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Chapter Text

Heavy eyelids fell over his eyes. The letters dissolved before him as he struggled in vain to stay awake. Latin was boring. Learning to read was even more so.

A log in the hearth split in half, making the fire crackle. That woke the boy for a few seconds, but it only reminded him of how lonely and bored he was. He rested his cheek on the palm of his hand and turned the page listlessly. Perhaps the book hid some illustration that would lift his spirits.

A crash erupted from the adjoining room. The echo of wooden pieces hitting the floor spread through the stone walls like a tremor. The boy’s heart stopped for a moment. There shouldn’t have been anyone there… maybe the demon possessing his carrots had discovered where he slept.

He ran out from the desk, leaving the warmth of the hearth behind. The cold hallway air hit his face, heightening his fear. He approached his bedroom door and found it ajar; someone had entered.

He froze, caught between the impulse to flee and his curiosity. He held his breath, fearing a demon on the other side. The candlelight threw golden sparks across his hair, but inside he felt extinguished. Perhaps a little adventure would rekindle the spark.

With his hand still trembling, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open. His room was cold; the maidens hadn’t yet lit the fire, and the windows remained closed and shuttered. He heard the noise again and ventured further into the room.

At the far end, another boy played on the floor with wooden blocks. He tried to build a tower that kept collapsing again and again. He wore humble clothes, worn shoes; nothing about him spoke of nobility, except those enormous blue eyes, shining like gemstones framed by rags.

The boy noticed him and froze with a bucket in his hand. They stared into each other’s eyes, surprised, and suddenly all the wooden blocks fell to the floor with a loud crash.

—What are you doing?! Why are you using my toys?

The young noble ran into the room and checked the state of the wooden pieces. None had broken or chipped, and he sighed with relief. How dare a commoner touch his things?

—Who are you? What are you doing here?

The blue-eyed boy seemed to ignore him, or simply didn’t want to answer. He got up from the floor and examined the bookshelf, filled with books and objects he had never seen before. A small wooden piece caught his attention so much that he had to stand on tiptoe to reach it.

—I like it —he said, holding the piece in his hands.

—Don’t touch that!

The noble ran to take the small wooden duck he had grabbed without permission or care. He wiped off the dirt the commoner had left and returned it to its place. Before he knew it, the intruder was playing with the blocks again.

His patience ran out. He wasn’t used to sharing, much less being ignored. Those were his toys, and he wouldn’t let a dirt-stained commoner defile them.

—I told you not to touch them! —he approached angrily and tugged at the insolent boy’s hair— Go away before I call the guards.

But the boy wasn’t scared. He didn’t even scream. He took it as a game and started laughing. He was shorter than him, maybe the same age, but also stronger. With his little arms he pushed the young noble, who fell to the floor. That blow to the backside hurt more than he was willing to admit.

—Catch me if you can! —the intruder grabbed one of the wooden blocks and ran out of the room, actively inviting him to chase.

The noble got up and shook out his trousers; he wasn’t used to feeling the dirt on the floor. He saw the missing block and rage flooded his little heart. That commoner was going to pay for his insolence.

He went into the hallway and saw him running toward the Great Hall. His laughter bounced off the stones, muffled by the portraits of his family, as old as the walls themselves. What audacity! The young noble quickened his pace, eager to see him fall flat on his face.

—Come here! —he shouted, a mix of fury and amusement.

He lost sight of him when he entered the hall but came to a sudden halt as he crossed the threshold. His father and grandfather were talking with another man in the middle of the room. They didn’t notice him.

He advanced slowly and then saw him: the boy had taken refuge behind the guest’s legs like a coward. He was ready to catch him, but his father lifted him into his arms before he could do anything.

—Look who’s skipping studies! —he said gently, not reproachfully— Martin, let me introduce my son, Hans.

The adult bowed his head respectfully. With his enormous hand, he made the blue-eyed boy do the same. Hans smiled in satisfaction at seeing him humbled, though a trace of rebellion remained; this wasn’t over.

—What’s the matter, Hans? —asked his father, noticing the child’s guilty expression.

—He… he was playing with… my things —he barely whispered, ending with a pout in his voice.

A laugh from Lord Hynce echoed throughout the hall. All eyes turned to the boy hiding between Martin’s legs.

—Henry? —the man looked at him sternly. He was about to scold him until he saw the wooden block in his hand— Insolent creature! I’m sorry, my lord. —He leaned down and returned the piece to Hans, who buried his face against his father’s chest.

—Don’t worry, Martin. —Lord Hynce replied— Children’s business. Now, show me what you’ve brought.

Lord Hynce set Hans down and continued speaking with Martin. The children’s eyes met again, observing each other like cautious enemies… or perhaps future allies. Neither said a word; they stayed near their respective parents.

Hans, however, remained fascinated by the stranger. His rebellion and lack of respect, his eagerness to play… it was not something he was used to.

—Do you like it, Hans? —asked his grandfather.

—What?

He then realized the adults were showing him something, an object Martin had brought with him. They brought it to his eye level: it gleamed in the light, beautiful and delicate. Hans glanced at it for barely a moment; immediately his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the blue gleam watching him from beyond. Over and over again.

Hans woke with a start. He still saw Henry’s blue eyes shining in his memory, a recollection buried among so many others… Henry…

He stretched out his arm, but the bed was cold. He sat up and looked at the other bed, still pressed against his, ready for any guest with sufficient privilege to sleep in his presence. No one had disturbed it. Loneliness gripped his chest again like an invisible claw.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He missed the uncomfortable beds of taverns, the cold hard ground of the road, the freedom… Henry. He missed Henry.

Sleep had disturbed the fragile peace he had enjoyed in recent days. The lost memory kept resurfacing, but something made him shiver, something he had overlooked.

He got up and drew back the heavy velvet curtains himself. Light entered, but not strongly; the storm was fierce, and the gray clouds darkened the sky. He called for a servant to help him into his elegant green gambeson, though he could no longer tolerate the feeling.

During the past year, someone else had dressed and cared for him. No one could replace that person. No one.

Then, he went to find his chamberlain.

—The keys to the chamber, my lord? For what…?

—Just give them to me. I want to check a few things.

Hans waited upright, with the impatience of someone who could not conceive of a refusal. The old chamberlain, too tired to argue, searched through his belongings and finally handed him the bunch of keys.

—Thank you —said Hans as he took them, before leaving.

The old man watched him go and sank into his chair. The young Capon had never thanked him before.

Hans left the small Castle of Pirkstejn and headed for the Main Castle, where the chamber was located. The town bustled with activity; merchants sold the few remaining goods, while the taverns erupted in shouts and laughter.

Passersby recognized their lord and greeted him with respect. It was no longer like before, when he could easily detect forced smiles and false flattery. Something had changed, in him and in his title, and very soon nothing would be as it was.

He was about to enter one of the taverns to drown his sorrows in wine or beer, but he didn’t want to deal with a hangover the next day. Everything had to be perfect.

He continued up to the Castle. The rain had let up for a while, but the cold pierced him to the bone. The nettles in the gardens still held frost from the night, and the warmth of his breath condensed into a soft mist each time he exhaled.

Crossing the threshold of the Main Castle, the interior warmth burned his skin. He asked the guards not to announce him; he didn’t feel like speaking with his uncle.

Inside, servants scurried back and forth, nervous and busy. They were thoroughly cleaning the castle: tapestries, fireplaces, walls… They had retrieved the most valuable silver pieces and were polishing them carefully under the watchful eye of a guard. From the kitchen came an irresistible aroma: roasted venison, pheasants, sweets, freshly baked bread. Everything indicated that a grand feast was approaching.

Hans ignored all the commotion of the town and castle and went straight to the chamber. A heavy door with several locks blocked his way. He took out the keys given by the chamberlain, and the door yielded.

The stale air hit him abruptly, heavy with moisture and dust. He felt a pang of sadness that his family’s treasures and memories rotted in a room far from the world, losing the true value they might have had.

He crossed the room and stopped before a chest. The thick layer of dust had erased the bright color of its wood and the intricate carvings that had once adorned it. Hans opened the lock, and the hinges creaked in the silence and solemnity.

Everything remained in its place, just as the last time it had been used.

An elongated object lay inside the chest, wrapped in fine layers of linen. Hans drew back the cloth, and a silver glint illuminated the gloom.

He brought the candle closer, and the gold of the hilt shone as if it had never been buried. Hans took the sword in his hands and lifted it from its coffin.

The steel was still sharp, perfect. The blade, smooth and balanced, showed no scratch or fissure. The crossguard was adorned with gold filigree climbing like ivy, culminating in the Leipa coat of arms engraved on the pommel.

Hans felt a knot in his throat. He caressed the blade… and then saw it: a firmly marked “M,” the signature of the master swordsmith of Kuttenberg. What would Henry feel seeing another sword of his father’s?

He took the sword and carried it to his servants. He would polish the blade himself so it shone like in its prime… if someone had the patience to teach him how.

The night was colder than the previous one. Snowflakes began falling from the sky, and the windowpanes were wet with interior condensation. Hans woke abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. The day had come.

The adjacent bed was still cold and empty. A shiver ran up from his stomach, and he sighed deeply. He was far too nervous.

He smiled to himself, aware of how ridiculous it was. When had he felt anything like this? The first time he kissed Henry? No, that had been even more terrifying.

He ran his hand through his hair and sprang up. It wasn’t dawn yet, but he could no longer remain there even for a moment. On the untouched bed lay the clothes carefully chosen the day before.

Hans looked at them with a smile. The fur-lined cloak was new and exceptionally soft. The tunic in Leipa colors gleamed over the sober cloak, and Martin’s sword rested beside the bed. He would call no servant, not today.

He began preparing slowly. He changed the silk doublet for a wool one, less elegant but more suitable for the winter day. He put on a red velvet gown, perhaps his favorite color, and fastened it with a noble leather belt. Finally, he tied the sword to his waist and adjusted all the layers. He looked at his reflection in the fogged glass: handsome, elegant, and warm.

Light was beginning to peek through the window, and nervousness returned. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, drawing strength to continue.

—Audentes fortuna iuvat —he whispered, lamenting that he could share these words with no one.

He threw the cloak over his shoulders and left Pirkstejn with more fire in his heart than he had ever imagined.

He waited patiently, seated in one of the chairs of the Great Hall of the Main Castle. His uncle Hanush flitted among the guests, constantly refilling their wine glasses. Hans had not yet tasted alcohol, though perhaps it was what he needed to calm his anxiety.

Nobles and burghers from across the region had ridden there to witness the moment, though the invitation to a grand banquet may also have been decisive. The servants ran back and forth, trying to fulfill every request. Hans, meanwhile, struggled to control his breathing and the gagging fear in his throat.

Then the bells rang. Noon. The time had come.

Everyone seemed to understand the meaning of that solemn music. The commotion gradually subsided, becoming a murmur of gossip and whispers. Hanush approached his nephew.

—Up, Hans. It’s your moment. —he said, without his usual brusque tone.

—I’ve never done this, uncle. —confessed Hans, controlling the flush on his face.

—Come on, boy! You’ll have to get used to being the center of attention… —the relatives exchanged a glance, knowing their roles would soon change. —You’ve heard the bells, don’t keep people waiting.

He offered his hand, and Hans, hesitating for a moment, took it and stood. He ran his hand through his hair and over his lips. It was time.

He took a deep breath, adjusted his clothes, and stepped toward the central chair. A carpet ran to the door. The guests lined up on both sides, awaiting the great moment. All eyes were on Hans, the next lord of Rattay.

He gripped the sword tightly. He cleared his throat with a slight cough and smiled at the crowd.

—Let him pass. —he commanded.

The crowd leaned toward the door. It opened with a faint creak, and daylight streamed in like a sacred halo.

A figure entered with slow steps, dressed in a simple linen shirt, pure, almost virginal.

They were the center of all eyes, but their gaze sought only Hans, a wide smile on their lips. Upon reaching him, they knelt. In that gesture, they offered not only loyalty but their heart and soul.

Hans approached and placed his hand on the shoulder, making those bright blue eyes meet his. He felt the weight of the sword in his other hand, calling for the ceremony.

—Henry, son of Radzig Kobyla. Are you willing to receive the knighthood and live according to its laws and oaths?

Henry closed his eyes for the first time, feeling only the hand of his lord upon him.

—I am willing.

Chapter Text

The bells began to ring above his head. Each strike against the bronze pierced his mind like a dagger, right behind the eyes.

Henry pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to ease the pain. The night of vigil had been long, and his body was worn out. The bags under his eyes were slightly swollen and darkened; his knees seemed unwilling to obey his commands, and his mind wandered far from his body.

Only the shrill, scandalous peals of the bells seemed to awaken him completely. The time had finally come. All the pain and discomfort he felt seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by a tingling that began in his stomach.

He tried to stand, but his legs trembled. He took his sword from the altar, though his hands lacked strength. He tried to breathe, but his lungs resisted. He imagined the whole town gathered around, murmuring, whispering… the blacksmith’s son made knight… a bastard without a name… a scandal.

—Henry! It is time.

A familiar voice broke through his thoughts. Godwin was waiting at the church door, not to bless him, but to accompany him. Henry swallowed hard, gripped his sword, and staggered outside.

—Don’t fall now, son. —whispered Godwin, his voice almost paternal.

Henry clutched Godwin’s arm tightly. His breathing quickened, and nerves took hold of his body.

—I don’t know if I’m ready.

Godwin let out a laugh.

—Believe me, Henry, you are. —He released his arm and left him standing alone before the castle gate. —You were born for this. Now… go in. Do not hesitate.

The murmuring on the other side ceased suddenly. The door opened, and a wave of warmth struck Henry’s face. He had no idea how he was going to move forward; he felt on the verge of collapsing.

But he did. His legs obeyed with difficulty, clumsy and unsteady. Each step was a battle against the tremor running through his body. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, only to feel something holding him anchored to the ground. He advanced, slow but steady. One breath, then another… He did not want to look around, he could not. He had to count.

Until he lifted his gaze.

Hans was there, waiting for him. A faint but warm smile lit up his face, and that single curve of his lips was enough to shatter in an instant the entire wall of fear that had been suffocating him. The red velvet of his tunic wrapped him like a gentle fire, and the sheen of his carefully groomed hair seemed to challenge the dim glow of the candles. A sword Henry had never seen before hung from his belt. The true lord of Rattay.

The bustle of the hall faded away. The murmurs, the footsteps, even the solemnity of the rite turned into a distant echo. His nerves vanished as if they had never existed. His step grew lighter, and the sword no longer weighed so heavily. Their eyes met, saying far more than any fine words could ever have expressed.

He quickened his pace, eager to reach him. Because Hans was not only his lord, he was his world. He would protect him, fight for him… and if the time came, he would give his life for him without hesitation. He knelt before him, clutching his sword and feeling the rough wood of Hans’s ring against his finger.

Hans stepped closer and placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

—Henry, son of Radzig Kobyla. Are you willing to receive the order of knighthood and live according to its laws and vows?

Henry closed his eyes for the first time, feeling only the hand of his lord upon him.

—I am willing.

—Henry, —Hans continued. — today we present you before God, before these witnesses, and under the grace of His Majesty King Wenceslas. Do you promise, on your honor and faith, to defend the weak, remain loyal to your lord, protect the Church, and live in accordance with the righteousness of knighthood?

Henry raised his gaze, meeting Hans’s eyes. His voice rang firm, though heavy with emotion.

—I promise.

An elderly priest stepped forward with the book of prayers. He prayed briefly in Latin, reminding all that knighthood was both a sacred and worldly duty. Then he sprinkled Henry with holy water, a symbol of cleansing and commitment.

Hans drew a deep breath. He slowly took the sword from his belt, letting the steel gleam beneath the candlelight. The entire hall held its breath.

With solemn care, Hans laid the blade first upon Henry’s right shoulder.

—In the name of Almighty God… —he whispered, moving it to the left shoulder—, of Saint George, patron of knights…

He raised the sword and let it rest gently upon Henry’s head, as though closing an invisible circle.

—…and of all the saints who guide men of virtue. I, Hans Capon of Leipa, dub you knight.

A restless murmur rippled through the hall, like the whisper of gossip before a mass. Hans withdrew the sword and turned then to the servants, who brought forth the golden spurs. With steady hands, Hans bent to fasten them to Henry’s heels, completing the rite.

Before rising, still with a solemn expression, Hans leaned closer and placed a brief, firm, and assured kiss upon his cheek, just beside his eye. It was the kiss of a lord to his knight, the ritual sign of acceptance and brotherhood.

Perhaps that kiss lingered longer than strictly necessary, perhaps Henry did not want to draw his cheek away from Hans’s warm, soft lips, but no one dared question it.

When it was done, Hans straightened, extended his hand, and helped Henry to his feet.

—Rise, Sir Henry of Pirkstein —he said solemnly, pronouncing for the first time the title that erased every trace of the boy’s peasant past.

