog. He had always stood firm, honor untarnished despite court politics and war’s vortex.

  What would he think now?

  His only son squandered in a reckless gesture.

  The pain of disappointment felt greater than any wound.

  The air was thick with iron tang of blood and harsh gunpowder, mingling with salt-heavy winds sweeping from Rega’s coast—an intense reminder of where I lay dying.

  Or so I thought.

  I had envisioned glory. Perhaps some heroic end.

  Instead I lay on death’s doorstep, cloaked not in victory but defeat and disgrace.

  My mind drifted to Alaric.

  Did he face similar fears in his final moments at Castelon Fields? Did he regret the path? Lament what might have been?

  The realization of isolation deepened, bitter irony taking hold as I thought of von L?we—my father’s estate, those acres I would never see again—his cold, calculated gaze.

  How could I die here?

  No.

  I refused to accept that fate quietly.

  With tremendous will, I forced myself awake—to confront reality.

  I didn’t expect to wake.

  No one does, in the aftermath of battle.

  I came to with a start, head throbbing. For a moment I thought I was dead, but the stench of blood and smoke told me otherwise.

  I was lying in a pile of bodies—Valtorean and Kholodian alike.

  The battlefield was quiet.

  Not even the cries of wounded.

  Dead silence.

  Had our charge failed? Was our last stand for nothing?

  I clutched my shoulder and sat up with pained effort. My uniform was caked in snow and gore. Only now did I feel how cold I was—fingers stiff with early frostbite.

  Rottmann and the others were nowhere to be seen.

  Had they fled?

  Or were they among the dead?

  I staggered to my feet.

  Bodies everywhere.

  It felt like another Castelon.

  Swallowing hard, I began moving down the slope toward what I hoped was friendly territory—however far away.

  Cold wracked me. I shuddered and stumbled through carnage, limbs stiff from injury and freezing air. Snow fell steadily now, covering the horror in a serene white blanket.

  Ahead, a figure slumped against a tree.

  One of ours—though I couldn’t tell who.

  As I approached, the soldier raised his head.

  Rottmann.

  Uniform stained dark with blood. A ragged bandage clutched to his side. Face pale, eyes glassy with pain and blood loss.

  Yet alive.

  “Captain,” he rasped. “We held them off. The line held.”

  I knelt beside him, too exhausted to feel relief.

  “The others?”

  He shook his head. “Near thing. But we turned them, for a time.” His voice lowered. “The Streltsy… they’re on the prowl.”

  “…The Vuk?”

  “Aye. They’re not taking prisoners.”

  I nodded, peering through snowfall toward the distant tree line. If the Vuk were here, the wounded Valtoreans left on the field lived on borrowed time—especially after Galland’s murder.

  Mercy would not come.

  Rottmann coughed wetly; my chest tightened in sympathy. The wound in his side did not bode well. I tore a strip of cloth from my ragged uniform and helped brace the saturated bandage.

  “You should go, sir,” Rottmann whispered. “Rejoin the main force. You should know how these things go.”

  I said nothing.

  I hooked my good arm under him and hauled him up.

  “Let’s just give it a damned shot.”

  He protested as we limped through the pass. Snow fell around us; fog swallowed the world. We tried to help each other, but his protests faded into pained whimpers with each faltering step.

  I knew he wouldn’t last without care.

  But what choice did we have?

  The icy wind cut through my blood-soaked uniform like daggers. My shoulder screamed, threatening to give out completely. Still I pushed on through sheer will, one agonizing step after another.

  Rottmann fell silent, head lolling against my shoulder.

  I feared he had slipped away—until I felt the faint warmth of his breath against my neck.

  “Stay with me, old friend,” I muttered through chattering teeth. “Just a bit further.”

  Snow thickened, obscuring the surrounding forest. We could have been walking into an ambush and not known it.

  But stopping meant freezing.

  Or bleeding out.

  Better to keep moving toward hope—however faint.

  My legs buckled as I crested a slight rise, sending us both tumbling into the snow. Rottmann groaned faintly as I struggled upright, squinting into the blizzard.

  I lay there for a moment.

  Both of us lay there.

  Exhausted wrecks.

  “…This… isn’t the worst place to die,” Rottmann murmured.

  Wind howled around us as we lay in the snow, too spent to go on. My vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges. Perhaps it would be relief—to finally let go.

  I was tired of struggle.

  Tired of it all.

  I felt my eyes closing as cold seeped into my bones.

  Perhaps this was it.

  Perhaps our story would end here, swallowed by the storm.

