From his vantage point in the corner, Kost watched the High Warlord of the Kingless Knights stride inside with confidence of owning the place.

Leksa changed. Unlike Demyan, who always had the same core, Leksa now oozed with unhidden pride. The pride itself wasn’t new; the kid always had it. But back then, he disguised it masterfully, easily fooling everyone into believing his humble smiles. Never did Kost see him be so… unapologetic about it. 

Stephan trailed after Leksa like a lost duckling, his eyes darting from Kost to Demyan, pleading to understand his predicament. 

He didn’t need to bother, Kost wanted to say to the kid, now that Leksa was here, Stephan’s failed escorting duty was so far from Demyan’s main concern. 

Clank, clank. 

Leksa’s boots rhythmically rang with each step, loud and clear.

Demyan’s eyes were trained solely on the approaching figure of the High Warlord. He watched him like a dog teased with a meaty bone, like a hawk ready to spear down for his prey. A visible hunger contorted his features, and he didn’t seem to be bothered with hiding it for the sake of propriety. 

With one final resounding clank, the hall was swallowed by a no less loud silence. 

Leksa stopped in front of Demyan, an arm’s length away. Despite the pedestal raising the throne above all else, Leksa was tall enough to meet Demyan’s eyes—their gazes clashing on the same level. 

Two warlords stared each other up and down—one perched on an illusory throne, another standing with bloated bravado. What a pair they made. 

“Hm,” Leksa pinched his chin, studying Demyan with open curiosity. 

His dark eyes swiped over Demyan’s black zhupan robes, lingered on his encrusted with precious gems scabbard, then slid down to his freshly-polished shoes. Because, of course, Demyan made an effort. He had spent hours getting ready this morning; Kost had run out of complaints by the time he was finished. 

No less transparent in his intentions, Demyan scrutinized Leksa in return. From his newly added dreadlock decorated in the style of the old Veliruth warriors to the surprisingly modest saber by his belt, Demyan drank up each change in Leksa’s appearance like a man dying of thirst. 

Revolting, Kost scowled. What an idiot.

Leksa’s gaze fixed on Demyan’s face. He tilted his head and tapped his chin, as if trying to remember something. 

“Smile for me, would you?” He eventually asked. 

Kost snorted.

Baring his teeth, Demyan laughed full-heartedly.

“Still in place.” A golden fang gleamed, metal replacing his right canin.

With narrowed eyes, Leksa nodded, satisfied. His lips stretched in a chillingly warm smile of his own. 

“Warlord Demyan,” he finally greeted, clasping his hands behind his back and nodding his head just so.

“High Warlord Leksa,” Demyan mirrored in kind. “How was the road?” 

Leksa shrugged. “Uneventful. How’s Waravia? I heard you made quite a ruckus there.” 

“Oh, you know, same ol’, same ol’—stuffy, Horde-ridden, but the wine was great. I brought a few barrels back, I’ll treat you,” he motioned to the table on the right side of the hall. Empty plates and silver cups waited in preparation for a feast. 

A knowing smirk stretched Leksa’s lips as he glanced at the display.

“Still dream of getting me drunk? Warlord Demyan, I thought we’re long past it?” 

“Never,” Demyan deadpanned, shameless as ever. 

Kost was the one who needed a drink here, actually. 

Deeming the pleasantries over, Demyan stood up. He loomed over Leksa, forcing the other to crane his neck to look up. As if in a dance, once he took a step forward from the pedestal, Leksa took a measured step back, maintaining the distance between them. 

They used to be almost the same height, but now Demyan was clearly taller—the top of Leksa’s head reached only up to his nose. 

Kost was not the only one who made the observation. 

Lowering his head, Demyan gazed down at Leksa, smugness written all over his face. On the contrary, Leksa hardly managed to hide his vexation as he still had to crane his neck to look the other warlord in the eyes. It was the very first visible crack in his otherwise perfect front. 

Endearingly petty, Kost mused. They truly brought out the worst in each other. 

“High Warlord, it’s my honor to welcome you here,” Demyan announced, adding a note of poise to his voice. “I’m grateful you agreed to accept my invitation; I know it was a tough decision.” 

Leksa nodded, showing that he, too, was done with their immature farce. 

Losing the last of his smugness and exchanging it for a solemn bearing, bracing himself, Demyan continued. 

“I have a bloody debt to repay to the Kingless Knights,” he stated, his face—unreadable. “I hope you will accept my apologies and relay my sincerity to the mighty Knights back in the Chortova Fortress.”

The High Warlord’s dark eyes measured Demyan cautiously. He openly demonstrated—he wouldn’t make it easy. 

Their own squabbles set aside, the real negotiations began. 

“You commanded an army that killed more than a thousand of the Kingless Knights,” Leksa accused with no preamble. Swift, cold, and to the point, trying to shake Demyan from the start.

“I did,” Demyan agreed, calmly meeting the first strike. 