Henry stood tall, eyes glistening. The hall burst into restrained applause, greetings, and gestures of respect. Some nobles bowed discreetly; others muttered under their breath, unable to believe that the bastard son of a noble could receive such an honor. But Hans’s authority and the king’s favor silenced all resistance.

Then, as tradition dictated, Henry drew his father’s sword. He raised it to the heavens with both hands, offering it to God and to his lord.

—With it I shall serve in justice, in faith, and in loyalty —he proclaimed, his voice rising above the crowd.

Hans gazed at him intently, warmth swelling in his chest until it almost hurt. That instant was the promise of a future that would bind them forever, the culmination of a past they had shared, and the life that lay ahead of them.

If they had already bound themselves in the farthest corners of the world with the exchange of their rings, now they had done so before God.

Before closing the ceremony, Hans stretched out his hand to a servant and received a tabard in the colors of Leipa. He placed it over Henry’s fine linen shirt, fastened the belt with the sword once more, and regarded him for a moment. This was real; Henry was now his knight.

The priest blessed the oath, and the trumpets sounded from the high gallery. The banquet could begin.

But the boys barely heard anything. To them, the entire hall had vanished. Only a few light taps on Henry’s sword seemed to awaken him from that dream.

—My son! I am so proud of you! —Radzig embraced him with a restraint that barely hid his emotion.

—Father! —Henry shouted, more surprised than he had expected, having entered the hall so blindly that he did not know who was among the guests.

—Sir Henry of Pirkstein… I’ll have to get used to it. —Henry lowered his head with a smile, flushed with embarrassment. —Come, I want to introduce you to someone.

Henry had no choice. Hans tried to protest at not being able to speak a few private words, but they left him speechless. He decided to keep acting as if nothing were happening; after all, he would have Henry to himself for the rest of his life.

Radzig practically led him across the hall until Henry recognized Anna, his father’s wife. Slim and elegantly dressed, she carried a bundle in her arms. The young woman greeted Henry politely and smiled when he caressed his baby’s cheek.

—Your brother, Oldrich. —Radzig declared.

Henry had not seen Anna for a year, then pregnant with her first child. The boy was still small and fragile, but they had traveled all the way from Dvorce to witness the ceremony. Radzig finally had a legitimate heir, but the affection he felt for Henry would never change. Now, at last, Henry occupied the place he deserved in the world, and his father was proud of him, even though he could not carry his surname.

Henry took the baby in his arms, being very careful not to wake him. The little one stirred slightly at the unfamiliar scent, but continued sleeping.

—Oldrich… —he whispered.

He felt tenderness holding his brother, but also a hint of sadness. His family was growing and life followed its natural course, but he would not be there to see it. He had chosen to join Capon, far from the village of Dvorce, and a pang of longing pierced his heart.

The baby, as if sensing Henry’s unease, began to cry. Anna of Ulibice quickly took him and calmed him in her arms. A servant could have done it, but she liked to hold her son.

—I see you’ve already met another Kobyla! —spoke a deep voice, rough as dry firewood. —Congratulations, boy!

A strong slap on the back made him stagger.

—Sir Hanush… Thank you, sir. —Henry bowed as usual, clumsy but polite.

Hanush’s laugh came immediately.

—Look at him, Radzig… he still seems more comfortable with the hammer and anvil than with the title of knight.

—Hanush… leave the boy alone. Give him time to adjust to his new position. —Radzig reprimanded him.

—Sir Henry! —called another voice from behind. His name made him shiver.

Henry turned and saw a young man leaning on a wooden cane. Beside him, a noble helped him walk, supporting him by the arm.

—Sam? What are you doing here?!

He hugged his half-brother, surprised to see him upright and walking. None other than Jan of Liechtenstein was at his side, who nodded to greet him.

—He didn’t expect to see you here… nor you, Sir Jan.

—Do you think I would miss the chance to see my brother become a knight? Not for anything in the world!

He had a thousand questions to ask Sam, but he would have to wait for another moment.

—Congratulations, Sir Henry! —shouted another voice, an unknown man who came forward to bow before Henry.

Thus, one by one, all the guests demanded the protagonist’s attention. Henry greeted everyone who approached, some familiar and others not, but always with a friendly expression despite his fatigue.

The wine barrels had emptied quickly, the food from the table had vanished, and the murmurs had turned into a roaring party. Henry suddenly felt tired and overwhelmed. He rubbed his eyes to clear the haze beginning to cloud his vision and stepped away from the hall to breathe fresher air.

He closed the door behind him, and the relief was immediate. The noise and warmth of the crowd were muffled by the stone walls. Henry rested his forehead against them, breathing deeply and calmly, perhaps for the first time all day.

—At last, I found you.

That sharp, velvety voice was familiar. The only one he wished to hear at that moment.

—Hans… please forgive me, I’m a little tired.

—Forgive you? Please, Henry…

He approached him and, without warning, embraced him from behind. He sighed in his ear and relaxed his entire body, as if that hug were all he needed. Henry took Hans’s hands in his fingers and caressed them gently; then he turned, facing him directly.

—Sir Henry of Pirkstein… —Hans whispered with a very suggestive smile, drawing out the words for greater emphasis. —There is something I wanted to show you, but I haven’t had the chance…

—What is it, my lord? —interrupted Henry with the same smile.

Hans brushed his nose against Henry’s and let out a shy, silly little sound. He stepped back and drew the sword again with which he had dubbed him knight. He held it before him and offered it.

—Look at it carefully.

Henry took it in his hands and examined it with the skill of a blacksmith. The blade was perfectly balanced, the hilt exquisitely crafted, and the steel of the hour was… then he saw it. The “M”.

—Martin!

—Yes, Martin… —Hans retrieved the sword and returned it to its sheath. —This sword has knighted many in my family, but I had never stopped to think about who forged it. Then I remembered Martin bringing a gift to my father, and… a small, very mischievous boy.

Henry raised his eyes to the ceiling, trying to make sense of Hans’s words. Without realizing it, the noble took his fingers and placed a small object in his hand. Henry looked at it and smiled.

—I like it. What…?

When he finally remembered, the little toy almost fell from his hand. A small wooden duck, faded with age but still retaining its shape as on the first day, rested in his fingers. Henry studied it carefully. Incredibly, he still remembered that insignificant piece of wood.

—You! You were that fastidious noble…

—And you, the commoner who dared to steal a noble’s toys. —Hans replied, barely holding back laughter.

They looked each other in the eyes and began to laugh. They could not believe they had met so many years ago under such different circumstances. Henry remembered having hated that snobbish boy, but now seeing Hans so close, it didn’t even feel like a memory.

With his fingertips, he brushed Hans’s cheek. Hans blushed, perhaps from drinking too much wine, but took Henry’s hand and pressed it against his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying Henry’s touch.

—Sir Henry of Pirkstein… —he repeated over and over, barely audible.

—The night is still young, my lord. But I fear that after the vigil, the ceremony, and the banquet, I must retire to rest.

Henry withdrew his hand, fearful that the door might open at any moment and someone see them in a situation… too close for lord and knight. Besides, he genuinely wished to rest; he was very tired.

—Henry, you are now a knight, my knight. I cannot let you sleep near the pigsties and stables. —Hans stepped slightly away, pretending to leave. —As my knight, you have the honor and privilege of sleeping in my chambers, since a good knight must protect his lord. —he extended his hand, waiting for Henry to take it. —Will you… come with me?

Henry looked at Hans’s hand, then at the closed door that hid the clamor. There was no doubt; of course he would sleep with Hans to protect him. Although at that moment, despite all the fatigue, sleeping was the last thing on their minds.

—Let’s go. —he said, gripping Hans’s hand firmly.

Chapter Text

When he became aware that his body was resting in a bed more comfortable than usual, all the accumulated fatigue hit him like snow in a blizzard. His muscles responded slowly, as if his mind still needed another day of sleep.

—Sir? I’ve been asked to wake you, sir.

A high-pitched voice sounded next to his ear, but his eyes still struggled to focus. He rubbed them with the palms of his hands and, little by little, sat up. Sunlight poured through the window, illuminating tiny specks of dust suspended in the air.

Capon’s bed was freshly made, immaculate and clean. A young man stood there, staring at him.

—Who… who are you? —he finally managed to say.

—My name is Pavel. —he replied with a slight bow. —I’ve brought your new clothes, sir. If you allow me, I’ll dress you right away.

—What? Dress me? Why?

Henry’s mind still moved sluggishly. He didn’t notice Pavel’s look of astonishment at his question.

—Why? Well… I am your servant, sir. And you are… a knight. Lord Capon asked me to…

—Lord Capon? Where is he?

Pavel made an effort to remain polite. His orders were to wake and dress the knight, not to argue.

—Lord Capon is waiting for you in the dining hall for breakfast, sir. Now, if you’ll allow me…

The young man approached Henry and began dressing him with the precision of someone arranging a porcelain figure. Henry, still drowsy, offered no resistance. Pavel fastened the buttons of the new gambeson one by one, put on a pair of freshly knitted woolen hose, and adjusted the buckles and belt.

Henry ran his fingers over the fabric, amazed to see himself wrapped in such luxury. The silk shimmered under the light from the window, highlighting the golden thread that adorned the hilt. For a moment, he felt uncomfortable. He thought of all the daily chores he used to do, how his shirts wore out from use, stained with mud, sweat, or someone else’s blood. Every fold of that cloth seemed to remind him of what he had been, and what he might never be again.

Finally, Pavel brought over his sword and fastened it to the new belt. That felt just right. Henry felt complete with that piece of steel hanging at his side.

—That’s all, Pavel. Thank you.

The young man wasn’t finished yet: he still had to comb him, shave him… tidy him up. But the new knight stood and quickly left for the dining hall, leaving Pavel confused in the middle of the room. “Well, I don’t think this one will give me much trouble,” he thought.

His footsteps echoed along the corridor, the one he had walked countless times, invisible behind the façade of a peasant. Now he felt every eye fixed on him; even the paintings seemed to watch, looking far beyond the newly granted title.

The dining hall door creaked slightly as Henry pushed it open. The room was silent, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. At the table, Hans waited patiently while reading a book.

—Henry! —he smiled at him— Do you know what time it is? I was starving waiting for you… Come on, sit.

Henry obeyed and sat beside him. It was an entirely new experience for him: he had never eaten at the same table as Hans in his own castle. He usually rose, washed in the courtyard tub, and then went straight to the kitchen to eat freshly made porridge. Sometimes he could get a piece of cheese, even leftovers from the day before. Bozhena would tell him to eat more because he was wasting away, and after arguing with her, he would go off to do his chores.

A maid brought the food and served both young men: white wheat bread, butter, good beer, and a jug of wine if they preferred.

Henry felt a little overwhelmed when they also offered him a piece of fruit-filled tart. Hans didn’t seem to notice, as he began eating and drinking like a famished beast. What he had said was true.

—Well, my dear Henry… —he said with his mouth still full— Today is going to be a long day. Jan of Liechtenstein told me that Sam wanted to speak with you; he’ll be waiting at the tavern. Then, you’ll need to stop by the smithy to collect your new armor. Let Pavel help you put it on if you need, and tonight we’ll dine with Sir Radzig before he leaves.

The freshly baked bread sank like a stone into Henry’s stomach. He patted his chest a couple of times and washed it down with wine. It was exquisite.

—Hans… don’t you think this is too much?

—What do you mean? —he asked, confused.

Henry swallowed what remained in his mouth and sighed.

—Pavel. The new clothes. The armor… Everything, really.

—Bah! Don’t be ridiculous —Hans brushed it off while continuing his breakfast—. You are my knight, Henry. You bear my name. I cannot allow you to go about like a commoner… What would they say of me? That I am a poor lord who does not care for his own?

Henry smiled faintly. Despite his humble origins, he had known many knights, and none, or almost none, wore silk gambesons embroidered with gold thread.

—I see. It’s… reputation, isn’t it?

—Exactly. Reputation.

The two young men looked at each other and couldn’t help but smile. They knew each other well enough to understand that Hans had gone beyond his obligations, and that Henry pretended not to notice while accepting it. It was a mutual agreement without words, but perfectly clear to both.

They finished breakfast while Henry recounted his vigil night before the appointment. He finished before Hans and rose from the table, ready to head to the tavern.

—Henry. If you finish your tasks soon… I’ll be in my study all day.

Hans looked at him with hungry eyes, even though his stomach was full. It was a pity the boy already had a foot in the door; otherwise, he would have caressed his face in that instant.

—Understood, my lord. I’ll see what I can do.

Henry responded with the same suggestive, tempting look. They had been together all night, and yet he needed more. But duty awaited. Hans would have to wait.

He left Pirkstein Castle and headed to the merchant district tavern. As he walked away from the castle, Henry could still feel Hans’s gaze on his back. The cold air of Rattay brought him back to reality: he needed to focus on his tasks, not his lord’s smiles.

After crossing the cobblestone streets, he reached the tavern and asked for Samuel. The innkeeper quickly pointed him out: it wasn’t common to see a Jew with a cane around here.

Sam raised his hand to greet him from a corner of the tavern. Henry smiled instantly upon seeing him and hugged him before sitting down to drink.

—Sir Henry of Pirkstein! —he said, in a tone between joy and mockery— Who would have thought?

—Oh, hush, Sam! —Henry replied with a laugh.

They brought more beer, lighter and more bitter, rasping at the throat. Not as good as what they had served him at breakfast.

—How are things? And the leg?

—Could be worse, really. I’m still in the service of Ja… Sir Jan. —he cleared his throat correcting himself and took a sip of beer— We’re still in Vienna while my leg fully recovers.

—Vienna? —Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. —Do you know if the Inquisition…?

—Don’t worry about that, brother. They’re no longer after you; they left some time ago.

Henry sighed in relief. His experience with the Inquisition in Vienna had been far from pleasant. Knowing they were no longer pursuing him lifted a huge weight from his shoulders.

—And what will you do now? —Henry asked.

—Once I recover, we’ll travel to Prague. Tensions have risen in the city since a priest settled there to preach… different ideas. Sir Jan wants to stay aware of everything that might happen.

—I understand —Henry said, thinking he knew who he was talking about, but preferred to let it pass.

—Well. Why don’t you tell me how the rest of your journey went?

Henry asked for more beer. The journey to Constantinople had been long and difficult, and he still had much to tell his brother.

The hours had passed faster than expected in the tavern. Before he realized it, he should have already gone to the smithy to pick up Hans's order. He finished the last sip of his mug and finally bid Sam farewell.

—I hope to see you again soon —he said warmly, giving him a hug.

—Likewise, Sir Henry. Good luck!

Henry hurried to the smithy. The rhythmic sound of hammer on anvil brought back memories of a not-so-distant past. The master smith’s son greeted him as soon as he entered the courtyard.

—Sir Henry! We’ve been waiting for you. This way, please.

The young apprentice gave a slight bow and led him into the workshop. Henry sighed. Before, his presence and character commanded respect; now it seemed that his title spoke for him.

Otter began bringing all the pieces of his new armor: gauntlets, brigandine, greaves… It was complete. Everything had to be tried on before being sent to the castle, in case any piece needed adjustment.

Step by step, the apprentice fitted each part with meticulous care, ensuring everything aligned perfectly. It took longer than usual. Only a couple of shoulder pieces required slight adjustment at the forge; the rest fit him like a glove.

—How does it feel, sir?

—Very light —Henry replied with a smile.

He could move with surprising ease, despite the weight of the steel. A small Leipa shield was engraved on the chest plate, and Henry traced its relief carefully with his fingers. No, this was not excessive. He needed the best gear to protect his lord, and he would accept it without question.

—Perfect, Otter. Send it to the castle once the shoulders are adjusted.

—I will, Sir Henry.

Removing the armor seemed to take even longer. When they finally finished, the sun had set and the church bells signaled the hour of retreat.

—Kurwa! —muttered Henry. It was getting very late. He fastened the last buttons of the luxurious silk gambeson himself and ran toward the main castle.

Upon arrival, he took a few minutes to catch his breath and regain some color. His arrival was announced, and he entered the Great Hall, where Hans and the other nobles were waiting.

—Sir Henry has come to see us! —exclaimed Hanush, followed by a laugh.

Radzig smiled kindly, maintaining appearances. He knew Hanush would always see Henry as what he was: a bastard who had risen.

Everyone took their seats. Henry found himself trapped between his father and Hans, who had dangerously moved his chair close to his. When the murmur of the nobles grew loud enough, Hans whispered at his side:

—I spent all day in my study… bored. Where have you been?

—Uh… —Henry scratched the back of his neck, as he usually did when making excuses—. Sorry, I lost track of time.

Radzig leaned toward him. The firelight reflected off the cup he held firmly.

—Henry —he said in a calm but firm tone—, I am proud of what you have achieved. But I want you to start thinking beyond the sword. Your responsibilities go far beyond protecting your lord.

Henry nodded, though his mind wandered. He felt Hans shift his leg slightly against his, and a hand rest on his thigh, stroking gently and discreetly.

He tried to focus on his father, but the warmth on his face betrayed him.

—Yes, sir —he managed to reply, his voice tense.

Radzig raised an eyebrow.

—Is something the matter?