  Some part of my mind turned to what they would say at home—

  And my soul swooned toward sleep.

  Then the wind carried faint shouts through the snow.

  At first I thought it a trick of my fading mind.

  But the calls grew louder, accompanied by the crunch of boots.

  I forced my eyes open.

  Kholodians.

  Hussars.

  A glint in their eyes as they approached.

  The Kholodian hussars emerged through the swirling snow, sabers glinting menacingly. I struggled to rise, already knowing there were no rescuers.

  The lead hussar sneered and prodded me with his boot. I cried out as he pressed against my mangled shoulder, grinding me into the snow.

  Alien murmurs—hussars debating what to do with us.

  A blade rasped free of its sheath.

  Then—

  A softer tread.

  A harsh, guttural grunt—

  And something heaved me out of the snow as consciousness fled again.

  I awoke somewhere warm.

  Wood-paneled walls surrounded me. I lay on a rough cot piled high with furs. My shoulder was tightly bandaged, the searing pain reduced to a dull ache.

  I tried to sit up.

  Ropes bit my wrists.

  My arms and legs were bound.

  Dizziness washed over me, heavy as a tide. I was weak—so weak I could barely lift my head.

  How long had I been unconscious?

  A door opened. An older man with a bushy gray beard entered, carrying a tray of vials and towels. He wore a simple tunic and a surgeon’s apron tied at the waist.

  A healer.

  He noticed I was awake, barked something in his language out the door, then approached.

  “Ah, finally awake,” he said in broken Valtorean. “We were starting to worry.”

  I stared at him, confused.

  “Where am I?” I croaked, throat dry.

  He poured water from a pitcher and helped me drink.

  “You’re in the demesne of Grand Prince Vladislav Michaelovich. Our men found you and your companion collapsed in the snow. It’s a miracle you survived as long as you did.”

  I blinked, mind scraping itself clear.

  Rottmann—where was he?

  As if reading me, the healer continued:

  “Your friend is here too. He lost a lot of blood, but we stitched him up. He’s resting in the next room… though he didn’t recover exactly as well as you have.”

  “…I-I see.”

  Relief washed over me.

  Rottmann lived.

  But that raised another question.

  “Why did the Grand Prince take us in?” I asked warily.

  The healer smiled, without warmth.

  “Nothing chivalrous, mind you.” He set the tray down. “Effectively—you are hostages, far from home. I do not envy you. Really, I don’t.”

  Despite the warmth, his words chilled me.

  Hostages.

  A fate I had prayed to avoid.

  I tested the ropes. They held fast. Even if I broke free, I was in no condition to escape.

  “What will happen to us?” I asked quietly.

  “Who knows?” the surgeon shrugged. “Though I reckon the Grand Prince will meet with you soon. I’d get some rest if I were you. He’s a very intense man since his father died.”

  I lay back, staring at the ceiling.

  When would this fatigue end?

  Hours later, the door opened again.

  A large wolfman entered, sharp claws clicking against floorboards. I recognized him at once as the companion of Boyar Kievelov.

  He glared at me.

  “Mmh,” he rumbled.

  Black fur bristled as he stared, as if savoring the thought of what torture he might inflict. He pulled up a chair and sat, staring.

  Silence thickened between us.

  “So,” he growled at last, voice guttural with that Kholodian accent. “You are awake.”

  I said nothing—jaw clenched, gaze steady.

  After a moment he barked a harsh laugh.

  “Brave, for a human. Or foolish.”

  He leaned forward, lips curling back to reveal sharp yellowed fangs.

  “We shall see which, soon enough.”

  He scratched his chin with a claw, grin faint.

  “My name is Vladislav Michaelovich. Or you can call me the Grand Prince—your grace, so on and so forth.”

  “…Ah. I see,” I murmured.

  Bound and at his mercy, I chose my words carefully.

  “I am Kaelitz von Ardent,” I said evenly. “Thank you for saving me from the storm… but holding me as a hostage will prove fruitless.”

  “Fruitless?” His brow lifted.

  “I’m from junior nobility,” I continued. “A small village. Any ransom you request, you’d find difficult to obtain.”

  The wolfman listened in silence, expression unreadable. For a long moment he studied me, dark eyes glinting in firelight.

  “You speak of mercy,” he finally growled, “yet your people show none when they kill our serfs and burn our fields. The suffering of this war is not equal.”

  He leaned forward, fangs bared.

  “But you are right about one thing. You are worth little to me as a hostage.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Your life now depends on how useful you can make yourself here.”

  I tensed.

  “What would you have me do?” I asked quietly.

