Stephan recounted the contents of the letter as precisely as he could, almost word for word.

The longer he spoke, the more the smile on Leksa’s face grew, until, eventually, he burst out laughing, interrupting Stephan mid-word.

Confused and self-conscious, Stephan frowned. He was sure he hadn’t made any mistakes—he had a good memory and his literacy was higher than average. Still, he fidgeted under Leksa’s laughing gaze.

“Okay, I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” Leksa said, trying to placate him, swinging his legs down from the table to sit up more properly. “Did Demyan ever teach you to read correspondence?”

“My father taught me how to read,” Stephan defended. “I never needed Demyan to teach me.”

Leksa smiled, kind but also annoyingly condescending.

“I’m sure your father did a great job teaching you. But I’m not talking about books.” Leksa paused and motioned with his gaze for Stephan to take a seat in front of him. Reluctantly, Stephan complied, putting the letter back on the table so his sweaty palms wouldn’t grease it. “Letters are written differently, Stephan. There are a lot of things hidden between the lines—messages you don’t want wandering eyes to see. An underlying mood of the one writing it. Even when and how they are delivered can tell you more than the words written in them.”

Eyebrows knitted, Stephan listened carefully and intently. It… actually made sense, what Leksa said.

“Take this letter for example.” Leksa slid the paper closer to Stephan with a quick flick of his wrist. “What is written here? Try to tell me once more, but this time don’t just recount it word for word. Dig deeper.”

Staring at that piece of paper, Stephan tried to think about what each word and sentence could signify under a different light.

“The Elders,” Stephan started tentatively, “are skeptical that you will return with the horses.” He hesitantly glanced up. Leksa smiled, nodding and encouraging him to continue. “They consider Demyan untrustworthy. Seeing as the scout delivered this message merely a day after your arrival, they sent someone to trail you right after you left. It takes at least three days to get from Chortov to Bishov on horseback. Since they don’t trust Demyan, they were worried for your safety.”

Here, Leksa snorted. “Yes and no. They’re not worried about my safety, they’re worried whether the host still has a warlord. With the way things are right now, no one of note wants to get elected.”

Raising his eyebrow, Stephan glanced at Leksa with open surprise.

“Sounds wild to you, yes?” Leksa chuckled, his eyes softening. “But, believe it or not, being the High Warlord is not as honorable as you’d think.” With a sigh, his expression shifted to a grimace. “After that idiot Matviy exhausted our last resources to prove he was indeed the dumbest imbecile, all I was doing was licking boots to collect means to rebuild.” He huffed, disdainful. “What do you think I’m doing here? Don’t misunderstand, that little show I put on with Demyan prostrating on his knees was just a small consolation to soothe my nerves. I am here begging for his help, not the other way around.”

Silent and attentive, Stephan allowed Leksa to vent his frustrations. This was the very first time he could believe what Leksa was saying was sincere.

“I have thousands of mouths to feed and that fucking Golden Horde marching through my lands. All while these silver-haired fools still believe the Kingless Knights to be a mighty force. Idiots.” Leksa threw his head back and stared at the ceiling.

“I don’t want to go back there yet,” he confessed. “Frankly, I’m afraid I might burn it all to the ground.”

Stephan did not know what to make of this admission.

“Thus,” Leksa said suddenly, looking at him. “I won’t go back. I’m going with Demyan to the Kamyan Province. You”—he pointed a finger at Stephan—“will deliver the horses and my instructions back to Chortov instead,” Leksa announced.

Slapped in the face with this deranged idea, Stephan blanked out.

“Me?” he asked dumbly.

Suddenly happy and even suspiciously delighted, Leksa grinned wide and nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, you,” he confirmed. “Pavlo will help you out with everything, ask Demyan for whatever number of people is needed to ensure safe travel. If you can, bring someone you trust along with you. You’ll need to have someone in your corner.”

Still scarcely realizing the full magnitude of the task given to him, Stephan asked, “But why me? You don’t even trust me yet.”

Leksa shrugged. “I don’t have the time or luxury to spare you from work. If you succeed, I will know I can trust you. If not—I’m already in the gutters, what is one more failure for me to deal with?

“And,” he added, “wouldn’t that be funny? They hate Demyan, they threw such a fit when I said I wanted to come here. I had to vouch for him, personally,” Leksa grimaced. “Of course, I was in a sour mood and had to degrade him just a bit, it cost me a huge deal to entertain his invitation.” He crossed his hands on his chest and grinned wide. “I wish I could see their faces when a nobody from Demyan’s host delivers a thousand and five hundred horses and gives them commands in my name.” His grin turned vicious. “I am petty like that. I tend to punish idiots for questioning my decisions.”

Well, that was a lot. Stephan could barely keep up with the sudden onslaught of confessions. Was Leksa really so petty as to take advantage of Demyan’s repentance simply because he was… in a bad mood?

“But,” Stephan started, choosing to focus on something he could potentially make sense of, “don’t you have your Second-in-Command currently overlooking Chortov in your stead?”