—No, nothing… —he said quickly, straightening up. Hans, beside him, feigned complete innocence while taking a small sip of wine.

Radzig continued, unaware of the subtle exchange.

—What I mean, son, is that the future is uncertain. I may have an heir now, —he added tenderly, looking at the baby in Lady Anna’s arms— but there will always be a place for you in Dvorce. Something greater awaits you, but you must learn to listen before acting.

Henry lowered his gaze to his plate, trying to hide the mix of nerves and embarrassment. Hans, satisfied with his small triumph, barely smiled and looked away, as if nothing had happened.

Radzig sighed, not fully understanding his son’s tension.

—I just want you to know that we expect great things from you.

Henry nodded again, wishing the dinner would end. He felt the crossed gazes: his father’s stern one, Hans’s mischievous one… the weight of both held him completely still.

The murmur of the nobles quieted as the dinner went on and the plates emptied slowly. Henry could barely focus on his food; every gesture, every subtle movement from Hans made him feel trapped between Radzig’s solemnity and the restless presence beside him.

—Henry, boy —shouted Hanush from the other end of the table—, don’t forget to breathe! Look at your son, Radzig! He’s so red in the face he looks like he’s going to lay an egg.

Laughter echoed through the hall. Henry swallowed with difficulty as Hans pressed the hand he had never removed a little tighter. The warmth in his cheeks betrayed him, but he didn’t dare meet Hans’s gaze directly.

Finally, dinner ended. Radzig rose with dignity, picking up his cup.

—Henry, come with me outside for a moment. I need us to walk and talk calmly.

The chance to escape gave him relief. As the servants cleared the last dishes, Hans gave him a barely perceptible, playful look. Henry returned a slight motion of his lips, holding back a smile, and followed his father to the door.

The cool night air greeted them in the courtyard. Far from the bustle and Hans’s teasing presence, Henry could finally focus fully on Radzig’s words, listening to every piece of advice on honor, responsibility, and the path he must forge for himself.

—Remember, son, —Radzig said in a more sorrowful tone than usual— there will always be a place for you in Dvorce.

—I know, father. But I have chosen my path.

Radzig smiled, eyes slightly moist.

—And I understand. I just want to know that… if anything were to happen to me, you will care for my family.

Henry felt his heart skip a beat. Radzig had been a fundamental pillar in his life, and he had never allowed himself to imagine what would happen if he…

—Is something wrong, father?

—Oh, my dear boy… nothing you need to worry about for now. I am the Royal Ataman and yet, Skalitz burned. I have friends, yes, but also enemies, and I fear my position inspires little sympathy. I just want us to be prepared.

Henry nodded, though worry still gripped him.

—You can rest easy, father. You are… the only family I have left. I will, of course, care for you.

Radzig’s tired eyes seemed to lighten. He patted Henry on the back to conclude the conversation and returned to the hall to finish the jugs of wine. Henry let the night air cool his face, trying to push aside the concern his father had left him with.

He gripped the sword hilt, his anchor to the earth, and returned to the castle. He had barely taken a few steps when a hand grabbed him forcefully and dragged him into a wardrobe.

—What the…?! —he started to say, but a hand covered his mouth.

—Come on, Henry… you’ve kept me waiting all day… —Hans whispered, a smile he could feel in the dark.

The hand holding him slid slowly down his back to rest boldly on his backside, pulling him closer before releasing his mouth.

—Hans! Are you crazy? Here…?

—Shh. —Hans hissed, placing the tip of his finger on Henry’s lips.

Hans began kissing his neck, hungry for what he had been craving for hours. Henry could not resist; he struggled to control his body, but his muscles betrayed him.

—There you are… my blacksmith boy. My… knight. —he whispered while rubbing his hand eagerly on Henry’s crotch.

Henry growled, though smiling. He took Hans’s face in his hands and kissed him fervently, unable to contain his feelings. He tasted the sweet, aromatic wine on Hans’s lips, as intense and enveloping as Hans himself.

The wine barrels in the great hall emptied, but the young lord and his new knight did not reappear all night.

Chapter Text

The fireplace had been cold for some time. The winter chill slipped through the cracks in the window, and a shiver ran down Henry’s back. He woke up with goosebumps and an urgent longing for something to wrap him in warmth.

Then he understood why he had woken up: he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the icy air cut into his skin like a blade. He curled up a little more, searching for the warmth Hans gave off beside him. The nobleman was sleeping deeply, clinging to him with his whole body, as if sleep had melted him into an embrace he didn’t want to leave.

Hans was still sound asleep; so much so that a drop of saliva had slipped from the corner of his lips and was making its way quickly down Henry’s chest. He smiled tenderly. It didn’t matter. There was something almost hypnotic in that calm breathing, in the peace of his sleeping face, untouched by the cold or the world.

The wind struck the window hard, and another wave of cold made Henry shiver again. He caressed Hans’s cheek with his fingers, barely touching him, and placed a kiss on his tousled hair. The familiar scent of lavender and rosemary surrounded him, a fragrance that always reminded him of home. Hans let out a soft moan, still asleep, protesting like a child afraid of losing his warmth.

—Hans… —Henry whispered —I need to cover myself…

He tried to move carefully, stretching his arm toward the blanket that had fallen to the floor. But Hans sensed it, even in his sleep, and held him tighter, pressing his face against Henry’s chest, seeking refuge in him. Henry sighed in resignation and couldn’t help but smile.

—I’ve spoiled you far too much... —he murmured, more to himself than to Hans.

He managed to slip away slowly, trying not to wake him. He covered himself with the blanket and went over to the fireplace. It only took a few minutes and a few well-placed embers for the fire to come alive again, filling the room with a trembling, amber, and warm light.

The warmth wrapped around him like a summer afternoon, while the sound of the wind against the window no longer bothered him. In fact, it soothed him. He turned to look at Hans: he was still asleep, half tangled in the sheets, with a peaceful smile on his lips. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, strong and firm like him.

The calm he felt wasn’t just from the fire, it came from everything he had, from what made him feel truly at home. He needed nothing more. Just this, the simplicity of the everyday, and someone who loved him by his side.

The wind struck the window again, and the fire stirred. It seemed to want to wake Henry, to hit him with reality like that shard of glass.

After winter would come the wedding…

And perhaps, he would lose everything that made him happy.

But for now, Henry slipped back beside him and pulled the blanket over them both. Hans moved slightly, seeking his chest, syncing his breathing with his. Henry held him close, savoring every second as if the world might end the next day.

The last letter rested on the desk with apparent innocence. Hans stared into nothingness while the fire behind him seemed to melt into the paper, making its words vanish into the air.

He blinked several times. The letter was still there, untouched, harmless. The message it carried was something he had waited years for, and for the first time, he didn’t want to believe it. Time was moving far too quickly. Winter had vanished as swiftly as a snowflake melting upon touching his skin.

He rose from his chair and adjusted his doublet. He wasn’t willing to repeat those words in his head for another minute. He went looking for Henry around the castle and found him brushing his mare in the courtyard. The sun was shining brightly, warming their faces and inviting them outside.

—Good day, Sir Hans! Is it time to go to the tavern already?

All of Hans’s winters had been dull. There was no hunting, and he usually spent the long afternoons in taverns, bathhouses, or simply reading in his room. Even though he was often surrounded by people in those places, he had always felt alone. Everything changed when he met Henry.

The last two winters had been the happiest of his life. Henry’s company healed his soul as if it had never been broken. Their afternoons in the taverns were lively, filled with deep conversations; and their nights in the bathhouses were as pleasant as they were warm.

Hans didn’t drink much anymore. He no longer needed to get drunk to try seducing a maiden or to pretend to enjoy the company of the girl scrubbing his back. He wanted to remember, the next day, how Henry had touched him under the water, or how he smiled whenever he beat him at dice in the tavern. All of that now seemed to be numbered days.

—Seems like a good day today, and it’s not so cold anymore. Why don’t we go hunting?

—Of course, my lord. I’ll prepare everything.

Hans didn’t protest. That was Pavel’s job, but Henry kept insisting on doing it himself. Maybe adapting to his new title wasn’t an issue, maybe Henry simply liked doing things for Hans, and for Hans alone.

They reached the campsite soon after. Once they had prepared their bows, they ventured into the forest along the paths they knew by heart, the ones leading to the old Cumans’ hideout. Hans had nearly lost his life there, but ironically, the place had become his favorite refuge.

No one else knew about it. It had never been discovered, and over time it turned into his secret spot. A perfect hideaway from his duties.

—You can start the fire, Henry. I’ll go get more wood; I don’t want to freeze to death tonight.

Henry silently watched Hans disappear into the undergrowth. A nobleman like him would never have volunteered to get his hands dirty, but the journey to Constantinople had changed him. It hadn’t only changed his view of life, it had made him mature.

Darkness slowly wrapped around them, and the warmth of the sun had vanished completely. They threw their cloaks over their shoulders and stoked the fire, which crackled lazily as the freshly caught hare roasted slowly on the spit.

Hans was too quiet, lost in his own thoughts.

—Is something wrong? —Henry asked with a trace of concern.

—No, it’s just… —his gaze drifted back into the flames— …the final confirmation has arrived.

—Oh…

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, but Henry wasn’t willing to let that news ruin their evening.

—So… will it happen on the wedding day?

—Two days after. They want to leave a proper time to… “consummate the marriage.”

Hans tore out a few blades of grass with his bare fingers, his face tense and his words stuck in his throat.

—Is that what troubles you? Consummating the marriage or finally becoming Lord of Rattay?

Hans let out a short, joyless laugh.

—Both, I suppose. —He stared at the grass he had pulled and let it fall through his hands.— When that happens… everything will change. I’ll be the one who must decide for everyone, even for those who disagree with me.

Henry watched him closely, recognizing in his voice a tremor that came from something deeper than duty. There was something else, something he preferred not to say.

—You’ve been preparing for this all your life —he said at last, trying to sound firm.

Hans smiled bitterly.

—And what about the things that can’t be taught, Henry? —he whispered—. What about what you feel when duty separates you from the one you love most?

Henry turned his gaze toward the fire. The smoke rose straight up, almost motionless.

He wanted to say something; a joke, perhaps, or a word that might ease that shared ache, but he couldn’t find anything that didn’t sound like a lie.

—You won’t lose everything —he murmured at last—. I’ll still be there… even if it’s from the shadows. I’m a knight of Pirkstein, remember?

Hans lifted his gaze toward him. He caressed his face, and the steel ring seemed to press into both their skins.

—I’m not willing to stop looking at you the way I do… to stop laughing with you, or to ride without thinking of decorum. —he paused, drawing a deep breath— And I fear that night, because I no longer remember the warmth of a woman, when my body longs for the one it truly loves.

A smell of burning interrupted the moment. The hare’s legs were beginning to char, and Henry moved quickly to turn it.

As he placed the spit back, Henry searched for words to lift Hans’s spirits.

—The fearless Sir Hans afraid of a night with a fair maiden? Unbelievable! —Hans remained silent, his head lowered.— You could always turn off the light and think of me.

—Henry! —the scolding didn’t sound all that serious, since Hans was already showing signs of a smile, so Henry went on.

—It’s a good idea! Just imagine me grabbing your backside when you…

—Henry… —a laugh broke through his feigned anger— You’re shameless! Insolent! You…!

Henry suddenly lunged toward Hans, kissing his neck, leaving him only able to mutter words too faint to rise.

—I’m your friend, your companion… and now we’ve added “knight” to the list. In short… I think I’m the love of your life. —Hans was smiling at last, heartened.— Whatever happens, I’ll always be with you.

A log split apart, sending hundreds of glowing sparks into the air. In that fleeting moment of light, the only thing the forest could see was the pure love they felt for each other.

The carriage moved slowly along the dirt road. Spring had already settled in the songs of the birds and in the sprouting flowers. The grass gleamed under the sunlight; peasants worked in the fields, and bees buzzed among the bushes.

—Look at all those horses! —shouted Marketa, leaning out the back of the carriage.

The horse farm buzzed with life and activity as the animals grazed and ran. The maiden’s dark eyes sparkled as if she had never seen anything so beautiful. The sense of freedom it radiated contrasted sharply with the knot forming in her lady’s chest.

—Sit down, Marketa. —Jitka spoke calmly but firmly—. If you fall, I won’t come down to pick you up.

—I’m sorry, my lady. —The young girl blushed and returned to her seat, awkwardly smoothing her dress.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the rattle of the carriage. Marketa watched her out of the corner of her eye: she knew those restless fingers that played with the nails, the gaze fixed on the horizon, the expression hiding fear beneath a layer of dignity, all too well.

—Don’t worry, my lady. I’m sure young Capon is strong and handsome. I’ve heard he loves to court women with gifts and…

—That’s precisely what worries me. —Jitka’s voice was calm but tense— A man who gives gifts to all… usually keeps little love for just one.

Marketa frowned. Sometimes she didn’t understand her lady. If she were lucky enough to marry a handsome and rich nobleman, she wouldn’t spend the journey sighing.

—God… —she whispered—. We’re almost there.

The horse farm was far behind now, and the flags of Leipa could be seen waving on the horizon. A massive wall rose imposingly on the heights, challenging all who dared to gaze at it. That fortress, bathed in the midday sun, seemed more like a prison than a home.

She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the pang in her stomach. Her destiny awaited her among those stones.

Her duty.

The guards gave the order to halt. The carriage stopped, and the horses’ hooves echoed sharply against the cobblestones of the courtyard. Marketa stepped down first, leaping and landing gracefully. She smiled as if it were all a celebration.

Jitka, however, remained still. The servant’s hand waited in the air, and for a moment she thought not to take it. Only when she heard her name echoing between the walls did she force herself to move.

—Lady Jitka of Kundstad —announced the herald.

The world seemed to pause. Jitka descended carefully, feeling the dust kicked up by the wheels cling to her skin. Marketa hurried to straighten her dress and stood behind her, so radiant it seemed she glowed.

Through the golden haze of sunlight and dust, Jitka finally saw her fiancé. Hans Capon awaited her on the castle steps, young, well-dressed, with a composure bordering on discomfort. He was handsome, yes, even more than she had been told. But something in his gaze unsettled her. There was no trace of the arrogant spark she imagined in a libertine, only a cold, awkward distance that separated them.

—My lady —he said, trying to sound firm—, welcome to Rattay. You look beautiful this spring morning.

The compliment seemed sincere, though expressed awkwardly and with effort. Jitka bowed in return to greet him and accepted his words.

—I thank you for your kindness, my lord. The journey has been long. My maid and I wish to rest.

—Of course. Everything is ready in the Main Castle. —He made a slight bow and added— We shall meet at dinner.

And, without another word, he turned to a young squire following him. —Sir Henry!

The young man bowed and departed with his squire, saying no more. Jitka watched him leave. Not a glance back. Not a smile. Only that rigid posture, far too tense for someone about to celebrate his engagement.

Later, in the chambers, Marketa could hardly contain her excitement. She threw herself onto the bed with a contagious laugh, hugging a cushion.

—Did you see his bodyguard? My God, so handsome! —she laughed, covering her face with her hands— Do you think he noticed me? I couldn’t stop staring into his eyes! And Lord Capon…! Do you think…?

Jitka smiled faintly, not responding. The maiden continued chattering, but her voice faded in her lady’s thoughts.

—Yes… —she said at last—. Lord Capon is handsome.

—The rumors were true! —Marketa exclaimed excitedly.

Jitka frowned at that moment. She looked up at the ceiling, playing with the lace on her sleeve.

—If it’s true that Lord Capon is a lover of women and wine… why didn’t he look at me or breathe his scent my way?

There was something in Capon’s gestures, in his sparse words, and in the façade he tried to build to protect himself. There was no emotion in his eyes, only sadness. A sadness she knew all too well.

Perhaps life with Hans Capon would not be the prison she had so feared.

Chapter Text

The red liquid slowly slid across the wooden table, seeping through the grain and the few cracks that dotted its surface. After hours of soaking into the wood, the drops began to find their way out little by little, just on the other side of the board.

The weight of the drop did the rest. It detached from the table and fell right onto Henry’s forehead.

The young man blinked in confusion and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. His chair was overturned, and he was on the floor. He pushed himself up a little, and then felt the sting of a hangover pulsing in his forehead.

—Oh shit…

He pressed his hands against his head, trying to ease the pressure he felt, but it was useless. His legs wobbled as he stood, and the whole world seemed to sway at that very moment. He gripped the table tightly to keep from falling and breathed in the sweet aroma of the spilled wine.

The wood was damp, and the sight of the alcohol brought up a wave of nausea that he barely managed to suppress. His eyes followed the pool of wine until he found the overturned jug, still near Hans’s hand.

The noble had collapsed over the table and was snoring louder than Henry had ever heard before. He was sitting in an awkward position, and his legs threatened to lose balance and fall to the floor, just as Henry’s had.

—Ha… —he coughed, his throat too dry to say the name at first. —Hans…

He shook him a little, and Hans groaned, still deep in sleep.

