Heaving and clutching his stomach, Stephan hugged a bucket. His ears rang, and he felt as if the next time he tried to vomit, his insides would come out.

“You should drink some water,” Cyryl said, chirpy and lively. Simply the sound of his cheerful voice made Stephan glare up. “Don’t look at me like that, I barfed my stomach out last night.”

The mention of it stirred Stephan to heave into the bucket again, but nothing came out. Only a violent tremble shook his body. He would never drink again, never, he swore on his father’s grave.

“I hate you,” Stephan mumbled.

The bed creaked as Cyryl got up, his maroon boots silently stepping closer. Gently, he placed his hand on Stephan’s back and rubbed a few circles.

“You don’t, but if it helps.” Cyryl crouched down by Stephan’s side and pried the bucket away from him. “Disgusting.” Instead, he pushed a waterskin into Stephan’s hands. “Drink, don’t be a baby.”

With great effort, Stephan did as he was told. The water soothed his sore throat, and he could feel its refreshing coldness going all the way down to his stomach. Relief spread through his body; even the banging in his head eased up.

“Okay, I don’t hate you, I could kiss you,” Stephan admitted, drinking more with shaking hands.

Chuckling, Cyryl patted his back. “Not after vomiting, but ask me another time.” He got up and walked to the window.

Stephan’s room was a simple one, with a view of the inner yard and too many books rising in neat towers along the walls.

“You should return them to the library. Since you’re leaving,” Cyryl said, idling on the windowsill. “But now that you’re leaving, no one will be in the library to track it, so maybe you shouldn’t.” He frowned.

Pursing his lips, Stephan corked the waterskin and glanced at Cyryl.

“Don’t sulk. It’s not like we will never see each other again.”

Snapping his head to the side, Cyryl refused to meet Stephan’s gaze, instead looking at the commotion in the yard.

“I’m not sulking!” He crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. “I simply… It never crossed my mind that…”

Leaning against the wall, Stephan watched Cyryl’s red zhupan robes cascade down his frame. They picked these together, along with those fancy robes Cyryl chose for him before the Kingless Knights party arrived in Bishov.

“Summer is going to end soon,” Stephan noted. “It will get colder.” 

Turning to him, Cyryl raised a brow. “And?” A gust of wind ruffled his raven-black hair, a few locks falling over his confused face.

“They say Leksa is very stuck-up; he dislikes a ragged look. So I might need a new cloak, and shirts too, and, well, everything else…” Stephan trailed off, rubbing his nape, a bit flustered. “Will you pick something for me?” he asked with a small smile.

Still frowning, Cyryl brushed away a few stray strands from his eyes. He watched Stephan intently, moments passing as their gazes were locked in a stakeless stalemate. 

Gradually, Cyryl relaxed his features and endearingly shook his head. His eyes brightened.

“Yeah, your winter robes are abysmal,” he confirmed and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. Biting his lip to hide the growing smile, Cyryl tilted his chin up. “You will need to come here," he declared, "so I can save you from the shame of it." A mischievous glint flashed through his gaze, poorly hidden laughter in his voice. 

These achingly familiar teasings were exactly what Stephan wanted to hear. 

“I think so, too,” he agreed, grinning, and something warm spread through his chest. 

It was pure habit—making sure Cyryl stopped sulking. Just as Cyryl felt personally responsible to force Stephan to dress more properly, Stephan felt compelled to ensure Cyryl did not have reasons to be sad. Not if Stephan could help it. This habitual commitment had started as a simple act of gratitude, and then grew into an earnest truth, a mindless instinct. 

Outside, a loud bang made them both slightly jump. The sudden noise and movement rewarded Stephan with a pang of terrible headache.

“Ugh, what was that?” He gripped the bridge of his nose, massaging it in a fruitless attempt to alleviate the pain.

“They dropped a barrel.” Cyryl lazily watched over the yard. “We’re riding out soon. Back to the dirty camp life, what a joy.”

Making peace with the constant ache sullying his mood, Stephan sighed and, resolutely, decided to push through this day no matter what. He picked himself up, dusted his yesterday’s robes and joined Cyryl by the window. 