  The Grand Prince sat back, grinning as if he delighted in it.

  “It’s simple. Whatever knowledge you have—you will share.”

  “I know little of value,” I said carefully. “I am but a junior officer.”

  He barked a laugh.

  “Come now. You’re the first officer I’ve met leading a battalion of musketeers. The Valtoreans—divided as they are—are starting to get wise to warfare.”

  I stared, wary. He was right that we had adapted in recent years to match Kholodian methods—but I could hardly admit the full extent without endangering my homeland.

  He snorted, unimpressed.

  “Do not play me for a fool. You know more than you let on. You will share it in time.”

  He stood, clawed feet scraping wood.

  “I will give you a day to consider your position. Either you provide useful information about Valtorean plans and capabilities—about how you reorganize your forces—or your fate will be… unpleasant.”

  With that vague, chilling threat, he turned and stalked from the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

  I waited in that room, still bound to the bed, able to move little beyond twitching fingers and the slow rise and fall of my chest.

  Hours passed.

  The room grew dark.

  And the demons of war haunted me even here.

  It was true—I was a haunted man now. A year’s service had etched itself into my soul. Left alone, the echo of cannon fire rang in my ears through silent nights, and the faces of fallen comrades visited me in sleepless fits.

  Perhaps for a man like me, the worst thing was to be given nothing to do but remember.

  As night deepened, shadows danced across wooden walls in flickering candlelight—mimicking the march of phantom soldiers.

  Some part of me—my immortal soul—recognized them as my own.

  My thoughts turned bitter.

  How many of us had survived?

  Who was responsible for the fate of those men?

  Was it I—thrown into duty?

  Or men like von L?we, who moved pieces as if lives were counters?

  The questions pressed down on me.

  Then—

  The door creaked open again.

  Relief flooded me.

  This time it was not the Grand Prince.

  A Vuk in gray fur stepped inside, expression cautious, curious. Her ears twitched as she scanned the shadow-filled corners before settling on me.

  A pendant hung at her neck, glimmering faintly with ethereal blue light—pulsing, as if alive. A leather pouch bulged at her back.

  Her golden eyes gleamed with a strange intelligence. She moved silently, paws making no sound on wood.

  “Good evening,” she murmured, Valtorean smooth and melodic, tinged with the guttural growl native to her kind. “I see my brother has left you in quite a dilemma.”

  I blinked, nodding slowly.

  “So,” she continued, “you know the man who killed our father then. Podpolko… I mean—Colonel Galland, yes?”

  “I-I do,” I said. “I served with him—for a brief week’s march.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “A week,” she repeated softly, almost to herself.

  She stepped closer, pendant swinging gently with each deliberate pace.

  I fought to keep composure under her scrutiny.

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “Colonel Galland was a man of… considerable resolve.”

  She paused beside the bed, looking down at me with an unreadable expression. After a moment she sat on a small wooden stool nearby, tail curling neatly around her feet.

  “Yes,” she said, and sneered. “Judging from the way he killed my father—he very much was.”

  Her voice cooled.

  “Resolve. Foolish. Many words could be used. I’m not as fluent with High Valtorean as I once was.”

  She sighed, then shifted topics, eyes settling on me again.

  “Could I perhaps get a kholop to bring you porridge?”

  My stomach answered with a long, hungry growl.

  I nodded.

  “Yes, please.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “Could I perhaps be let out of my bonds?”

  She nodded.

  “Of course. So long as you swear not to do anything violent in my halls.”

  The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I didn’t know how far from home I was, and I was in no condition to fight.

  Seeing my acquiescence, she leaned forward and deftly loosened the straps binding my wrists. Relief surged as blood flowed more freely through my limbs. I kept my movements careful, not wanting to alarm her or seem ungrateful for the mercy.

  With my hands free, she stood and moved toward the door.

  “Stay here. I’ll return shortly with your food.”

  Left alone again, I flexed my fingers, easing stiffness. My shoulder ached.

  Delicately, I loosened the bandage and saw it:

  A significant scarred mark—signs of infection, though abating.

  I exhaled. The reality of my condition settled deep.

  I was fortunate to be alive.

  Fortunate to have all my limbs.

  As I rewrapped the bandage, my thoughts drifted to the Vuk woman—matter-of-fact, almost accepting of her father’s death.

  Strange people.

  The door creaked again. She returned carrying a wooden bowl of steaming porridge and a water jug. Setting them on a small table near the bed, she watched me with those intense golden eyes.

  “None of the servants are up at this hour,” she said with a sigh. “So you’ll have to endure some of my cooking.”