—Hans! Damn it…

It was already getting dark. The faint light from the window cast long, dull shadows across the floor and over their bodies. Henry had to wake Hans up somehow; he couldn’t be late for his dinner.

He let go of the table in a bold display of confidence and staggered toward Hans. Grabbing the back of his chair firmly, he simply pulled it backward.

Hans’s backside hit the floor like dead weight, and the noble opened his eyes out of pure reflex. Still dazed, he raised a hand to his forehead.

—Heavens… my head… Henry? —he paused, looking around. —Henry?!

—Behind you, idiot.

Hans turned and sighed in relief. He had feared being left to his fate after the afternoon’s wine feast. Henry offered him his hand and helped him up, though once standing, both of them swayed unsteadily.

—I think we overdid it. —muttered Henry.

Hans looked around. They had emptied an entire barrel between the two of them, barely eating a thing. The table was stained, as was the floor, and their clothes.

—Well, I needed that. I couldn’t face that dinner with Jik… Jitka? while sober.

—I hope at least you can pronounce YOUR name! —mocked Henry.

Hans gave him a playful shove on the shoulder and laughed with him.

—God, that was good wine… But now I need someone to throw a bucket of cold water over me.

Henry nodded, and the two of them left the hall in search of Pavel.

Once recovered and cleaned up, they headed on foot toward the upper castle. The sun had already set, and the last lights were fading behind the walls of Rattay. The air was mild, and the birds were still singing, celebrating that spring had finally arrived.

Stretching their legs did them good. The hangover still lingered in their heads, but they could now lift one foot after the other without risk of falling. They passed by the tavern where they had fought for the first time, and Henry immediately noticed Hans’s gaze, sad, filled with nostalgia.

—I just remembered… This morning I received a letter from Dvorce.

—Really? What did it say? —Hans kept glancing at the tavern tables, torn between heading to the castle or drinking himself senseless again.

—Lady Anna is with child again.

That seemed to catch Hans’s attention. He watched Henry share the news with the excitement of someone about to have a new brother, a new member of the family.

—I’m happy for them, really. And for you, of course!

Henry smiled and placed a hand on Hans’s back, steering him away from the tavern and back onto the road.

—Come on, Hans… Your time will come. Getting to know your future wife better isn’t a bad thing. I…

—You’ll still be there. I know, Henry. —Hans interrupted softly, his voice tinged with melancholy.

The two young men looked at each other deeply, with affection, with a passion that had to remain hidden from the eyes of others. Down in Pirkstein Castle they could enjoy a measure of freedom and surrender to their desires, but the weight of duty was too great to ignore.

They continued along the road in silence, walking toward the upper castle, sharing a brief touch of hands that was anything but accidental.

Jitka had been waiting at the table for quite a while. Someone had announced Lord Capon’s arrival, and she had been escorted to the Great Hall. Behind her, her maid Marketa was happily exploring the room, fascinated by the decorated furniture and the softness of the curtains.

Jitka sighed deeply, filled with envy for her friend’s freedom. She had to sit properly and quietly, waiting for her future husband, while Marketa… simply explored the world.

At last, the door opened. The wood struck the wall lightly, as if it had been pushed with more force and anger than necessary.

Hans Capon entered the hall, though his bearing was not as firm or elegant as it had been that morning. Behind him, like an inseparable shadow, his bodyguard followed closely, never taking his eyes off him. Jitka could feel Marketa’s smile behind her.

—My lady. —Capon greeted her with a bow. —I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.

Jitka stood and returned the greeting in kind. —Not at all, my lord. Patience is a virtue I have not yet been forced to call upon tonight.

That comment seemed to please Hans, who smiled faintly. He sat across from her, and the servants soon arrived with exquisite dishes; hunting season had returned, and the venison was delicious.

When they placed the wine jug on the table, Hans grabbed it quickly and poured carelessly into his cup. He drank it all in one gulp and poured himself another.

Jitka recognized that half-closed, half-lost look. Red, irritated eyes and the relief that came only with more wine. Her future husband had come to dinner hungover, which fit perfectly with the rumors she had heard about him.

—Tell me, my lord… how did you spend your afternoon? —she asked with the feigned innocence of someone trying to keep the conversation alive.

—Nothing of interest. I didn’t leave Pirkstein. I had… —he paused to think carefully about his words—... matters to attend to.

Suspicion crossed Hans’s mind, and he studied Jitka carefully. She seemed proper and innocent, but he knew he had to be cautious not to be deceived.

—And you, my lady? Have you been shown around the castle?

—Of course. —she said, elegantly lifting a piece of venison to her mouth. —We’ve walked through all the corridors, the courtyard… and a small garden in the back. There’s a beautiful rosebush planted there.

Hans didn’t answer, though he held back a laugh she couldn’t understand. Behind him, Sir Henry did the same. Both young men still remembered the bouquet Henry had once brought to the baths, just before taking a punch to the face.

That was the only moment she saw the noble smile.

They continued eating in silence, despite all of Jitka’s efforts to spark conversation. Hans remained distant, with sorrow weighing on his shoulders and a gaze full of melancholy. Jitka wasn’t going to give up so easily; if she was to share her life with this man, she wanted to know what she was facing.

—Surely my maid and your bodyguard must be hungry. We should dismiss them, and thus enjoy some privacy.

She could swear Hans nearly choked on his wine.

—A lady of your standing alone with a nobleman? Would that be proper? —he asked between coughs.

—You are my future husband. Who would dare say otherwise?

The answer lingered in the air like a dry leaf before settling on the ground. Hans wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not, but he was certainly intrigued.

—Sir Henry, could you escort Marketa to the kitchen? —he ordered, settling back in his chair.

—Of course, my lord.

The bodyguard gestured with his hand, and the young maid approached quickly, hypnotized by those bright blue eyes. Marketa left with a smile on her lips, oblivious to her lady’s verbal duel.

The sound of the closing door echoed through the hall, giving way to a silence much like that before a hunt begins. Jitka took the wine jug and refilled both her cup and Capon’s with apparent politeness.

—You are a riddle to me, Lord Capon. I’ve heard so many things about you… that now, seeing you before me, I can’t quite tell what to expect from this marriage.

Jitka extended her hand and offered the filled cup to Hans. He accepted it cautiously.

—Let me guess… I’m a lover of women and drink? —he downed the wine in a single gulp and gestured for her to pour again. —That’s no secret. Your uncle was warned about the kind of man I am, but I suppose my title weighs more than my desires.

The last word echoed in Jitka’s mind. Its meaning seemed to go far beyond mere earthly pleasure. She refilled his cup and handed it back to him.

—So my future is to wait in your bed while you father a bastard somewhere nearby? I understand we don’t have to love each other, but…

—You fear I’ll remain the same libertine I was when we were betrothed. —Hans interrupted, his eyes fixed on the cup. —You may rest easy, my lady.

Jitka opened her mouth, but no words came out. The wine seemed to have loosened Capon’s tongue, and without her asking, he went on speaking about marriage.

—Nobles don’t marry for love —he said, slowly turning the cup between his fingers—, but that doesn’t mean I won’t respect you. We have our duties. Rattay will need an heir sooner or later...

Jitka watched him in silence. The candlelight cast shadows across his face, and for the first time, she thought she saw weariness in those usually arrogant eyes.

—And yet —he went on, with a smile that never reached his eyes— I can’t help but think that love, when it comes, changes everything. It makes you forget what you must do, who you are… even what people expect of you.

—Love? —she repeated, feigning surprise—. Does my lord speak of love?

—Only in theory, of course. A man may feel... sympathy. Or admiration. For someone who reminds him what it means to be free. —He let out a short, forced laugh—. But such things are foolish. Duty doesn’t understand them.

—It doesn’t sound like foolishness to me. —said Jitka softly— It sounds as though you know what love is.

Capon went still, staring into the wine as if its depths might hold an answer.

—And you, my lady? You speak with such certainty... —Jitka’s sudden silence lit a spark in Hans’s mind. —Is that it, then? Are you troubled by this marriage because you love another man?

Jitka swallowed slowly, licking her lips. Her face had turned serious and unreadable, except for the single tear that escaped her eyes.

—I have known love, yes. But you could never make me more miserable than I already am, for the man I loved… is dead.

—Oh…

Capon looked at her intently, and at last he understood that sadness. What would a world without Henry be like? Even the thought of it made his whole body tremble.

—At the defense of Kuttenberg… —Jitka continued, trying to build the trust she sought with Hans. —the son of Sir Kunzlin Ruthard… —she cleared the knot in her throat—, Ventza.

Without looking at Hans, the young woman finished her cup and stared thoughtfully at the jug. That name brought back too many memories, most of them beautiful, but shadowed by the sorrow of knowing they would never return.

—I have known someone... —Hans murmured, taking the jug and this time pouring for them both—. Someone brave, stubborn as a mule, but with the most loyal heart I’ve ever seen. Not the kind of person one expects to meet in a banquet hall. Nor among nobles.

The silence between them grew heavy. Jitka looked at him with a mix of confusion and something close to compassion. The half-smile Hans couldn’t suppress told her more than all his words.

—That person... does he feel the same for you? —she finally asked.

Capon smiled with melancholy.

—Let’s just say... it simply cannot be. I must fulfill my duties, though there isn’t a moment I don’t think of him. —Realizing his mistake, he lifted his gaze, alarmed, but Jitka did not look away.

She took a moment to answer, but when she did, her voice was firm.

—You know what love is, Lord Capon. And you’re not speaking of a lady.

Hans’s heart pounded hard in his chest. His face burned redder than the fire in the room, and he tensed, lips parted, searching for a reply that wouldn’t come. Finally, he set the cup down on the table. Capon looked at her then, and for a moment, his usual arrogance seemed to vanish completely.

—Don’t tell anyone. —he whispered.

—I don’t make a habit of betraying secrets, my lord. —she replied— I only hope... for the same courtesy in return.

Hans stopped holding his breath, relieved for a moment. They both drank from their cups at the same time, eyes locked, sharing a silent understanding of trust and respect.

Chapter Text

The joints in his hand begged for a break, swollen and sore. Hans had never found himself needing to write so much, for so long. He set the quill aside and rubbed his fingers hard, forcing them to respond. He shook his hand in the air several times and, when he felt it fresh again, he continued.

This was responsibility. What he had always wanted… or perhaps not. That it was his by right didn’t mean he wished to bear the weight and the consequences that came with it. But he would.

The candlelight cast uneven shadows on the walls, and his eyelids grew heavy all of a sudden. The last dinner with Jitka had gone on for too long, and those documents couldn’t wait until the next day.

Only one or two sheets were left to sign. Hans sighed, relieved but exhausted, and called out for Pavel, raising his voice. The servant didn’t take long to appear.

—My lord? —asked the young man, bowing deeply.

—Inform Sir Henry. It’s time to return to Pirkstein.

Pavel stayed silent for a moment, weighing his words before replying. Hans noticed the doubt in his eyes, but waited for him to speak.

—My lord… Sir Henry isn’t in the Upper Castle. He left hours ago.

—Oh… —he cleared his throat, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice— Of course. Then prepare Atenon, I won’t take long to finish here.

Pavel bowed again and left, closing the door behind him. A thick silence filled the room, as if the disappointment had sunk deeper than Hans wanted to admit. “Henry left without warning.” “Perhaps I’ve spent too much time with Jitka…”

Capon’s mind was boiling, full of thoughts that came and went, sowing doubts and regrets.

For the past two weeks he had been very busy. He tried to treat Jitka with courtesy and make her feel comfortable in her new home, while also spending long hours learning his new responsibilities. He had already spilled rivers of ink, and he still wasn’t officially the lord of those lands.

There wasn’t much left for that. In two days they would celebrate the wedding, and afterward they would take advantage of the nobles’ presence to declare his coming of age and finally grant him Rattay. A pang of nervousness rose from his stomach at the thought.

He knew he should pay more attention to Henry, but with the wedding preparations it was impossible. Henry had his own duties as a knight, but… he simply missed him. Then he had an idea.

He rubbed his fingers harder, determined to finish the remaining signatures as quickly as possible. As soon as he was done, he hurried out of the castle and galloped on Atenon toward Pirkstein.

Tomorrow would be his last day as a single man, and a good hunt to bid farewell seemed not only fitting, but tempting. He was already picturing himself and Henry at the old Cuman camp when he crossed the threshold of Pirkstein. He ran to his room with a smile to tell him as soon as possible.

The disappointment struck him hard. The room was cold and dark. The hearth hadn’t been lit all day, and both beds remained untouched. No one had slept there. Where was Henry?

He had the urge to ask the guards, to search the entire town until he found him… but that wouldn’t be proper. Henry was free to go wherever he pleased; he was a knight of Pirkstein. Still, that didn’t reassure him in the slightest.

He dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing and his thoughts. Not knowing anything about Henry hurt far more than seeing him behind him while he courted a lady.

The rooster crowed and light began to filter through Capon’s window. He was so tired that, despite his worry, he had fallen asleep. He woke with a start, his heart pounding, and the first thing he did was look at Henry’s bed. It was still untouched.

He felt his chest tighten and a sharp pain throb in his head. Too many thoughts, too many worries… and the day had barely begun. It seemed the hunting trip would have to wait… until after the wedding.

He spent the rest of the day at the Upper Castle: receiving guests, signing more documents, trying on the wedding suit again because the tailor was worried about a few poorly sewn buttons. More guests. Jitka required his presence to introduce him to some distant relatives.

And after all those obligations came the silence of the night.

He hadn’t seen Henry all day. He hadn’t shown up at any of the meals nor come by to greet him. Hans didn’t want to ask too many questions, but his mind was about to burst.

He looked at the goblet he held between his fingers and drank the wine eagerly; at least the pressure in his forehead eased a little. He didn’t want to arrive at his wedding drunk… but he wouldn’t do it completely sober either.

—Pavel!

The servant appeared after only a few moments. He entered Lord Capon’s chamber and found him exhausted, trying to cool his face with the chill of the cup.

—Do you need anything, my lord?

Capon didn’t answer, he just pressed the cup harder against his skin.

—Have you seen Sir Henry? Do you know where he is? —he tried to sound firm, but couldn’t hide the fear in his voice.

—Sir Henry? —Pavel paused before replying— Yes, I saw him this afternoon at the Merchants’ Tavern, when I went to order more beer for the guests.

Hans sighed, relieved though still worried. At least he was safe and sound.

—Of course… I… I’d forgotten —he murmured, trying to make light of it.

—I could send someone to fetch him, my lord. Though when I left the tavern, Sir Henry had already gone. He seemed… tired.

Hans looked at him firmly. A servant like Pavel shouldn’t take such liberties when speaking of a knight. The young man understood at once, apologized, and hurried out, breath quickened.

Hans refilled his cup of wine. His last night of freedom was not turning out as he had imagined. Henry wasn’t there, but he could never get him out of his mind. He drank it in one gulp and filled the cup again.

—I told you you should rest, boy! —Hanush’s voice drove into his head like a burning nail.

The tailor was adjusting Hans’s suit, giving the final stitches to make it perfect. Hanush had come to greet his nephew before seeing him at the altar and had found a weary face. A maid was trying to lessen Capon’s dark circles with cold water, while Pavel untangled his hair to leave it shiny and well-combed.

Hans bent slightly and a wave of nausea threatened to make him vomit. Hanush didn’t miss the chance to mock him.

—Is that from nerves or from the hangover?

—Maybe… a bit of both —he said, swallowing hard so as not to ruin the suit.

—Ah, Hans… —Hanush let out a laugh and patted him on the back— You won’t be the first or the last to vomit before the altar!

Hans turned, pale and ghostly, and looked at him. Hanush softened his tone:

—Don’t worry, nephew. I’m proud of you. You’ve kept your word.

Hans couldn’t remember ever hearing that voice so gentle, so sincere, filled with genuine pride. That attitude completely disarmed him.

—Tha… thank you, uncle —he murmured uncertainly.

Hanush smiled again, this time without mockery, and gave him another pat on the back, lighter and warmer, before leaving.

The servants finished dressing Hans and left him alone, this time with no wine within reach. He sighed, not for the woman he was about to marry, but for the man who wasn’t there with him.

Was Henry feeling so bad that he couldn’t be by his side? Perhaps the whole thing had been a dreadful idea, maybe they should have stayed in Constantinople forever… but it was too late for impossible fantasies.

The bells were already ringing at the church of Rattay. Hans entered first, as tradition dictated, and waited at the altar for his bride. While the crowd stood watching the door, Hans searched the room for the only person he truly wanted to see at that moment.

He needed his presence, needed… his support. He felt empty without Henry, as if his absence left him standing at the edge of a cliff with no one to hold his hand.

He couldn’t see Henry anywhere.

At the door appeared a figure dressed in white, slowly making her way toward the altar. Jitka looked beautiful, escorted by her father’s arm, but Hans had no eyes for her. He kept searching desperately for the source of all his worries.

—Don’t forget to breathe —murmured a voice behind him.

Hans’s heart stopped for an instant. That deep, calming voice was enough to make his world stop spinning.