Below in the yard, his once fellow Knights were busy with preparations—packing rations, moving carts, saddling their horses.

“You could stay; Demyan will leave some people to man the fortress and watch over Bishov,” Stephan offered.

Cyryl shook his head. “No, you know me. I always complain, but I complain even more if I don’t get to slice up some southern scum.” Mindlessly, he placed his hand on the cross-guard of his backsword. The iron twisted in elegant vines under Cyryl’s palm, as ornate and flashy as everything else he chose for himself.

“You had a new armor made, didn’t you?”

Grinning, Cyryl nodded. “Sure did.”

***

Generous amounts of water soothed Stephan’s headache. He managed to compose himself into presentable bearings and went to search for Leksa. It was still a foreign notion—not seeking out Demyan to receive his commands.

Patting down his robes and fixing his belt, Stephan breathed out, shook his head and, finally, knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Leksa was quick to answer.

Carefully, Stephan walked inside the chambers. Demyan had specifically instructed the staff to provide Leksa with seemly accommodations—these ones in particular were used by the Magistrate to host noble lords on their visits. A large, grand chamber with a fireplace and tapestries decorating the walls, it was divided by another door from a more private bedchamber, where lords slept in a fur-covered bed and bathed in a large wooden tub. Sickly luxurious for a place like Bishov.

Inside the grand chamber, one meant to host guests out of the privacy of sleeping quarters, Leksa was sitting by the table.

Dressed in a thin linen undershirt and coarse horse-riding pants, he had his legs thrown over the table surface, elegantly and impudently showing off his boots. Leksa was leaning back against a richly carved wooden chair—a picture of an indolent noble, enjoying his morning sun. In his hands, he lazily played with a folded letter.

The window’s curtains were wide open, allowing a gentle morning sunlight to pour inside. Catching messy, loose locks of Leksa’s hair, it all but begged Stephan to notice how unkept and drowsy Leksa looked. 

He presented a rather comfortable, a bit domestic picture like that—nothing of the cold-blooded, uptight High Warlord Stephan expected to see.

“Don’t stare at me, I didn’t have time to dress up,” Leksa drawled, placing the letter onto the table. “Though you look dashing,” he added jokingly, darting his gaze up and down Stephan’s frame. “Drank too much?”

His easy way of talking, coupled with a disheveled look, lulled Stephan into a false sense of security.

“And I’m never drinking again,” he admitted, joking but also shuddering, the slight sting of pain still squeezed his temples.

Arching an eyebrow, Leksa snorted. “Better not. I hate drunkards.”

Stephan soundlessly cursed in his mind. He knew he shouldn’t have expected a normal conversation from Leksa of all people. Everything was a game with him.

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Stephan assured with a curt nod.

With a noncommittal hum, Leksa did not grace this pointless exchange with any further attention. Instead, he tilted his chin toward the letter, urging Stephan to look at it.

“My scout from Chortov delivered it earlier in the morning while you were puking your guts out. Next time, you will be the one to make sure I get my messages, got it?”

Stephan swallowed and gave another nod. He was also suspicious of the rationale behind entrusting him with Leksa’s correspondence. Was this some sort of loyalty trial?

“Good. You know how to read, right?”

“Yes.”

Leksa nodded to the letter. “Read it and tell me what it says.”

Unsure, now fully expecting it to be some other form of a test, Stephan walked up closer and picked up the neatly folded paper.

It was a message from the Host Elders of the Kingless Knights. 

Short and to the point, they asked Leksa how the audience went through, urged him to return as soon as possible, and requested him to send back a word whether he managed to secure the promised horde of horses. Throughout the letter, Demyan’s name was never once mentioned; only various iterations of “that backstabbing mutt”, “the scorch of steppes”, “that lordling with a joke of a host.” 

Based on Stephan’s knowledge, the Host Elders were usually literate and educated. But, apparently, they were more than fine with littering private correspondence with profanities.

“So?” Leksa questioned languidly.

Clearing his throat, Stephan prepared to reply, now sure it was an assay he couldn’t fail.