The streets of Bishov City were narrow, embraced on both sides by simple wooden houses no higher than two stories. All of them, through twists and turns, led to the main market square, where tailors urged to buy their linens and rare silks, smiths promised to repair any blades, and bakers quietly allowed the smell of fresh bread to do the work. As the main military and civil center of the recently established Bishov Province, the city was bursting with life. 

However, such peace was a newfound luxury. 

Situated on the bank of the Southern River far at the border, Bishov was under the constant threat of raids from the southern Golden Empire Horde. The fortress, looming in the distance, dreadfully reminded any passerby of the fleeting nature of this normalcy. 

The sudden calm was brought by no other but the Pouring Knights. Resting here between their campaigns south, the knights offered protection and brought new lifeblood to local trade. Thus, the citizens welcomed them with open arms, too eager to please. Eager enough to single-handedly vacate the Bishov Fortress and offer it to the Warlord as his new home.

Here, in the Bishov Fortress’s main dining hall, Demyan waited for the arrival of his guests. 

Kost watched him restlessly fidgeting in his seat, then impatiently walking in circles. 

“If you keep that up, people will actually believe he’s your wife,” Kost noted. He busied himself with polishing his knife, methodical swipes of cloth slowly returning the deathly glare of the weapon to its full glory.

Stopping mid-step, Demyan glanced at Kost over his shoulder. 

“But I want them to believe he’s my wife,” he grinned. 

This idiot and his stupid jokes.

Kost rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you too old for that?” 

With a non-commital shrug, Demyan didn’t answer. But he heeded the advice and stopped pacing back and forth, returning to the seat of honor. 

The dining hall of the fortress was a spacious room with high ceilings, decorated with ornate canvas frames and exquisite chandeliers. Capable of accommodating more than a hundred people at once, the hall held long tables along either side, its open central floor leading toward a stone pedestal set against the far wall. A throne stood upon it, commanding the view from the entrance. Made of rare oak, it was lacquered so each carved detail glistened like a wooden gem and padded with vermilion cushions to complete the imposing image.

To Kost, however, it was a cheap imitation.

Bishov’s Magistrate sincerely must’ve fancied himself a provincial lord, absurdly furnishing the hall to resemble western castles. 

Kost was no noble—a servant, illiterate and brutish. He could only spot the imitation because he lived a long enough life to follow his late Lord all the way to the Crown Capital more than once. He bowed in the King’s throne room, and he walked through the polished halls of mainland provincial lords’ estates. All of them were lavish, meant to awe and intimidate.

It made him uneasy to see the similar extravagance so far south by the border. With constant raids, any valuables here, in Wildfields, were nothing but temporary. Even the local nobility was rather modest; their palaces around the market square all maintained so as not to flaunt wealth and invite trouble.

And yet, the fortress was filled with small treasures. The luxury was too grand, unfit for a position of a poor city’s Magistrate. No wonder the bastard got beaten down by his own people.

“I hate waiting,” Demyan complained, interrupting Kost’s rather bleak thoughts. “I swear Leksa drags it out on purpose; he knows I hate waiting.”

Idling on the throne with his cheek resting on his fist, Demyan salvaged the absurdity—he didn’t look out of place. Seated high on the pedestal and looming over the hall, on the contrary, he was exactly what one would expect of a border provincial lord. Noble, yet a warrior. Gallant, yet brutal enough to ruthlessly protect his domain.

When Kost blinked, for that split moment, he saw an achingly familiar silhouette—the same mannerism, the same relaxed posture hiding the sheer power of a martial prodigy.

Yet, it was only for a moment.

Demyan’s childish pouting and complaints quickly reminded Kost that he dealt with a hot-blooded youth.

Refusing to amuse him, Kost simply hummed. He was hopeful for some blissful silence. His head still throbbed from all the beer those brats poured for him yesterday.

Unfortunately, that desire was not meant to come to fruition. A fortress attendant rushed into the hall; his brisk steps banged in Kost’s ears, making him wince. 

“The Kingless Knights party entered the city, Warlord Demyan.” 

Demyan nodded, calmly, concealing his impatience well enough to fool a lesser man. 

Nonetheless, the glint in his eyes gave him away; one merely needed to know what to look for.

“How many?” Demyan asked. 

“Five horsemen. Your Knights are escorting them here, and we’re preparing the stables,” the attendant dutifully reported. 

Demyan’s shoulders shook with a silent chuckle.

“Five? Interesting. Thank you, you can leave,” he sent the attendant away. 

Waiting until they were once again alone, Demyan turned to Kost, adamant not to allow him a moment of serenity.

“He's out of men. But he still came personally,” Demyan mused. “Ol’ Kost, they’re truly desperate, it seems, if I’m getting such honors.” 

Kost, still polishing his knife and fighting a migraine, nodded. 

“After that shitshow campaign south under Matviy? No wonder. What a fucking halfwit,” Kost spat the words, failing to hide his disdain. Matviy used to annoy him even back then—a man full of prideful ambitions, loud words, and with no core to hold it all together. “Though your Leksa, as usual, reaped the rewards even after the disaster.”  

A light smile found its place on Demyan’s lips, his eyes crinkling and sparkling with warmth.

“You sound proud of him,” he teased. “I thought I was your favorite.” 

The blade of Kost’s knife was spotless after a long polish, but its handle—worn. The slim stripes of leather wrapped around it were riddled with small scratches, ragged from constant use. Years ago, a dark-eyed youth offered to replace the leather, humbly yet stubbornly.

“You treasure it a lot, don’t you, sir? I like knives and daggers,” he had confided, a bit bashfully, “I’m no smith, but I know how to take care of them. Let me fix it up for you,” the youth had insisted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he had laughed. “It’s a favor I plan to ask returned sometime in the future. So no need for wariness—I know you see through me. You’re wiser than you let on.”