—Where were you? —he whispered, without taking his eyes off the bride.

There was no answer for a few seconds. Hans felt a knot in his stomach, imagining a reply he wouldn’t like, waiting for a confession that could shatter his heart.

—Sorry I’m late. I was… busy.

Hans couldn’t hold back any longer. He turned his head and found Henry’s blue eyes fixed on him. He looked tired, but more handsome than ever.

Henry was dressed according to his rank: elegant, without excess. He had chosen a turquoise velvet doublet, fitted to his body and trimmed with subtle golden edges. The garment brought out the color of his eyes and gave him a distinguished air without being ostentatious.

Henry’s innocent, sincere smile contrasted with Hans’s worry and nervousness.

—Come on, you can do this… I’ll be right here.

—Really? You truly don’t… mind?

A clearing of the throat caught his attention. Jitka had reached his side, and her father was looking at him in astonishment. Hans swallowed hard and smiled as best he could. He took the bride’s hand and spoke a few words before making his vow before God.

—Without a doubt, you are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen, my lady.

Jitka smiled, but said nothing. She could hear the hesitation in his voice, the tremor in his lips… she feared Hans might say no at that very moment, especially when he spoke again.

—I… I don’t… —his voice faltered.

—My lord is so taken by her beauty that he forgets his words. Sir Hans?

Henry interrupted that strange moment, though Jitka was ultimately grateful for it. Hans smiled again, straightened up, and regained his composure. The wedding continued.

After an endless hour of readings and ceremonial gestures, the priest raised his hands and spoke the final words of the rite. The guests’ voices blended into a reverent murmur, broken only by the echo of “amen.” Hans held Jitka’s gaze for an instant that felt eternal.

—I do —both bride and groom replied.

Then, when the priest declared their union before God, they both bowed, sealing the commitment with a gesture more solemn than passionate.

As they stepped into the courtyard, the cool air carried murmurs of laughter, toasts, and cheers. The banquet tables stretched beneath flowered canopies, and the aroma of roasted meat mixed with the scent of freshly opened wine.

Hanush was the first to raise his voice.

—At last! I thought we’d finish the wedding with the priest asleep —he said, laughing as he clinked his cup against Henry’s— I hope dinner doesn’t take as long as the vows.

Godwin arrived next, lively and with a jug in hand.

—Long live the newlyweds! —he shouted, taking a drink that made several guests laugh— And may the wine never run out, for love without wine doesn’t last a night.

The music of the lute filled the courtyard with a calm rhythm. Glasses clinked, and the murmur of guests grew with each toast. Jitka chatted cheerfully with Marketa, while Hans, now more relaxed, shared a cup with Hanush and Henry.

When the time came for gifts, the servants carried chests and decorated baskets to a nearby table: fabrics, silver goblets, a reliquary… all among applause and polite exclamations.

Then Henry stood. His smile turned serious and nervous, and for the first time, his voice trembled.

—My lord… —he said, as Pavel approached carrying an object wrapped in linen— I couldn’t find a suitable gift for your wedding. Everything seemed unworthy, so… I decided to make one myself.

Hans looked at him curiously. Henry removed the cloth and, under the torchlight, the metal shone with a bluish gleam. It was a sword. The most beautiful sword Hans had ever seen.

The pommel was simple, making the set topaz stand out even more. The quillons were intricately engraved with birds and arrows, with the crest of Leipa at the center. The blade bore three engraved words, and Hans didn’t need to read them to know what they said.

—I haven’t had any rest these days, but I achieved perfect balance and craftsmanship —Henry continued— I wanted to present it to you today, with my own hand.

Hans took the weapon carefully, feeling its perfect weight and the polish of the steel. He lifted it slightly, testing its balance, and nodded with a smile that mixed surprise and emotion. There were the words, shining beneath the torches, proclaiming what bound them together: “Audentes Fortuna Iuvat.”

—You… forged this sword? —Henry nodded with a smile, and then the full weight of realization fell on Hans. —So that’s why… you disappeared these past days? —he asked softly, only for Henry.

—Of course. You didn’t think I’d miss your wedding, did you?

Hans couldn’t thank him with words; he couldn’t find the right ones. He lowered the sword and, regardless of what people might think, embraced his bodyguard tightly.

A sincere round of applause filled the courtyard. Godwin, raising his mug, quickly added:

—And may he never have to use it, except to carve the roast!

Laughter lightened the moment, but Hans didn’t take his eyes off the sword, or off Henry. He was hopelessly in love with that innocent smile, with those eyes that looked at him with the same hidden passion as his own. He needed him. He missed him.

He had almost forgotten he was at his own wedding.

The celebration slowly faded, like a bonfire consuming its last embers. The musicians lowered their tone, laughter softened, and wine began to weigh on many eyes. Jitka had said goodbye to the closest guests and went up the stairs amid murmurs and dimming lights.

In her chamber, the candles burned with a steady flame. The air smelled of dried flowers and sweet wine, and on the bed lay a white veil, the same one she had worn during the ceremony. She sat by the dressing table and waited, listening to the distant echoes of the banquet.

When the door opened, the sound startled her. Hans entered, swaying slightly but keeping his balance. His doublet was unbuttoned, and he wore a timid smile, overcome by wine and fatigue.

—Forgive the delay —he murmured, closing the door behind him.

Jitka rose slowly. She watched as he set the sword aside—the gift from Henry—which still gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

—I thought you wouldn’t come —she said, doubt in her voice.

Hans laughed softly.

—I wouldn’t dare.

The silence that followed was long, tense, but not uncomfortable. She took a step toward him, then another, until she was close enough to notice the scent of wine and metal. He lowered his gaze, knowing that this woman was waiting for him, yet unable to stop thinking of someone else.

Jitka raised a hand and gently brushed his face.

—My lord... —she whispered.

Hans took her hand and held it between his. This was his moment, the true responsibility, to seal this union forever. He could do it. He had to.

After a deep sigh, he raised his eyes. Jitka was truly beautiful, especially under the soft candlelight. Bare, with only the intimacy of a linen shift and her hair loose and wild.

Jitka returned his gaze, pleading for a caress more affectionate than the superficiality of obligation. Capon's blond hair shimmered with every flicker of the subtle flames, and his face remained serious and remorseful.

Despite everything, Hans was a very handsome young man. If he hadn't confessed what he truly felt… she might have succumbed to his charms and waited for something that would never have been hers.

Then Jitka kissed him. Hans's lips were full and tasted of wine, but they did not resist. They parted a little more, brushing with the tip of his tongue… until it was too much for him and he pulled away.

He brought his hands to his forehead, confused. He hadn't drunk enough wine to forget who he was supposed to be kissing. Jitka would not give up so easily. She had already shared her intimacy with Ventza; she knew what men liked.

She approached gently, without pressure. She began to kiss Hans's neck softly, and he let her. Little by little, the kisses grew in intensity; she raised her left hand and began to caress his face tenderly, carefully.

Hans's breathing quickened and Jitka took another step. With her other hand, she brushed Hans's crotch over his clothes. At first he seemed uncomfortable, subtly pulling away from Jitka's touch, but little by little she managed to arouse him. Love wasn't needed for that.

—Jitka, I…

—Now, let's take advantage. —she quickly cut off Capon's sentence.

Jitka continued kissing and caressing, while simultaneously guiding Capon towards the edge of the bed. When he felt the mattress, she released Hans and lay on top of him, pulling up her shirt and exposing what all men desired.

Hans swallowed and finished unbuttoning his doublet. He was aroused and drunk, and his naked wife wanted to give herself to him. How hard could it be?

He took off his shirt and lowered his linen braies. He smiled and approached his wife with a determined step.

Chapter Text

The steam clung to his skin as if it needed him. The sweet scents of the herbs spread through the air, and a gentle hand rubbed his back. Henry closed his eyes, absorbed in his thoughts, letting his body surrender to relaxation.

The wet wood creaked every time someone opened a door, letting the morning chill seep through the cracks. A shiver ran down his spine. This place was not as he remembered it.

—Finish quickly, Zdena. I have matters to attend to —he ordered with an authoritative yet kind voice.

The young woman leaned forward a little more and rubbed lower down his back.

—What is it, Sir Henry? Do you no longer enjoy our services?

Zdena’s familiarity now felt cold and distant, as if the whole place were only an echo of a past he had long left behind. Far behind. Unease settled in his gut, and he felt the urge to flee as soon as possible.

—I must go.

Henry hurriedly stepped out of the bath, leaving the young woman surprised, the cloth still in her hand. He covered himself with a linen sheet and left wet footprints on the wooden floor as he searched for his clothes. He paid and departed.

What had promised to be a relaxing bath, a place where he once used to unwind and find amusement, had become a whirlpool of memories and discomforts. Everything had changed too much to ever return to that place.

He mounted his horse and rode up the steep hill toward Rattay’s western gate. The shadows still darkened the road, but a lone rider leaving the city caught his attention. It was far too early for travelers to be leaving the taverns or for merchants to open their stalls. Stranger still was the sight of a velvet dress beneath the folds of a heavy cloak.

—Lady Jitka? —Henry asked when he saw the unmistakable face of the young woman.

—Sir Henry —she replied, greeting him before continuing on her way. Henry could not make sense of it.

—My lady! —he turned his mare and followed her—. Where are you going? Alone and without escort?

—That is none of your concern. Good day.

The young woman kept riding, unmoved by Henry’s questions. The knight looked toward the distant city gates but already knew what he had to do. He could not allow his lady to travel the roads alone. They could be dangerous.

He spurred Birdie and soon caught up with her.

—Allow me to accompany you, my lady.

The fair-eyed woman looked at him with mild irritation but accepted his company. After all, he was her husband’s bodyguard and closest friend. If she could trust anyone, it was Henry.

—Very well, as you wish. But I am bound for the monastery of Sassau. Do you not have other duties to attend to?

—Your safety is more important than anything else, Lady Jitka. —Henry’s voice was steady and confident, which made the young woman smile. —But… why travel alone?

—I wished for discretion. Though I suppose that hardly matters now, does it?

Before they realized it, the horses had crossed the river and were heading west. Henry’s kindness and innocence made Jitka lower her guard, opening herself to speak more freely than she had in a long time.

They spent long hours talking until they finally reached the monastery. At the threshold, the young woman paused, awed by the grandeur of the building. She dismounted with Henry’s help, and together they approached the entrance.

—I wish to speak with the abbot. I desire to make a donation and to pray before the Madonna of Sassau. —Jitka commanded the porter, who hurried away. —Will you not accompany me, Sir Henry?

The young man was already stepping away from the door when Jitka called after him. He raised his hand and scratched the back of his neck, as he always did when trying to hide his answer.

—I do not think… I would be welcome, my lady.

Jitka did not ask further. She seemed eager to enter and pray as soon as possible. When the porter returned, she followed him inside, and Henry remained to tend to the horses.

He spent hours wandering around the monastery’s courtyard, still under construction. He greeted Nicodemus, who was practicing alchemy in the annex. He helped him treat a worker’s broken foot, crushed by a falling stone, and then offered a small donation to aid the other convalescents.

He felt the porter’s gaze on his neck each time their eyes met, as if the man were trying to recall where he had seen that knight before. Henry was about to take the horses into the woods for a walk when Lady Jitka finally emerged from the monastery’s main gate.

Despite everything, Henry did not approach. He did not want to be recognized by the monks bidding the lady farewell, so he simply waited. Lady Jitka approached, her face completely transformed.

She radiated peace and serenity, as if freed from a burden she had carried since Rattay. She took a deep breath and smiled at the sky, gazing at the bright blue stretching into the horizon.

—Let us walk a little, Sir Henry. I have spent so many hours praying that I feel the need to stretch my legs.

Henry nodded. He took the reins of both horses and led them behind him while Jitka walked ahead. They left through the western gate to follow the riverbank and avoid the village, crossing briefly through a forest that shielded them from the sun.

—I would like to ask… why have you come all the way to Sassau? Rattay has an excellent chapel for prayer —Henry asked cautiously.

Jitka smiled. She was not used to a knight asking her so many questions, nor showing genuine concern for her.

—Indeed, the city’s chapel is excellent. But I came to pray for myself. I needed someone who could understand me… I needed to kneel before the Madonna.

—Is there… some trouble, my lady?

The young knight’s face showed sincere concern. Jitka was surprised by such interest, but before she could answer, Henry halted. He released the reins and stepped in front of her, his hand firmly gripping the hilt of his sword. Then he saw them.

Just around the bend, a man stood waiting. The road narrowed there, flanked by slopes covered in trees and brush. As soon as the stranger spotted them, two more men stepped onto the road, axes in hand.

Jitka gasped and instinctively moved behind Henry, who stood still, unmoving before the threat.

—What do you want? Step aside from my path at once! —shouted Henry, keeping his distance.

The man smiled. He and his companions began to approach slowly, cautiously, prowling.

—Good sir… a few coins so we might eat something? —he said, and seeing that Henry did not yield an inch, his tone hardened— The lady’s dress looks expensive. Surely you can spare a few coins… and those horses. Unless, of course, you wish for harm to come to you.

Henry glanced to the sides. Two of the men were moving to surround them. They wore no armor and did not look like soldiers: simple bandits with carpenters’ axes. The one blocking the road looked a bit stronger, but his weapon was just as crude.

—I am Sir Henry of Pirkstein —he declared, drawing his sword, which gleamed in the shifting light of the forest—. If you wish to live, I advise you to leave this road at once.

—But there are three of us! How do you plan to defend yourself? —laughed the bandit.

He sounded confident, but the others hesitated and trembled. Henry could smell their fear.

—Do you wish to find out? —he said in a calm, steady voice, more threatening than any shout.

He gripped his sword tightly and took a defensive stance. The bandit no longer laughed; one of his men fled into the trees, and the other shook like a dog in the rain.

—Get him!

Henry barely broke a sweat. The bandit on the right rushed at him, screaming, though full of doubt. He was not worth staining his blade with blood. Henry sidestepped the attack, shoved him off balance, and dropped him with a single punch.

The leader hesitated for a moment but trusted his strength and size. He did not think it through. He received a slash to the shoulder from the sword’s tip and dropped his axe to the ground. The knight hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Then the other bandit regained consciousness. Staggering, he lunged at Henry’s back and brought him down. The leader recovered his weapon with his other hand and rushed to finish him off, but when he arrived, he found only screams and pain.

The woman trembled behind the horses as Henry ran his sword through the attacker. The man had not even managed to tear it from Henry’s grasp. The knight stood, pushed his hair back, and looked at the leader with a fury that made him tremble. There was nothing left to do.

The bandit threw down his weapon and fled into the forest, licking his wounds.

Henry panted, angry. For a moment, they had caught him off guard, and now the bandit’s blood stained his sword and trousers. He brushed the dust from his clothes and approached the trembling Jitka, who remained curled on the ground. He offered her his hand to calm her.

—It’s over now, my lady. Rise, we must return to Rattay.

Jitka looked up at Henry from the ground. He bore not a single scratch, nor even fear. Despite the assault and the still-warm corpse on the road, she felt safe. Henry radiated an aura of protection and calm that made her take his hand and stand.

She looked into his eyes, into those two precious stones that shone among dust and grime. Then, as if the Madonna herself had revealed the truth before her, everything became clear.

—You… —Jitka murmured.

—M-me? My lady? —confusion spread across Henry’s face.

Jitka smiled. Of course it was him. The protector. Capon’s bodyguard, the friend who had accompanied him to Constantinople, the knight of Pirkstein… Hans had only ever loved one person, and now Jitka knew exactly who that was.

The spring sun was barely peeking between the towers of Rattay Castle when the church bells began to toll in a deep and steady rhythm. In the great hall, where stone walls still held the echo of ancient disputes and oaths, a long table had been laid, covered with linen tapestries and bearing the Capon crest.

The moment had come.

The nobles invited to the wedding only two days before were now the witnesses who confirmed Hans’s maturity to receive his inheritance. Henry was there too, of course, accompanying Lady Jitka. Hans smiled to himself; this moment was real, and it was perfect.

At one end, beneath the tall windows, stood Sir Hanush, upright despite the weight of years. He wore his golden velvet doublet and at his belt hung the ceremonial sword he had carried for nearly two decades as regent of Rattay. Beside him, a royal scribe held in his hands a parchment sealed with bright red wax: the emblem of King Wenceslaus IV.

Before them, standing and holding his breath, waited Hans Capon. His dark blue mantle barely concealed the tension in his hands. His face revealed the blend of pride and fear of one about to receive more than he had ever borne.

The local nobles, chaplains, and several men-at-arms filled the hall, all watching attentively. The scribe stepped forward and unrolled the parchment.

—In the name of Wenceslaus, fourth of his name, by the grace of God King of Bohemia, Moravia, and Lusatia, the right of inheritance is hereby confirmed for the noble Hans Capon over the lands, forests, and villages from Rattay to Sassau, by virtue of the legitimate blood of his lineage and the faithful service of his house.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Hanush turned toward the young man. He smiled, not with his usual irony or wit, but with a sincere smile full of pride.