  She grinned, sharp teeth flashing.

  “Vuk stew. Very hearty.”

  She passed me a bowl of meat in a thick white gravy—sausage, ham, rich cuts—so decadent I had to stop myself. I was used to camp gruel, not this.

  “Thank you,” I managed, voice hoarse. “For this… and for unbinding me. Why?”

  She blinked, then smiled.

  “Because you remind me of my brother,” she said, voice softening slightly as she settled back on the stool. “A warrior. Foolish—and scarred.”

  She purred, almost worried.

  “And young. Too young for such dark times.”

  Her warmth belied the warrior presence she carried. For a moment she seemed lost in thought, gaze drifting to candlelight throwing eerie shadows along the walls.

  Then she looked at me again, and I noticed what I’d missed:

  The jewelry. The quality.

  Arlenian robes.

  Eclairean jewelry.

  Some of the finest in the world.

  “Not to mention,” she added, “I enjoy guests. It has been far too long since our estate had someone visit—even if they’re our junior.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I… well, I’ll be honest. I don’t know a hell of a lot about the Vuk. Or the—”

  Her eyes narrowed, irritation flashing.

  “Vuk,” she repeated sharply. “That is not our name. Not anymore.”

  Jaw clenched, she looked away, expression swallowed by shadow.

  “…Apologies,” I said. “I didn’t realize.”

  “You are fine,” she replied. “But we—as a people—are the Dvoryanstvo.”

  She paused as if weighing the word.

  “The manor-dwellers. The Dvoryans.”

  She watched my reaction, then continued.

  “Vuk—the Vuko—is a name associated with the pagans of Baltiva. We are not that. As much as the world likes to call us that.”

  “I’m not familiar with the history of your people,” I admitted, porridge momentarily forgotten. The weight of my ignorance suddenly felt heavy under her gaze.

  She considered, then softened.

  “Most aren’t,” she conceded. “It is simply the way things are. And most of the Dvoryanstvo wish to forget our people’s past in favor of who we are now.”

  She spoke plainly.

  “Which sounds terrible—yet also good.”

  Her eyes flicked toward the window.

  “The Kholodians—the humans here—are a backward sort. Were it not for us, they would still be tending small villages.”

  “The serfs,” I said, understanding settling in. “The Kholodian humans. Is it not slavery?”

  She paused, and growled—irritated.

  “…You can ask more offensive, stupid questions after you finish your soup.”

  Chastised, I looked down and began eating as she answered anyway.

  “Here, it is… different. Bound by ancient codes and traditions that intertwine our lives. The Kholodians are not slaves in the manner you imagine. They are tied to the land and the Dvoryanstvo through bonds of duty and protection.”

  She made a face.

  “I know Valtoreans do things differently. With freemen, and… politics.” The word tasted of distaste. “Far too much politics.”

  “That much is true,” I agreed. “It took nearly a year for me to wrap my head around our duke’s legal code. Let alone the Empire’s.”

  “My brother would say it’s because you are a weak, corrupt people who profane the Lord.”

  The words stung. I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth, and met her gaze squarely.

  “A strong accusation,” I said, setting the spoon down with a clatter that sounded too loud in the quiet room, “from someone who has spent her life killing Valtoreans.”

  She leaned back, assessing me with a thoughtful tilt of her head.

  “Perhaps,” she conceded after a moment. “But I agree with him. Valtoreans are an ungodly people.”

  The shift in atmosphere was palpable. Her words felt like a challenge—like a blade laid flat across a table.

  I pushed back, anger rising.

  “You speak of my people as if already condemned! But you savages—you kill us—you murder us—and enslave us, and invade our lands on a whim…”

  Her face hardened, but she held back.

  “It is too late for such arguing and vitriol,” she said, sighing. “But I apologize. Things here in Kholodia are much simpler.”

  She stood, gathering the empty jug and bowl.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, eyes closing. “Things are much simpler here.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “I should retire. We’ll talk more later.”

  She paused, cocked her head.

  “It was an… interesting conversation.”

  Then she left me alone.

  Left in the dim room, my thoughts drifted unbidden to Strossberg and the life I had left behind.

  Grand ballrooms of the ducal palace, glittering chandeliers casting warm light over smiling faces. Fair ladies in silk and lace, laughter like tinkling bells. Rose gardens’ perfume. An orchestra’s gentle strains as couples twirled across polished marble.

  My heart ached with longing for those carefree days—lost forever, or perhaps only lost to the moment.

  Regardless, sentimentality clouded my thoughts.

  And eventually—

  I drifted to sleep.