Since then, Kost never had the time to replace the wrapping despite the leather wearing down. The handiwork was surprisingly sturdy and reliable, never loosening to a point where the knife was a struggle to use. It was done earnestly, a worthy favor.

“He’s smarter than you,” Kost simply explained.

Demyan raised an eyebrow, not insulted in the least but intrigued.

“Since when do you cherish shrewdness that much?” He asked. “Is it your old age?”

“You little shit,” Kost cursed with no real heat, “insult me all you want since you’re so competitive, but the fact stands—the kid is a clever one. Just watch, he’ll survive us all. I respect that,” Kost shrugged. 

He was old, and he buried enough people to learn his lessons and give credit where it was due. If anything, he wished Demyan were more shrewd like that. Principles killed good men, while scum always survived.

“Don’t let Rador hear you,” Demyan laughed. “And, yeah, no surprise Leksa used that failure to his advantage.” He leaned in Kost’s direction with a mischievous grin, bearing his golden fang. “Uncle Kost, let’s bet. Five golden ducats say that Leksa didn’t stop them on purpose, three more that he fanned the flames.”

Kost perked up. Whenever Demyan called him ‘Uncle’, he couldn’t help but fret. Rough and harsh as he was, Kost never knew how to react properly—he was always rendered speechless and dumbfounded in the face of Demyan’s sudden sincerity. Ultimately, Kost ended up clumsily spoiling the kid every time.

So, he considered the bet seriously, thinking it over.

Though Leksa was notoriously scheming, he didn’t like the senseless waste of resources. The campaign under Matviy cost the Kingless Knights a lot of manpower and ended up fruitless, but what’s worse, it ruined the reputation Leksa’s previous victories built. And what Leksa cared the most about was his looks—both in appearance and in other people’s imagination. 

“Nah, I don’t think he would,” Kost doubted. “Even for him, that’s too much.”

Instead of a reply, he got a bark of a frivolous laugh.

“Oh, he would,” Demyan’s eyes sparked crimson, excited. Nothing fired him up as a good challenge, and Kost knew him well enough to admit Leksa was one of the few people who could entertain Demyan’s twisted hunger.

Demyan continued, “Think about it—they must’ve blamed him for failing to take the Ikarvan Fortress. An impossible task considering the number of people he had. What sounds more like Leksa: making excuses for himself or just silently watching the loudest one take the lead and fail miserably?”

When put like that, Kost conceded. Not many were that farsighted and sure of themselves, but Leksa was, ever since he was a boy wet behind the ears.

“Then I’m not betting, fuck you and your ‘wife’,” Kost cursed, his moment of weakness ending just like that.

Wisely, Demyan snorted and didn’t say anything else.

Once again, they returned to waiting.

Sheathing his knife, Kost relaxed in his seat in the corner and closed his eyes. Maybe he could catch some sleep… Ah, he truly was getting too old.

Uncle, huh.

The word reached somewhere deep in his mind, dragging out old memories. Behind his eyelids, a hazy picture of a distant riverbank appeared. Bathed in the late-spring sunlight and bright green willows, it felt like home. Warm, domestic.

There, hooked to the vines that cascaded all the way down to the water, white linen sheets floated, gently washed by the current. A chore he oftentimes helped to complete. Through the willow vines, far in the distance, he could see familiar apple trees shedding their last blossoms. 

Closer, on the shore, an achingly dear figure of a woman stopped his wondering eyes, catching all of his attention. She relaxed on top of the rich grass, leaning back on her hands and craning her neck so she could face the sunlight. Her eyes were closed, a small smile danced on her lips.

She was beautiful, just as the last time he saw her.

But not like a damsel, far from it. Her beauty was of a good, hard-working woman: a full and ample body, slightly broad shoulders, constantly tousled, chestnut locks falling loose from her otherwise prim and well-kept braid. It was long, reaching her waist, so she formed a habit of playing with it whenever she got flustered.

Startled, she looked behind her, bright grey eyes flying open and then narrowing to see who disturbed her.

“Oh, Kost,” she said, smiling widely.

Here it got murky—he couldn’t remember if it had actually happened or if it was his mind merging countless memories of her into something that should’ve resembled their too many and yet too little interactions.

“Hello, Miss Solomia.” He bowed his head.

She sat up straighter, her hands smoothing her braid.

“Here you go again. I told you I’m no Miss,” she protested; she had protested every time. Kost had kept calling her that, anyway.

So, he ignored that.

“Lord Petru is looking for you,” he explained his intrusion.

Fingers still brushing loose locks, Solomia tilted her head.

“Demyan?” She asked, knowingly and oh so fondly. She loved him as if he were her own son.

“Why else? That brat-“

Her grey eyes looked at him sternly, flashing like the steel their color resembled. She was a terrifying woman when she wanted to be.

“Ahem, our little lord,” Kost amended, earning a pleased nod from her, “once again got carried away with his new horse and ruined his robes.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Our little lord must love that horse more than anything; it’s the third time in just one week,” she mused, warmly and not the least bit irritated at the additional work that now waited for her. Still, she worriedly looked over at the sheets still floating in the river.

“Go, I will finish up here,” Kost assured.

Her grateful smile made a web of wrinkles appear around her eyes. Beautiful, how beautiful she was. With a dusting of freckles and a faint blush, she glanced…

Suddenly, Kost was violently snatched from his memories—a loud bang of doors snapping open resounded through the hall.

“High Warlord, wait!”

Stephan’s cry was loud enough to echo through the long hall all the way to Kost’s sensitive ears. 

He grimaced, eyes flying open to be met with Stephan’s pale face as he rushed after the brazen intruder.

Well, the guests have finally arrived.