—For many years I have kept these lands in your name, Hans. I have ruled them as if they were my own, knowing they were not. Today, at last, they return to you. Remember: you do not inherit a fortune, but a burden. The stones of this castle will not obey you, but the men who live under its shadow will keep their loyalty, if you repay it in kind.

He extended his hand. In it, he held a small clod of earth, still damp from the inner courtyard garden.

—Receive Rattay —said Hanush— and with it, the responsibility every noble bears engraved in his soul.

Hans took it with both hands, bowing his head.

The scribe sealed the act with hot wax, pressing the stag emblem onto the document. An attendant placed the castle keys on the table, which Hanush slid toward his nephew with a solemn gesture.

The priest stepped forward, sprinkled holy water over the parchment, and murmured in Latin.

—Benedictus sit dominus terrae huius.

The scribe signed the final record. Henry, standing among the men-at-arms, crossed his arms and watched in silence. The solemnity of the moment was drawing to a close; the air was thick with the urge to applaud and celebrate the new lord of Rattay.

Hans knelt briefly before the side altar, then turned to all and spoke with a steadier voice than he expected.

—By the blood of my parents and by the will of God, I swear to serve with justice those who depend on me, to keep the peace of Rattay, and to preserve my house’s name free from dishonor.

The oath echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling of the hall.

Hanush nodded slowly, and in his eyes shone a gleam of pride.

The roar of applause filled the hall with jubilation. The men-at-arms struck the floor with their spears, the ladies clapped with gloved hands, and the echo of the crowd rebounded against the castle walls. For the first time, the name Hans Capon sounded not like that of an irresponsible heir, but of a rightful lord.

The musicians, two lutes and a small drum, began to play a light, cheerful melody that brought warmth back into the air.

The servants opened the side doors of the hall and entered with overflowing trays: roasted lamb, rye bread, soft cheese, Moravian wine, and thick beer served in copper mugs.

The tables filled, and soon the air was saturated with the smell of meat and spices. Laughter replaced the solemn murmurs. Hans, still overwhelmed, could barely respond to the flood of congratulations: nobles shaking his hand, soldiers bowing their heads, peasants asking for his blessing.

As evening fell, the banquet waned. Torches now burned on the walls, and the musicians played a softer, more melancholic tune.

Tired but smiling, Hans withdrew from the bustle to one of the castle’s side terraces. From there, the valley of Rattay stretched beneath the golden sky of dusk.

Henry found him there, leaning on the balustrade, staring at the horizon.

—I thought you would have stayed inside, celebrating —said Henry, approaching.

Hans smiled without looking at him.

—I did. But wine tastes different once you understand what each barrel costs.

Henry crossed his arms.

—You’re becoming sensible.

—Believe me —Hans replied, half-joking— it frightens me.

—Then… perhaps we should go back to being more foolish. —Henry stepped closer to Hans and kissed him on the lips.

The terrace was secluded, far from all the noise. No one would disturb them there, and both knew it. Hans could not resist such a reckless provocation. He pulled Henry closer, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him back with passion.

Henry did not stop; it seemed he would have taken him right there, if not for Hans pulling away suddenly.

—What is it? —asked Henry, worried.

Hans looked confused. His body burned, the swelling in his groin would not subside, and every inch of his skin yearned for Henry’s touch. He knew what he wanted, but he also knew he could not control it.

—Henry… I have taken a wife, and now I am Lord of Rattay. Do you know… do you know what that means?

Henry hesitated for a moment.

—That… you have more power? More responsibilities? —Hans did not answer. —Or perhaps… you don’t want us to stay together?

—No! I never said that! —he replied angrily.

His reaction said more than he could with words. He stepped back slowly from Henry, forcing a distance he did not want to create.

—I need… Rattay needs… an heir.

Henry did not understand his point. They had spoken of this before, Henry did not mind him lying with his wife, and Hans had accepted it. Nothing had changed since then. Henry stepped closer, closing the distance, to show he still stood by him.

—No! Don’t… don’t come closer. That’s the problem, Henry. When you’re near… I can’t…

Hans was nearly curled in on himself. He couldn’t even meet Henry’s eyes, his posture almost pitiful. Then Henry understood everything: he was the problem.

—You can’t… perform with your wife? —Hans nodded timidly, still hugging himself. —But with me, you can…

—You distract me, Henry. I can’t stop thinking about you. My body longs for you, and when I’m with Jitka… it just… doesn’t happen. I can’t. —he murmured, his voice breaking.

Silence settled between them, so heavy it drowned out the distant murmur of the feast. Desire, for the first time, stood in conflict with duty. He did not want to part from Hans; neither of them did… but they both knew they had to.

—I… I understand —said Henry, scratching the back of his neck and trying to keep his voice from cracking—. I’ll leave for a while. I’ll go to Dvorce with my father. Yes, —he affirmed to himself— I’ll care for my brothers and help with the farm. And… and…

Hans reached out and clasped Henry’s hand tightly. His heart was on the verge of breaking; he couldn’t let him go, not like this. He remembered Suchdol, when Henry’s departure had meant likely death, and there, in the warmth of that night, he reached for the truth.

—Only… until Jitka… —Hans tried to speak, but silent tears wet his cheeks.

—I know. This isn’t goodbye, Hans. I promised I’d stand by you, and I will, even if it means I have to stay away.

He gently lifted Hans’s face with his fingertips and kissed his lips slowly. The tears stopped, replaced by a faint smile.

—Don’t take too long to get your wife with child, Capon. I’ll be waiting for you.

Henry’s crude words made Hans laugh. He nodded, sure of what he had to do… and of who would be waiting for him.

—I promise. Rattay will have an heir soon enough.

Darkness enveloped them, and only the stars bore witness as two young men parted with more than words.

Chapter Text

The smell of cheap wine reached his nostrils when Godwin opened his wineskin and drank carelessly. Henry watched the drops run down his chin, leaving faint pinkish trails among the hairs of his poorly trimmed beard.

Godwin knew Henry was watching him, without much admiration.

—Thanks again for coming with me, boy. —Henry grunted in acknowledgment. —You didn’t have to stop here on your way to Dvorce.

—Well, —Henry replied with a puff —I’ve got all the time in the world…

A glimmer of sadness flickered in Henry’s eyes, but Godwin paid it no mind. He had always sensed something strange between those two young men, but he had never known, nor wanted to know, why.

The sound of a church bell echoed in the distance, breaking through all his thoughts.

The sun was already sinking behind the rooftops when the walls of Prague came into view, rising like a crown of stone above the Moldau. Henry pulled on the reins to stop Birdie, admiring for a moment the sheer magnitude of the city. He had never seen anything like it.

Everything seemed larger, livelier, louder than he had imagined. There was no comparison with Kuttenberg, not even with Vienna; this city was the greatest he had ever seen.

Beside him, Father Godwin made the sign of the cross, more out of habit than devotion.

—Ah, Prague… the city where everyone wants to talk and no one wants to listen —he murmured with a crooked smile.

The air smelled of smoke, manure, and freshly made stew. In the distance came the cries of market vendors, the bells of churches calling for vespers, and the murmur of hundreds of voices mingling with the sound of the river.

They approached the gate of Judith Bridge, where a line of travelers waited their turn to enter. Merchants with carts full of sacks, peasants with baskets of vegetables, monks, soldiers, pilgrims, even a few nobles on horseback. The guards inspected each cart patiently, resigned to their dull and repetitive task.

When their turn came, a soldier dressed in red with a dented helmet stepped in front of them, resting his spear on the ground.

—Names —he said curtly.

—Father Godwin of Uzhitz —replied the priest, lowering his hood slightly. —And this is Henry, of Skalitz —he added, pointing to the young man beside him.

The guard eyed them warily, pausing for a moment at the sword hanging from Henry’s belt.

—Reason for your visit to Prague?

—Religious matters. —Godwin said with a calm smile.

The guard raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

—And him? —he asked, pointing at Henry.

—My escort —the old priest answered without hesitation.

Henry bit his tongue to keep from replying, recognizing the lies in Godwin’s words, but nodded obediently.

The soldier looked them over one last time, then consulted another guard who was writing names on a wooden board.

—Where will you be staying?

Godwin scratched his beard.

—At the house of the Prior of Saint Clement. If there’s no room… —he glanced at Henry with a grin— there’s always Saint Wenceslas’s tavern.

The guard nodded slowly, still holding his spear.

—Very well. Don’t cause trouble. And remember: after curfew, no one goes in or out without a pass.

—Of course, good man —said Godwin, making a blessing gesture the soldier didn’t bother to return.

The gates opened with a screech of iron and wood. They entered the city as the evening light turned the cobblestones to gold.

Henry sighed in relief. He had feared the Praguers might be wary of someone from Pirkstein and had reverted to his old name, yet he was still surprised by Godwin’s attitude.

—I seem to recall you no longer have a parish, Godwin. Still blessing people, are you?

—And you still call me Father. —Henry didn’t answer —Yes… I may be a shepherd without a flock, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am.

They moved slowly along the cobbled street, dodging carts full of sacks and apprentices running with buckets of water. The houses were tall, with painted façades and narrow windows; over the doors hung guild symbols and painted signs: a jug, a fish, a quill, a cross.

Godwin stopped at a corner where a wooden sign showed Saint Wenceslas holding a banner. Beneath it, a rain-eaten board read: Hospoda svatého Václava.

—Here we are —he said, satisfied—. The best beer east of the Moldau, and a roof that doesn’t fall on your head… most of the time.

Henry smiled, unsure if he was joking. —And what about the Prior’s house…?

—I wouldn’t go near that place for all the silver in Bohemia. —he said, frowning. —They don’t serve beer in those houses.

Then he pushed the door open and went inside.

A rush of voices and the smell of hot food greeted them. Some men were playing dice in a corner, others argued heatedly about preachers and bishops, and at the back, a woman served bread and beer with a sweat-covered face.

Henry leaned back on a chair, watching the faces around him: merchants, students, soldiers without insignia. In one corner, a young man argued passionately about indulgences, and someone silenced him with a thump on the table.

Another thump, this one from a beer mug on his own table, startled him. The man pulled down his hood, revealing his face, and it took Henry a few seconds to recognize him.

—Samuel? —he asked, still confused.

—Brother!

Sam set the mug on the table and pulled Henry into an embrace. Henry was still speechless at the unexpected reunion. Sam greeted Godwin with a nod, then sat down.

—But… Sam… What are you doing here? How did you find us?

—It’s my job. —he said calmly, taking a sip of his beer —You know who I serve, Henry. He asked me to come find you.

Henry looked at Godwin and sighed. He had barely sat down to rest and was already being summoned. The old priest hardly reacted, stole Sam’s mug, and began drinking from it, knowing he was no longer needed in that conversation.

—Duty calls, Sir Henry. The only thing calling me is the bottom of this mug.

—All right… —Henry stood with his brother and bid Godwin farewell —Sorry to leave like this, I…

—Don’t worry, boy. Coming this far with me was more than enough. Go with God!

Sam tugged him out of the tavern. He was still limping slightly, but could now move freely, and Henry was glad for him. He had suffered much to keep that leg, and it was almost a miracle he had succeeded.

—How’s young Capon? —he asked as they walked through the cobbled alleys toward the upper part of the city. —I hear he’s inherited Rattay.

Henry smiled, recalling the pride he had felt at that moment.

—That’s right.

—You’re his... knight… aren’t you? Why did you come to Prague with Godwin? —I thought knowing such things was your job.

Samuel grew serious for a second, then burst out laughing. Henry laughed with him.

—Nothing special, —Henry continued— I have business in Dvorce and decided to accompany Godwin here.

—Dvorce? That far? —Henry nodded —I wouldn’t stray so far from Jan, not if I were his knight.

Henry felt slightly offended and judged. Sam had no right to speak for him or his situation.

—Sir Hans needs an heir now more than ever. I couldn’t stay that close…

—There are ways to stay close without being seen. —he said quietly.

The remark fell like a stone in the silence of the street. Henry turned slowly. The light of a torch reflected the tension on his face.

—What do you mean by that?

—Nothing. —Samuel replied, raising his hands in peace— Just thinking out loud.

But the unease had already settled between them. Henry kept walking without a word, and Samuel, realizing he had crossed an invisible line, lowered his voice.

—I’m sorry, brother. I didn’t mean to offend you. We all carry something, and sometimes it shows too much.

Henry nodded without looking at him. The air between them grew heavy, full of things neither wished to say.

The sound of their steps on the cobblestones was the only thing breaking the silence. As they climbed higher through the streets, the city changed. The houses were taller and cleaner, the windows lit with candles in bronze frames, and the bustle of the market faded behind them, replaced by the discreet murmur of the nocturnal nobility.

The smell of fine wine and roasted meat replaced that of beer and manure. On one corner, a troubadour tuned his lute, and two well-dressed men whispered about the latest court news. Samuel stopped before a heavy oak door, flanked by burning lanterns.

—Here we are. —Samuel said with a discreet smile— Liechtenstein awaits you inside.

—Wait, you’re not coming in with me?

Sam shook his head.

—No, brother… my place is in the shadows. Yours is in the light, in this case, the light of the tavern.

Henry understood, though deep down he knew his place was in the same dark corner as Samuel’s. He never felt comfortable strutting among nobles as if he were one of them, and perhaps he never would.

—All right then. I hope to see you again soon, Sam.

—Likewise, Henry.

They embraced warmly, and Samuel vanished into the darkness of the alleys. Henry took a breath and went inside.

When nobles drank and let loose in taverns, they were not so different from commoners. The noise wasn’t as deafening as in Saint Wenceslas’s, but people laughed and drank in equal measure while music played in the background.

A young man rose from a chair and waved at Henry from afar, beckoning him to come closer.

—Sir Henry of Pirkstein! —he shouted with a grin.

—Sir Jan… —Henry replied politely, still sober enough to resist his cheer.

The young Liechtenstein smiled and offered Henry a chair. He ordered more wine and, while they waited, introduced his companions.

—Sir Peter of Sternberk, I believe you’ve never met Sir Henry.

The man shook his head. He wasn’t much older than Henry, only a few years perhaps, but experience weighed on his shoulders. The lines around his eyes made him seem older and wiser, and his beard appeared to hide a scar around his neck.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Henry decided to ask why he had been summoned instead of resting with Godwin.

—Sir Jan… I appreciate your company, but I don’t quite understand why you called for me.

—Does one need a reason to drink among friends? The lord of Konopiště seemed bored, and I promised him an entertaining evening. Come, Sir Henry! Let’s drink and play dice!

Henry could tell from Jan’s eyes that something deeper lay beneath, something he either couldn’t or wouldn’t say yet. He decided to play along, after all, he owed him more than one favor.

Peter turned out to be a man of good humor despite his roughness. It took another three rounds of wine before his feet began to dance on their own. He jumped up and grabbed the serving girl, dancing, or rather swaying, with her to the rhythm of the music.

—Will you tell me now? —Henry whispered —What’s going on?

—Ah, my dear innocent Henry… Truly, nothing’s going on. —he grabbed the jug and refilled the young man’s cup— But as Rattay’s representative, I thought it important for you to make new friends.

Jan refilled his own cup as well and raised it high, waiting for a toast.

—To… new friends!

Henry hesitated at first, but then raised his cup and toasted with Jan. That was how things were, how nobles moved: through conspiracies and unspoken words. Trust and loyalty were Henry’s virtues, and he would hold to them to the end.

—To new friends! —he smiled, lifting his cup, letting the music and wine carry him away.

—May we never lack them… —Jan murmured, with a somber tone he tried to drown in all the wine he could.

Chapter Text

The birds sang tirelessly among the trees in the courtyard, but that didn’t stop her eyelids from growing heavy with exhaustion. The maids were playing with little Oldrich, yet even so, the baby was crying out for his mother. A mother whose second pregnancy was not treating her kindly.

Another wave of nausea twisted her stomach, forcing her to lean to one side. She didn’t quite vomit, but it was enough to leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

She sighed, drained. The child began to cry. The maids called for her attention. Her head throbbed as if it were about to burst.

Then she heard the metallic sound of the front door. The guards were opening it.

It didn’t matter; her eyes hurt so much she could barely keep them open. She resigned herself to remain sitting there, trying to go unnoticed before yet another unexpected visit. She needed sleep, she needed rest. The sounds pierced through her, and she felt the urge to cover her ears and vanish from the world.

But then little Oldrich stopped crying. The maids fell silent, and a deep, warm and kind voice filled the air, cradling the place like a melody. She opened her eyes.

A young man with large blue eyes was holding her son. They were both laughing, as if they had known each other all their lives. The baby touched his face with curiosity, and the young man answered with tenderness, with those simple words that only a kind soul can offer a child.

—Hen… Henry? —she asked into the air, squinting.

—My lady. —He placed the child in the arms of a maid who was trying to prevent him from crying again, and stepped closer to her— It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Anna. You look radiant —he said, greeting her with a bow.

Anna knew it was a lie. She had seen the dark circles under her eyes, her swollen ankles… and her tired face. Even so, she was glad to see the young man.