Demyan had Kost; whenever he was away, Kost dealt with everything. Surely, Leksa had someone like that, too. The Kingless Knights were far more organized than the Pouring Knights.

Expression darkening, Leksa drifted his gaze to the window. “I used to,” he said quietly. “He died.”

“Oh…” Stephan breathed out. “I’m sorry.”

With a scornful snort, Leksa flicked him a glance. “Don’t be. Now you can take his place.” Getting up from his seat, Leksa loomed over Stephan, staring him down. “Another lesson for you: people die like flies. Make peace with that. If you’re shrewd enough, learn to use it to your advantage. It’s not immoral to survive.”

Not waiting for Stephan’s reply, Leksa patted his shoulder and disappeared behind the door to his bedchambers.

***

Dazed, Stephan walked through the corridors of the Bishov Fortress, echoes of his conversation with Leksa running through his mind.

He didn’t even notice that his legs carried him to the stables. The fortress could not hold all of the horses, of course—only some dozen of the Hundred Captains kept their mounts here, along with Demyan himself, some scouts, and now the party from Chortov. A manageable amount.

And then, there were thousands of their warhorses in the stables on the outskirts of Bishov. Stephan needed to gather men, organize their delivery to Chortov. The journey would take at least a week, if not more. A horde of this size would surely travel slowly and arduously.

It was too much. Demyan’s tasks were sometimes frivolous, yes, but even those of higher importance never demanded so much of Stephan. He ensured the safety of his Hundred and trained them; he delivered Demyan’s greetings to noble lords, but he was never in charge of a transaction of this magnitude.

Stephan realized clearly that Leksa was demanding, petty, cunning and… there was something fascinating about him. Demyan wasn’t just obsessed with Leksa’s looks, it was far more than that. 

Leksa was someone to always keep in mind when making a move. He was smarter, shrewder, more dangerous than anyone would give him credit for at first glance. And he was horrifyingly self-aware of his own shortcomings. There was hardly a weakness to press on, Leksa had already weaponized everything about himself.

Even confessing that he thought of burning down Chortov was nothing more than a move to lower Stephan’s defenses. Probably. He didn’t truly hate being the High Warlord this much, right?

Deep in thought, Stephan found himself by his horse’s stall. He smiled, stepping closer and patting the muzzle of his trusty companion.

“Hi, Zlato,” Stephan greeted. His mare was not as fast as Demyan’s Chornovoron and not as silent as Leksa’s warhorse, but Zlato was obedient and would never abandon him. Countless times had Zlato found him on the battlefield, always eager to be mounted by the rider she trusted the most.

“Thought I would find you here.”

Startled, Stephan turned around.

Cyryl leaned against the wooden post dividing the stalls, his new armor bright and clean. It was the light type, easy to move in and only covering the most vital parts of a cavalry horseman.

“Looks nice,” Stephan complimented. It did look nice. The steel was polished silver, the corners carved with viburnum leaves and drupes, surely custom-made from Cyryl’s drawings.

Waving off the compliment, Cyryl’s ears still gained a shade of red. Stephan always found it funny how much of a peacock Cyryl was but how he could never take a compliment. What was the point of dressing like that if you didn’t want attention and praise?

Inadvertently, he remembered Leksa.

“We’re going now. I wanted to say goodbye,” Cyryl explained.

Stephan smiled at him. “Goodbye, then.”

Frowning, Cyryl pushed himself off the post and came closer.

“That’s it? At least pretend to worry!”

More entertained than vexed by the accusation, Stephan glanced at Cyryl’s backsword, its sheath strapped to his belt. “Worry about what? Only Demyan won against you one-on-one. I know you’ll be fine.”

Rolling his eyes, Cyryl crossed his hands on his chest, the steel of his armor clinking.

“Okay, then, don’t worry. But at least suffer for a bit.” Cyryl narrowed his eyes at Stephan. “We’re friends, who will watch your back now?”

Stephan patted Zlato and stepped away, facing Cyryl.

“So it’s you who’s worried?” he teased.

Cyryl looked to the side. “You’re going alone with that… scum. I don’t like him.”

Barely holding back laughter, Stephan raised his eyebrows in faux surprise. “You don’t?”

Dark green eyes snapped back to glare at Stephan. “He’s sleazy and he stole you from Demyan for his own petty gratification. And you’re too kind to notice what scum he is. You will surely find something good in him.”

“But there are good things about him.”

Cyryl jabbed his finger into the middle of Stephan’s chest. “See! You already defend him! He will eat you alive, and I won’t be there to look over you!”

If you can, bring someone you trust along with you. You’ll need to have someone in your corner.

“Then come with me,” Stephan heard himself saying.

Stupefied, Cyryl dropped his hand and gawked at Stephan.

“Come with me to Chortov. Demyan will let you go, I know he will.” Stephan stepped closer; they were the same height, so he looked Cyryl directly in the eyes. “I trust you more than anyone. So keep looking over me, would you?”