“Alright, that’s enough for today,” Lord Petru said, taking away Demyan’s cup. “Boy, you’re still too young to ask such questions. But let me tell you this—undying loyalty is the highest honor one can give and receive. A disloyal knight has no right to exist, and a disloyal king has no right to a crown.”

A beat of silence followed. Demyan carefully weighed what was said. Coming to a decision, he stood up, stepped closer to his father, and bowed deeply.

“I understand, Father. I was ahead of myself. I shall take your words to heart.” Demyan’s head remained lowered, eyes downcast.

Lord Petru just sighed, a rueful smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“Wise words, dear brother,” Elder Heronym agreed. He was already nodding off, his old age and sleeping habits disagreeing with a lengthy evening.

Lord Petru ruffled Demyan’s bangs.

“You little troublemaker, solemnity doesn’t suit you. Don’t concern yourself with our old men’s talk. When the time comes, you’ll get on your Chornovoron and ride to Wildfields yourself. Then, when you get back, we’ll talk.”

Demyan looked up, surprised. Lord Petru only smiled wider.

While Demyan knew his father loved and doted on him, he had never before heard Lord Petru explicitly support these ambitions. Deep to his core, his father was a loyal traditionalist—a lord who ruled his estate, took care of his people, then passed on the family name and lands to his heir. Lord Petru only had two sons and would never take another wife. Lucian left, and Demyan… Demyan wasn’t sure that he would be allowed to. Chornovoron, he thought, was a gift to placate, not to encourage. The assured, calm smile on Lord Petru’s face said the opposite.

Demyan felt his eyes prickle.

Elder Heronym gave a loud snore.

Moment broken, the father and son collapsed into shaky, giggling fits. The esteemed Elder, unable to fight the effect of numerous beers, fell asleep, face in a plate of dried fruit.

“Your Lordship!” Solomia suddenly burst into the hall. The loud noise made Elder Heronym jump from his sleep, a raisin stuck to his forehead.

Still cheerful, Lord Petru motioned for Solomia to come closer.

Noticing her rushed steps and pale face, Demyan lost his easy smile at the same time as his father creased his brows.

“What is it?”

“Your Lordship, there’s…” Solomia took a deep breath. “The village head from Medov arrived, he’s with Kost now. He’s… he’s injured and brought with him all the books and harvest records and— and—”

“Okay, I got it, calm down now.” Lord Petru took Solomia’s shaky hands into his own. “Demyan, escort Elder Heronym to his room. Stay with him until I personally call you both out.”

“But, Father—”

“Demyan.”

Ready to protest yet again, Demyan stepped closer, craning his neck up. Stared down by his father’s dark eyes, Demyan nodded in defeat.

“Let’s go, Uncle.”

Elder Heronym was too sleepy and drunk to make sense of the situation, so he easily allowed Demyan to lead him. Once in a room, Demyan helped him lie down on a bed, and the snoring followed instantly.

Demyan ensured that the room was properly prepared for rest, took off the Elder’s shoes, and covered him with a blanket.

Restless, Demyan sat down on a chair and tapped his foot.

A quarter of an hour later, he was hanging upside down from the roof over Lord Petru’s study, peeking in through a window. He reasoned that he liked Medov beer too much to ignore their troubles.

Inside, a few candles lit up a mess of records thrown over a table and a water basin filled with bloody bandages.

“-thirty or so, Your Lordship.”

Though his angle didn’t allow him to see more, Demyan quickly recognized Medov’s village head—he had a memorable accent.

“And were you followed?” That was Kost asking, so close to the window Demyan almost fell down.

“No. I believe I was let go in a warning and… well, there’s no need for two heads in one village, right?” The man chuckled without amusement.

“Tolyk, thank you. You brought all the accounting books, it will give us time to think and act.” Demyan rarely heard so much fatigue in his father’s voice. “I hoped we would have more time, but alas, my lands are too good. When was the last time someone tried to force me out of our village?”

“Ten years ago, Your Lordship.”

“Ah, right, when my oldest decided to play the hero. Remember how he got caught and my wife died saving him?”

“Eh… Your Lord—” Tolyk stuttered, stupefied and too aware of the deep wound his lord reopened so abruptly.

“Ah, no-no, I wasn’t asking you. I smell an incessant little rat on my roof.”

Demyan paled.

“Come down here, now.”

That was not the voice of his doting father; that was the man who lost his wife and his will to live with her. The scary shadow in Demyan’s early memories.

Slowly, Demyan clutched the window’s edge. Before he could twist himself to land inside, Kost grabbed him and threw him onto the floor like a sack of wheat.

Not daring to get up, Demyan knelt and pressed his forehead to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

Despite the mild weather, Demyan was shaking. Ever since he was little, every time he heard this voice, he could not help himself. His thoughts jumbled, his hands trembled, he could barely breathe.

“Mhm. We all are. What did I tell you, Demyan?”

Silence. Once again, Demyan was five years of age, huddled in his brother’s arms, tears on his cheeks and not enough air in his lungs. For too long, there was no Lucian to hug him, so Demyan learned to kneel.

“Demyan.”

Tolyk flinched; Demyan could hear the old chair creaking under him. He focused on the small sounds instead. The sternness in his father’s voice was sharper than steel and colder than ice.

Demyan stayed with his forehead lowered to the floor.

The window rattled. A drop of water plopped. Kost took a ragged breath. His father did not make a sound.

Counting little noises, Demyan calmed himself.

“I don’t have experience, acumen, or rationale to make decisions over other people's lives. I shall be humble and learn. I am nobody until I make myself into somebody.” Demyan recited the words from memory.

“Mhm. And?” Lord Petru pressed. He overwhelmed the room, choking the life out of it.

Demyan raised his head and met his father’s eyes head-on.

“I must survive, always.”

If his father could open up Demyan’s skin and engrave these words into his bones, Demyan was sure he would do it.

Then Lord Petru clapped his hands and smiled. Sighing, Demyan closed his eyes and slumped to the floor.

“Oh, get up,” Kost grumbled. He grabbed Demyan by the scruff as if he were a stray dog and hauled him to his feet.

“Go check on your uncle,” Lord Petru urged. He came up to Demyan and patted his shoulders. “He’s so drunk I’m afraid he might choke in his sleep.” With a light tap on the chin, Lord Petru directed Demyan to raise his head so their eyes could meet. “I swear to all the gods, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Demyan rolled his eyes as he stepped away. He dusted off his knees and made a face. “Sheesh, old man, you overreact too much.” Turning to the village head from Medov, Demyan smiled. “Hello, Tolyk. The beer was great as usual.”

Still pale in the face and nursing a wound on his shoulder, Tolyk weakly smiled back.

“Thank you, my lord.”

A roll of bandages hit Demyan straight in the temple.

“Begone, shoo, shoo!” Lord Petru commanded.