—You are very kind, Sir Henry. Have you come to visit your father? —she asked with a gentle smile.

—Indeed. I hope he can host me for a while.

—For that long? Has something happened? —her excessive concern put Henry on alert.

—No, my lady. It’s just that…

—Henry!? Is that really you? —shouted Radzig from the window, interrupting the conversation.

Henry smiled and apologised to Anna. She tried to return the smile, but fatigue was winning that battle, especially now that Oldrich had started crying again. She sighed deeply and gestured for Henry to go.

The young man entered the house and climbed the stairs to his father’s study. Radzig greeted him before he could say a word, embracing him tightly and laughing between hearty slaps on the back.

—My son! —he exclaimed, pulling back just enough to look at him properly— Knighthood suits you well.

Henry smiled, a little overwhelmed.

—And you look younger than ever, father.

—Liar —laughed Radzig— But tell me, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be serving the new Lord of Rattay?

Henry lowered his gaze, scratching the back of his neck.

—It’s… a long story, father.

Radzig watched him in silence for a moment, then nodded with a half-smile.

—Well. I have all day to hear it.

Night had already fallen, and the smell of dinner finishing on the fire filtered through the cracks in the walls, mingling with the scent of wine. The jug in the room had emptied far too easily, and Radzig weighed his son’s words in silence.

—So you accompanied Godwin to Prague before coming here? —he finally asked, in the calm tone of one who measures every word.

—That’s right —replied Henry without much interest, refilling his cup.

Radzig rose slowly from his chair and walked to the window. Outside, the moon climbed above the hills, tinting the castle towers with silver. He seemed to be looking at something only he could see.

—Before Godwin lost his parish… he preached the words of Jan Hus, didn’t he?

Henry hesitated for a moment. He had to dig through his memory for that name, that improvised sermon he had given in the church to help his friend.

—Yes, that’s true. Though he barely mentioned him. Why do you ask?

Radzig stepped away from the window and returned to the table. His expression had hardened. He took the cup before him and emptied it in one gulp.

—Nothing important —he murmured after a brief pause— I’ve only heard that this Hus fellow is gaining followers in Prague, and that his words are beginning to trouble the wrong men. But it’s probably nothing. Prague has always been a nest of charlatans.

He set the cup down on the table and let out a faint sigh, as one who shakes off an unwelcome thought.

—Anyway, —he said with a wave of his hand, changing his tone— enough talk for tonight. I won’t waste a quiet evening discussing stubborn priests.

Henry smiled, grateful to see his father returning to his usual humour.

—You can stay here as long as you need, son. —a spark of pride shone in his eyes— You’re a knight now! I think we should do something about that…

The wine caught in Henry’s throat and went down like a stone.

—Then, what do you propose?

—Tomorrow at dawn —replied Radzig with enthusiasm— We’ll go down to the courtyard. I want to see whether all that training with the Capons has done you any good.

Henry raised an eyebrow, amused.

—A fencing lesson, Father?

—No —laughed Radzig, leaning back in his chair— A duel between gentlemen. It’s time you tested your steel against mine.

Henry lifted his empty cup in a mock toast, and they both laughed. Outside, the wind blew softly against the walls of the house, as if for a moment everything were at peace.

The dark circles hadn’t vanished. Little Oldrich had barely slept, and the voices and laughter of Radzig and Henry in the next room didn’t help. Lady Anna sat on her usual bench, waiting for dawn to chase away the courtyard’s shadows.

The sound of clashing steel broke her thoughts. At the far end, father and son were training… or duelling; she couldn’t tell, nor did she care. She simply rolled her eyes and sighed, resigned to living surrounded by so many men.

—Too slow! —shouted Radzig.

Henry chuckled and attacked again.

This time the exchange was quicker, sharper. The sound of swords cut through the damp air as their shadows intertwined on the ground.

Radzig moved with the confidence of a man who had nothing to prove. Henry, with the passion of one who wanted to do everything right.

The steel clashed one final time, and the young man ended up on his knees, his father’s blade a mere inch from his throat.

Radzig drew a deep breath and lowered his sword.

—Good technique. Lacking patience… but that comes with time —he said, offering his hand to help him up. —Come on, again.

Henry took it, panting and smiling broadly.

He lunged again at once, gathering all the strength of his youth. He caught Radzig off guard.

He dodged too late, and the blow made him stumble, but experience wins far more battles than strength. With a precise movement of his feet, he turned on himself and struck Henry in the side.

He twisted his sword, and the young man was once again at his mercy.

—Better —smiled Radzig, lowering the weapon— But you need to control your impulsiveness. I’ll show you the technique to counter me. Come, stand here.

Anna watched as Radzig approached Henry, patiently placing his hands on the hilt, correcting his stance like someone teaching a child to walk. That look, that calm and steady voice, she had only seen it with her little Oldrich.

She smiled faintly. It moved her to see them like that, father and son, sharing something that duty and years had nearly stolen from them. For a moment, the scene seemed perfect: the sun rising above the rooftops, the fresh morning air, the metallic echo of swords that sounded more like play than war.

She thought that if Henry stayed, the house would feel more alive. That Oldrich would grow up looking at him as an older brother, and that Radzig would smile more often.

But she knew it wouldn’t be so. Henry belonged somewhere else, to another world calling him far away. She saw it in his eyes, in the way he looked at the horizon, as if something, or someone, awaited him beyond the walls.

Oldrich began to cry again, demanding her attention. Anna sighed, knowing she would have to go inside to cradle him. In the distance, father and son kept training, laughing between blows and corrections. For a moment, everything felt like home.

Then the wind blew from the north, and the sound of swords faded among the castle walls.

Summer passed more slowly than Henry could have imagined. There was no news from Rattay, nothing. Only the long wait amid uncertainty.

How much longer could it take? And what if it wasn’t months, but years? No, Henry erased those thoughts from his mind. If he still had no news from Hans when the first snowflakes began to fall, he would go and visit him. At least to know that everything was all right. At least… to remember his warmth…

He blinked several times, returning to reality. Birdie walked steadily beneath him, heading into the forest. There was no training that day; Radzig had to collect some commissions from the castle under construction, and Henry had decided to go hunting. He had several days of freedom before his father’s return.

He tied up Birdie when he reached the camp and decided to rest for a while. Training with his father was hard, his whole body was covered in bruises, but he truly felt unbeatable. Radzig’s techniques were exquisite, and Henry was now barely losing their duels. He had improved greatly since his arrival in Dvorce.

Without realising it, he had fallen asleep on the grass. The sun was high above, and its rays filtered through the treetops. Henry grabbed his bow and ventured deeper in.

He had waited too long… by that hour he couldn’t spot a single animal. Even the birds seemed to have gone silent, hiding from the heat. He concealed himself in some bushes, but nothing.

The heat was stifling despite the shade, and he also felt strange hunting alone. He had always done it with Hans. The memories threatened to fill him with nostalgia, so he opened his wine skin and emptied it for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time he reached the manor, dusk had fallen. The saddlebags were empty, his hunt unsuccessful, but at least Henry had rested on the soft forest grass. He felt rejuvenated.

Before the guard opened the gate, they announced an unexpected visitor.

—Good evening, Sir Henry. A messenger arrived this afternoon, he’s waiting for you in Sir Radzig’s office.

—A messenger? —a spark of hope lit up Henry’s eyes. —From where?

—From Rattay, sir.

Henry dismounted Birdie at once and left her in the care of the guards. He quickened his pace, restraining himself from running, and crossed the courtyard as fast as he could. The house was dark and quiet, perfect for Lady Anna to rest.

He climbed the stairs; a single torch was lit right in front of Sir Radzig’s study. Someone was waiting inside. He was eager to read the messenger’s letter, praying for any news from Hans, whatever it might be.

He knocked several times before entering, then pushed the door open with a deep sigh. Inside, the candles were barely lit, just enough to see that a dark figure was resting before the unlit fireplace.

—Sorry to keep you waiting. —he said, closing the door behind him. —What message do you bring from Rattay?

The figure stood up immediately. Before saying a word, he rushed at Henry, embracing him fiercely and kissing him without warning.

Henry blinked in surprise, but then he knew. The blond hair shone under the flickering candlelight, his scent filled Henry’s senses… and he instantly recognised the shape and softness of those lips. Henry smiled and kissed him harder.

—Hans!? What are you doing here?

Hans didn’t let him keep talking. He grabbed him tightly and kissed him more intensely. He began to caress his chest, his back… his breath quickened… and then he started tugging at Henry’s clothes.

—Hans! —interrupted Henry, laughing helplessly.

—Oh Henry… I’ve missed you so much! —he murmured, his voice still filled with passion.

—That doesn’t explain why you’re here.

—Isn’t it obvious? Jitka’s pregnant!

Henry took a moment to process it. That was excellent news. It had finally happened, but… did that mean he could return home?

—But… why are YOU here? Why didn’t you send a messenger?

Hans’s laughter lit up the entire room. God, how much he had missed it.

—I won’t lie to you… —he placed his fingers on Henry’s lips, moving closer— Because I couldn’t bear another minute without you.

Then he lunged at Henry and finished removing his clothes.

Chapter Text

The walls of Rattay appeared on the horizon like a beacon lighting their way. The riders advanced to the gate and paused for a moment to take in the breathtaking view.

Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sweet scent of the garden roses, the damp earth of the courtyard, and the moss on the walls… it smelled like home.

Hans reached out and touched his shoulder.

—We’re home at last —he said with a sigh.

Hans’s horse moved on its own, as if it knew that rest awaited it at last after days of travel. They arrived at the courtyard of the Upper Castle, where servants and stable boys took charge of their luggage and mounts.

At the top of the stairs, stepping out of the castle, a young woman dressed with elegance greeted them warmly. A long braid fell over her shoulders, and where the bodice would have tightened her waist and chest, the fabric now bulged softly.

—My lady. —Henry bowed— You look radiant.

Jitka smiled as she never had before. She kissed Hans on the cheek and then embraced Henry with an enthusiasm bordering on impropriety. Marketa appeared behind her and greeted them with a curtsey, though the anxious look she once had was gone. She no longer looked at Henry the same way.

—Prepare my bath. —Hans interrupted, addressing the servant who had just appeared— Will you join me, Sir Henry?

Henry barely opened his mouth before Jitka interrupted.

—I would like to take a walk with your bodyguard. I’m sure he can join you for the bath later. Right, Sir Henry?

All eyes turned to him. What could he say? Hans pressed him with his mere presence, while his wife requested his company. And Henry sensed that the young lady’s request was not just polite courtesy.

—Of course, my lady.

Hans sighed, resigned. He left with Pavel and Marketa, leaving Henry and Jitka alone. They descended the stairs slowly, the young woman holding tightly to the handrail to avoid a misstep. Lately she had been feeling very dizzy.

They stepped into the garden, and the scent of the rosebushes seemed to calm her nausea for a moment. From atop the wall, they watched the sunset over the valley.

—Sir Henry… —she began softly— I have no words to thank you for what you do for me and for my husband.

Henry remained silent, unsure what to say, his eyes fixed on the landscape.

—You not only defended me from the bandits —she went on— but you also agreed to leave… and then return. Sir Henry, I so deeply regret the pain I caused you.

Jitka covered her face with her hands and began to cry. Henry, surprised and confused, took her hands and tried to comfort her.

—Please, my lady… You have nothing to be sorry for. I…

—Don’t say a word! If you had to leave, it was my fault. I was the one who suggested to Sir Hans that you should go, so he could focus on… well, you know. —She gently caressed her rounded belly.

Henry smiled, moved.

—I understand, Lady Jitka. My departure was necessary.

—Oh, Sir Henry… You cannot imagine how my husband suffered. He wandered through the castle, sad and lonely. At first, he barely ate, and only when things… —she paused, trying not to sound vulgar— …began to flow again, did he start eating. He thought only of you, of finishing his work, and of your return. I’m so sorry! Truly, I… —her tears broke her words once more.

—My lady, please… stop crying. I’m here now, everything will be fine…

—Don’t take me for a fool, Sir Henry —she replied firmly—. I know love. I know what it is to be far from the one you love, and above all, to lose them forever.

Henry looked at her, astonished. She spoke of love, something he understood all too well. That was why he felt guilty: because he knew what was happening between him and Hans. A bond far deeper than that of a simple vassal and his lord. And yet, she understood. She truly did.

Henry knelt before her, moved by her strength.

—My lady, I am a knight of Pirkstein, and I have sworn to protect you and your husband. You have nothing to regret, nothing to apologize for. It is I who must thank you for your understanding and respect. You have my word.

Jitka stopped crying, and with trembling hands, she touched Henry’s shoulder.

—You’re part of this family, Henry. —she said, with sudden familiarity— Don’t forget that.

They both smiled, and together they watched the sunset. Henry then felt that Rattay was no longer just a house, but his home. He thought of the life Jitka was carrying within her, right beside him. Hans’s child.

He imagined a boy like the one from his memories, a blond cherub with blue eyes chasing peasants who stole wooden buckets. Henry took a deep breath. He knew their lives were about to change.

Hans paced back and forth, nervous. Henry watched him from the armchair and couldn’t help but feel that same tension creeping into him. He bounced his leg up and down, restless, almost unconsciously.

—Pavel! —Hans shouted— Bring more wine!

The servant appeared minutes later with a new jug and took away the one they had emptied. As he opened the door, a woman’s screams could be heard in the distance.

Hans refilled his cup quickly and drank it in one gulp. Henry did the same.

—God… How much longer will it take?

—I don’t know… men don’t understand these things —muttered Henry, with a nervous half-smile.

—I’m going mad, Henry. I need to know something!

He headed for the door, but Henry stopped him. He was too anxious, and letting him go would only make things worse.

—Wait here, I’ll go.

Hans grabbed his hand, like a man about to drown. He wanted Henry to go and bring news, yet feared to be left alone.

—Calm down, everything will be fine —said Henry firmly. He guided him back to the armchair and left the cup within reach— I won’t be long.

As he stepped into the hallway, the cool air enveloped him. Spring rains had cooled the stone, and the moisture filled the air. Birds sang cheerfully at the return of the sun, and dandelion seeds floated softly around. Henry took a deep breath and walked toward Lady Jitka’s chamber.

The screams could be heard from the corridor. The maids rushed in and out carrying buckets of hot water, clean cloths, and others soaked in blood. Henry swallowed hard.

He waited patiently by the door, heart pounding, until he saw Marketa come out carrying a basin of water stained red.

—Marketa! Wait!

—Not now, Sir Henry.

The maid hurried down the stairs, ignoring his questions. When she reached the well, Henry caught up to her and lifted two large buckets of water himself, a weight she could never have carried. Marketa thanked him with a quick nod.

—Don’t let Sir Hans come near… Lady Jitka is very bad.

A chill ran down Henry’s spine.

—What’s happening? Can I do anything to help?

Marketa hesitated, glancing toward the room. She would never have considered letting a man in there, but she looked Henry up and down, his strength, the ease with which he held the buckets.

—Lady Jitka is very weak, she can barely hold herself up… could you support her?

Henry’s hands trembled. He set the buckets down by the door. He had never imagined he’d have to do something like this, not that afternoon, but Hans’s child was coming, and his wife was in danger.

—I’ll do it.

Then they let him in. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles. The metallic smell of blood hit him hard, but Jitka’s screams drowned out every other thought.

The young woman lay on the bed while two maids held her by the arms, trying to keep her still. The bed was soaked with blood, and Jitka with sweat. She wanted to cry but had no strength left for that, for anything.

—Jitka… I’m here now —whispered Henry, positioning himself behind her. The maids stepped aside.

With his strong arms, he wrapped around Jitka’s torso and held her upright. She leaned back against him, barely clinging to life. The posture he gave her allowed her to breathe a little easier, and for a brief moment, she seemed relieved.

—…Henry? —she asked faintly, just before screaming again.

The midwife asked for one last push, but Jitka could no longer go on. She seemed only to wait for it all to end. Henry held her tightly, helping her keep her breathing steady.

The midwife took advantage of Henry’s firm hold. If they didn’t get the baby out now, both might die. From Henry’s perspective, he couldn’t tell what the woman did. He only felt Jitka convulse and scream with the last of her strength.

Then he heard it, a baby’s cry.

The woman cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the baby in a linen towel. Henry kept holding Jitka, but the young woman had stopped screaming. She had… stopped… breathing.

—Marketa! —Henry shouted— Lady Jitka! I don’t…

The maids rushed to the bed and pulled Henry away. The midwife handed him the baby, and they pushed him out of the room.

The world seemed to stop for a moment.

Henry found himself alone in the corridor, a newborn he did not know in his arms. Everything spun around him; the birds had gone silent, and the silence grew heavier than ever.

The baby stirred, seeking the warmth of his chest.

He looked at him calmly. He was dirty and wrinkled, yet Henry felt his warmth, his weight in his arms, his importance. The little one opened his eyes for a brief moment.

Tiny blue pearls looked back at him. The pointed nose, that marked profile… He was Hans’s son.

He held Hans’s son in his arms.