“You murdered the men who were your brothers in arms, who taught you the very tactics you used to slay them.”

“I did.”

Leksa scrutinized Demyan’s face, searching for the slightest fracture in his facade. Demyan, though, was made of stone. Not a single emotion shown, not a sliver of weakness exposed. Resolute, he admitted his wrongs, but that was the extent of what he conceded. 

“To this day, we pay the price of your transgression. Countless families rely on us to feed them, widowed women fall under our protection, orphaned boys stay in the Chortova Fortress under our care. They’re kids, Demyan,” Leksa emphasized. “They’re too young to be there, but they have nowhere else to go. The Horde stole and enslaved their mothers, but you killed their fathers.”

Swallowing, Demyan steadied himself. 

“I did,” he admitted. 

Leksa leveled him with an unreadable gaze. 

The hall was deadly silent—each gust of wind outside rang through it like thunder. Stephan was so pale he looked like he might throw up any second now. He didn’t know this side of Demyan’s past. But Kost couldn’t spare him another thought. 

He watched Demyan’s blank face and fought the urge to interrupt this public execution in everything but name. Demyan’s fingers were twitching, so tense he must’ve spent the last drops of his self-control not clutch his fists. 

Gods, that boy. He used to be one of those fatherless kids, too. 

And Leksa knew it—he struck where it hurt the most. Vicious bastard. 

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Leksa asked, just when the silence got too unbearable, and Demyan’s hands could no longer hide the slight tremble. 

Demyan took a deep breath.

“I pledged allegiance to my Lord,” he stated, locking his hands behind his back. “The Kingless Knights taught me everything I know, yes, and they had done it knowing I would return to serve him. When Levitskyi started his uprising against my Lord’s son, I was sent to crush it. And I did. It was my duty, my loyalties never swayed.” 

Acknowledging, Leksa hummed.

“So you were just a dog heeding orders, that’s it? A blade in the hands of another, with no mind of your own?” He mocked, his voice cruel. “Even I have more integrity than that, and you know my vices all too well.”

Demyan’s jaws clenched. Little by little, Leksa got under his skin, cutting through it with sharp, merciless words. 

“Am I supposed to consider what you did as noble, an act of knightly fealty?” Leksa continued his onslaught. “I was there too, remember? I watched you order no mercy, I heard you command slaughter. Was that another of your Lord’s wishes delivered by your hand?”

“Yes,” Demyan replied. “I had commanded to slaughter half of the Levitskyi’s host. Otherwise, he would have had enough men to rebel again. In atonement, I’d left my lord and broken my vow, forever sullying my own honor.”

Laughter. Leksa laughed at that, sincerely finding it funny. 

“After the deed? Oh, how valiant of you. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that only you were capable of beating Levitskyi. If you had only refused sooner, there would’ve been no one to lead your Lord’s army to victory.”

From the corner, Kost stood up, abruptly and loudly enough to have all eyes turn to him. 

“You’re getting carried away, Leksa,” he growled, the leather on the handle of his knife burning his palm. 

“Shut up.” Demyan snapped. 

A smirk found its place on Leksa’s face. 

“No-no, let him continue. I’m getting carried away? Have I said a single lie?” 

Somewhere in the years of his long life, Kost forgot he could despise so avidly. Respect be damned. Not at Demyan’s expense. 

“We’re offering truce, we’re giving you horses and manpower you desperately need,” Kost fumed, “show some fucking consideration.”

“I said, shut up,” Demyan repeated, lowly, “you’re still my servant.” 

Kost turned to him. 

“Servant or not, am I supposed to listen to this brat twist everything to his advantage? As if he’s any better!?” His temper was blinding his reason. Kost knew it was a pathetic outburst, that he had fallen into Leksa’s trap, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Yes. Shut up and listen.” It was final, Demyan was losing his patience, too.

In the meantime, Leksa crossed his hands on his chest and had the gall to watch them amusedly. 

“Still need Ol’ Kost to fight your battles for you, little lord?” He snickered, eyes full of disdain blackening as he glared at Demyan. 

Feeling his temples pulse, Kost stayed silent. 

But Demyan chuckled sympathetically.

“Don’t get jealous, Leksa.” He placated in kind. “I know you never had the luxury of anyone standing up for you.” 

Wide-eyed, Leksa flinched. It was a moment stretching for a blink, short and fleeting. Leksa quickly regained his footing, his face relaxing, deathly calm. 

“Careful, Warlord Demyan, that’s thin ice you’re walking on.” He warned. 

Unperturbed, Demyan shrugged. “I’m not a patient man; there’s only so much I can take lying down.” 

Arching his eyebrow, Leksa tilted his head. 

“In your letter, you said that to gain forgiveness you’d be willing to come to Chortov and prostrate yourself thrice to everyone there,” Leksa recounted the words exactly as they were written. 

He fixed his gaze on Demyan, his eyes drowning everything in their blackwater whirlpools. 

“Do it, then. Kneel.”