He couldn’t help it, he lowered his head and kissed the child’s forehead. He smiled as he saw him move. He loved him. He had just been born, and Henry already loved him with all his soul.

He crossed the corridor he had come through, gently cleaning the baby with the towel. The little one’s gurgles were adorable. When he entered the room, a wave of heat hit his face. Hans dropped his cup to the floor and jumped to his feet.

—Henry? What…?

He fell silent at the sight of the baby in his arms. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. He smiled with joy, though he didn’t dare touch the child yet. He simply watched Henry hold him, watched the tenderness in his eyes, how he loved his son.

Hans approached and embraced them both. He wrapped his arms around Henry, and the little one remained between them, cradled by the warmth of two fathers.

—Heinrich —Hans said, as if that name had always been meant for him.

—Really? —Henry replied, with a half-smile.

—Always.

And while warmth filled their hearts, the cold, cruel and merciless, claimed the other room.

Heinrich had just finished nursing from the wet nurse’s breast, and the young woman carefully placed him in his father’s arms. The dark circles under Hans’s eyes revealed he hadn’t slept in days, and the wine cup was always by his side.

The fire crackled, casting trembling shadows upon the stone walls. Hans ran a hand over his forehead, trying to dispel the exhaustion, or perhaps the fear.

—How is he? —he asked without raising his eyes.

—Weak, my lord —the young woman replied—. He still doesn’t have good color. It’s hard for him to breathe, and…

—That’s fine. That’s enough. Thank you. —Hans interrupted her softly, his voice low and weary, and motioned for her to leave.

Silence enveloped them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. He looked at the child sleeping peacefully on his chest. His gentle breathing, his tiny hands clutching his shirt… that fragile little life was the only thing not falling apart around him.

—You’re far too small to worry… —Hans whispered—. But Uncle Henry has gone very far to save… to save… —the words caught in his throat, and before the tears could fill his eyes, he took a sip of wine—. Yes… Jitka will be fine. Henry will be fine.

He stared into the flames, lost in thought. He rocked the child with an instinctive motion, the one gesture that still came to him without thinking. The little one murmured something in his sleep, and Hans smiled faintly.

—You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you, little one. —he spoke with a rough, trembling voice—. Nor what you’ve cost.

The baby turned his head, searching for the breast, and Hans laughed through his tears.

—Don’t look at me like that… I don’t know what I’ll do without her. —his voice broke— Nor what I’ll be without him.

Silence answered him. Only the fire kept breathing.

—Henry is out there… —he whispered, as if the child could understand—. Always so brave, so stubborn. If anyone can bring help, it’s him. But in the meantime… —he caressed the baby’s forehead—. In the meantime, it’s you and me. Just us.

He looked at the tiny, defenseless face. What he felt was a storm he could not contain: pride, fear, love, and a loneliness that ached in his bones.

—I promise you’ll never want for anything —he said at last, in a faint voice—. Not for love, nor a name, nor a story. Even if the world falls to pieces, you… you’ll still be my reason.

A tear slid down his cheek and fell onto the child’s face, who frowned in his sleep. Hans wiped it away tenderly, his smile almost an apology.

—But… why is Henry taking so long?

He couldn’t stop another tear from rolling down his cheek and falling onto Heinrich.

Days later, the herald announced the arrival of Sir Henry at the Upper Castle. Hans heard it from his room. He placed the baby in Marketa’s arms and ran toward the courtyard. The sunlight hurt his eyes; he hadn’t been outside in days.

The rider who passed through the gate bore the colors of Leipa. Sir Henry dismounted hastily and helped a cart enter the courtyard. A young woman was driving it, and an older woman rode in the back. Henry helped her down with care.

Hans reached him, out of breath. For a moment, he felt the urge to embrace him. Seeing him safe and sound after so many days of uncertainty was a relief, but he restrained himself. Too many eyes were watching.

—Sir Henry! Who…? —Hans’s eyes widened as he suddenly understood— Bozhena? Pavlena!?

The young woman greeted him with a smile, then took her mother’s hand. The old woman walked hunched over and had lost the last of her teeth, yet she still smiled when she saw Hans.

—So… this is your home. It was true, then.

—Bozhena! I…

The old woman patted him lightly on the back. There was no need for words.

—Don’t worry, Hans. I’ll help your wife.

Pavlena bowed with a nervous laugh. It was the first time she had seen Sir Hans as what he truly was: a knight. She accompanied her mother up the stairs, and the maids guided them to Jitka’s chamber.

Hans turned to Henry. The crowd in the courtyard had already dispersed, and at last he could allow himself a moment of weakness. He brushed Henry’s fingers softly, just a fleeting touch.

—Bozhena? You went that far?

—No healer would come for a dying woman in labor. Bozhena is the best. I didn’t hesitate once I knew I had to bring her.

—But… Trostky!? Vor Bergow could have… —anxiety filled Hans’s face, but Henry reassured him.

—Nothing happened, Hans. I… —he glanced around, and when he saw they were alone, he gave him a quick kiss on the lips—. I’d do anything for you.

The young noble smiled, and for a moment the weight of the world seemed lighter. Help had arrived. Heinrich would have two fathers… but Hans would not allow him to grow without a mother.

The days that followed felt endless. The castle was steeped in a tense stillness so thick it could be cut with a knife. Every time Bozhena asked for an herb or stepped out of the room, the world seemed to stop. No one knew whether she would bring good or bad news.

Yet the old woman smiled more and more often. Life seemed to return, little by little, to Rattay. And one afternoon, Bozhena breathed in relief. She sent for Hans, and he approached that room for the first time in days. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside.

The smell struck him at once. Though the windows were open, the air was thick with potions, herbs, and dried blood. At the far end, on the bed, lay Jitka. Her skin had a sickly tone, almost as pale as a corpse’s.

Her chest rose and fell with a weak but steady rhythm. Hans sat beside her and took her hands. Jitka opened her clouded eyes and smiled faintly when she saw him.

—It’s a boy, Jitka. —he whispered.

The young woman smiled weakly.

—Good. You have your heir now…

—What? Why do you say it like that? —it hurt him to see her in such a state, so far from the strength and composure she once had.

Jitka leaned on her arms and sat up. Her breathing improved, and after drinking a little, some color returned to her face. She grasped Hans’s hand and told him what she had been thinking through all those days of recovery.

—Because I don’t intend to bear another child of yours.

They looked into each other’s eyes and laughed, perhaps to ease the tension of the moment, perhaps because after all they’d been through, they had both thought the same thing. He kissed her forehead and whispered:

—I would never ask you to.

Chapter Text

His eyelids fell heavy over his eyes. The letters dissolved before his gaze as he struggled, in vain, to stay awake. Latin was boring.

He sighed and turned a page. Then another. He wasn’t even reading them; he only did it to keep his hands busy, anything to avoid deciphering those lines. The castle remained silent. “He is studying”, they said.

His father had warned the guards and servants not to disturb him, and yet, he heard a door slam.

The sudden noise startled him, ripping him out of the drowsiness that plagued him. After the slam, voices. The walls were too thick to understand what they were saying, but there was a murmur in the hallway that sparked his curiosity.

He hoped someone would come for him, perhaps an unexpected visit, some affair requiring his presence, any excuse to end this torture of study.

The noise faded, though he still heard unsteady footsteps. He rubbed his face with both hands and tried to focus again. If he didn’t know the lesson by the end of the day, his father would be disappointed.

He soon felt a shiver. The fire in the hearth flickered; a current of cold air swept through the room. He turned and saw the door open. He was certain he had closed it. How had he not heard it open?

He looked around. He was alone.

—Hello?

Silence.

He stood up from his desk and closed the door, calming the fire. He sighed anxiously and returned to the table, though a sudden, sharp sound made his heart race. He looked around again, still alone. Another noise.

It came from the wardrobe.

He approached slowly, hand on the dagger his uncle had given him. Gathering all the courage he had, he pulled the door open. A girl fell to the floor.

He froze, speechless. Some of his clothes had fallen over her, and the girl struggled to free herself. She looked his age, with light hair and enormous blue eyes.

—Who are you? —the young noble asked, still confused.

The girl smiled, but did not answer. She didn’t look like a peasant: her clean dress was finely embroidered with golden thread and had an elegant cut. When he offered her his hand to help her up, she instead grabbed the dagger and examined it with fascination.

—It’s beautiful… —she whispered, admiring the polished blade.

—Give it back! Now!

His anger only seemed to amuse her more. She sprang to her feet and ran, laughing. It took him a second to react, then he raced after her.

—Come back here!

The chase quickly turned into a game. Amid laughter and footsteps, the girl led him to his father’s office. He tried to warn her, but she had already crossed the threshold.

He swallowed hard and pushed the door open cautiously. The office appeared empty. “She hid again”, he thought.

He opened several cabinets until he saw the tip of a shoe sticking out from under the desk. He crouched and found those blue eyes staring at him mischievously.

—We can’t be here. We must...—

A noise behind him cut him off. “No, no…” He shrank down further and, without thinking, hid beside the girl under the desk, covering her mouth. At that instant, the door burst open. Two men entered with firm steps and tense voices.

—I am not expelling them! I only said that, with the current situation… it is dangerous —it was his father’s voice.

—Really? After everything he’s done for you? For… for us? You can’t be serious.

He recognized the second voice immediately. It was his Uncle Henry. He sounded more hurt than angry.

—Hans… please. Don’t do this. —the resignation had become a subtle plea.

From his hiding place, the boy saw Henry brush his father’s fingers lightly, and his father pulled away. He didn’t know why, but it tightened something in his chest. They had been arguing a lot lately, and he wasn’t used to the long silences that now filled the dinner table.

—I never said I would do anything. God, Henry… there you are again, blowing things out of proportion! Of course they can stay.

Henry remained silent, knowing those would not be Hans’ final words.

—…but only for a short time —he concluded.

His father gathered a few papers and left. Henry hesitated before following him, closing the door behind them.

Only then did the boy remove his hand from the girl’s mouth and let out a long sigh of relief. He lay back, laughing nervously, staring up at the underside of the desk. The girl did the same.

They both laughed, until she returned the dagger with a small apologetic gesture.

—What’s your name?

The boy turned his head. Those blue eyes looked at him sweetly, and suddenly seemed familiar.

—I’m Heimrich Capon, at your service —he replied, making an exaggerated bow despite being on the floor.

They both laughed.

—I’m Ludmila Kobyla. Father brought me here to spend a few days with my brother.

—Kobyla? —Heimrich repeated, thinking. Then he understood—. Daughter of Radzig?So… Sir Henry is your brother?

The girl nodded. —I’ve missed him very much.

That evening’s dinner was strangely quiet. Hans greeted Radzig with a distance far more noticeable than usual, though Henry did not lose his usual smile. Two children accompanied Sir Radzig, the older with a solemn bearing, trying to act more like an adult than he truly was; and the girl he already knew.

For some strange reason, Heimrich could not look away.

Ludmila seemed quieter with her father present, but every time her eyes wandered back to him, she smiled. That game of glances soon infected Heimrich as well.

They sat at the table; his uncle Henry beside his father as always, though they barely exchanged a word. The servants began bringing food, sensing the growing discomfort. It was Sir Radzig who finally broke the silence.

—Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Capon. —his father nodded politely— I understand it is never pleasant to receive the King’s tax collector.

Hans offered a faint smile.

—We both know that is not the real concern, Sir Radzig.

The adults’ words faded like distant voices underwater, because Ludmila sat beside Heimrich and would not stop poking him with her fingers. Under the table, their hands waged a secret battle to trap the other’s finger.

Heimrich squeezed Ludmila’s thumb, and she stifled a gasp with a shocked expression. Her eyes locked onto his and, with a single glance, she told him “you’ll pay for that”.

The game went on fiercely, if only because Heimrich enjoyed the softness of her hands.

He began to feel a warmth in his chest like never before; he didn’t want to let go of her hand, even as he lost and his finger ached. He wanted to lose himself in the depth of her eyes, in the wave of her hair… but Sir Radzig’s words interrupted his thoughts.

—Do not worry, Lord Capon. I will resume my journey with my children at dawn. I would not burden you with the care of two restless youngsters.

—No! —Heimrich blurted out.

Suddenly, every gaze fell upon him. His father, confused and threatening; his uncle, amused. Heimrich swallowed hard and tried to correct himself.

—I mean… It would be an honor to host your kin while you are travelling. It is our duty as nobles loyal to the King.

Radzig maintained composure, sharing a complicit smile with Henry.

—I see your son is just as impulsive as you —he directed the sharp comment at Hans.

—Very well, young Capon. I shall take your word for it —he lifted his cup towards Heimrich and toasted him.

Nerves twisted in Heimrich’s stomach, but he toasted back. He didn’t dare look at his father for the rest of dinner, nor even think about what would come after.

All of that seemed a smaller problem once he realized Ludmila had not let go of his hand. And the game had ended long ago.

Later, when the candles had been extinguished and Heimrich tried to sleep, his father appeared at the door. At first, he feared a reprimand, any harsh word revealing Hans’ displeasure over his boldness. Instead, Hans sat on the edge of the bed and spoke softly.

—What you did at dinner was very noble, son. —Heimrich swallowed— But… you should not make decisions you do not understand.

Hans still wasn’t angry.

—I… I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what came over me.

But Hans did know.

—I hope it has nothing to do with that girl —Heimrich blushed beneath the sheets, but darkness protected him— She is not suitable for you, Heimrich.

—Why? Because she is Henry’s sister? —his tone unexpectedly turned defensive, and Hans frowned.

—That she is your uncle’s sister does not matter. Henry, he… —sensing himself straying from the point, he hardened his tone— There are forces greater than us, beyond our control. If we are to protect our home, you must stay away from her. Do you understand?

—But… —Heimrich protested. Of course he didn’t understand.

—You will do as I say, just as Henry does —the words felt heavy in Hans’ throat— Good night, son.

The days passed slowly. Heinrich tried, he truly did. He locked himself in his study to read Latin, but Ludmila’s laughter always interrupted him; whether echoing through the hallways or beneath his window.

The day was spectacular, not a single cloud in the sky, the bright blue stretching endlessly above him. He couldn’t bring himself to open the book. He went down to the courtyard and found Ludmila and her brother Oldrich. Other children had joined them, he recognized the tailor’s son and the scribe’s daughter.

—It’s Oldrich’s turn! —shouted Ludmila— Come on, run!

The girl grabbed Heinrich’s hand the moment she saw him, and all the children ran off while Oldrich counted to twenty, forehead pressed to the wall.

—Run, Heimrich! —she urged, tugging him along.

They rushed across the bailey and made it to the back of the forge. A pile of hay blocked the way, but the girl didn’t hesitate: she shoved aside the dry stalks and squeezed into the opening.

Then she pulled Heimrich in with her. They covered themselves again with the hay and waited there, hidden and pressed so close together they could feel each other’s warm breath.

Ludmila couldn’t stop laughing, but as they waited she slowly calmed down. Her hand remained tightly wrapped around Heimrich’s and seemed unwilling to let go. Not now, not ever.

They heard Oldrich’s voice getting closer, then his footsteps. They held their breath and stayed perfectly still: the boy soon gave up and ran off to search elsewhere. The adrenaline of not being found flooded their chests.

They looked into each other’s eyes.

Ludmila leaned forward and kissed Heinrich on the lips.

He squeezed her hand even tighter and wished he could stay in that pile of hay forever.

—Most likely tomorrow, or the day after at most. He will just stop to pick up my siblings and return with them to Dvorce.

Hans remained silent, thinking through every word he might say. He didn’t want to sound too harsh or too interrogative.

—Perfect.

He blew out the candles and slipped into his bed. Henry still slept in his own bed at the foot of Hans’, like a loyal squire guarding his lord even through the night. Jitka had long been sleeping in her own chamber, so he knew no one would interrupt them.

Henry approached Hans’ bed and gently stroked his arm over the blanket. How long had it been since they had last been together? He missed him.

He leaned down and kissed the back of Hans’ neck. It had been so long that it even felt strange. He embraced him and lay down beside him, never stopping the soft caresses.

—Henry… I’m tired.

Hans’ refusal struck like a bucket of cold water. Henry stopped his touch, though he did not pull away. Not yet.

—You’re always tired, Hans. Why don’t we sleep together? At least… tonight.

Hans turned toward him, their faces only inches apart. Even in the dark, Henry’s bright eyes shone like two beacons.

—I’m worried, Henry. About Rattay, about everything that’s happening… Forgive me if I’ve been a little distant lately.

The tenderness in his voice stirred something warm in Henry, making him hold Hans even closer, just as he had done for the last decade.

—There’s nothing to forgive. Come here and sleep. You know it calms you.

Henry slipped under the blanket as Hans turned his back to him. He wrapped his arms around him, strong but gentle… telling him with that embrace that he would always be there to protect him. He felt the tension leave Hans’ muscles, and within seconds, the slow, deep breathing told him he was already asleep.

Henry pressed his nose into his hair and breathed in the scent of home. A home he longed for, but would never abandon.

He closed his eyes and waited for a new day to rise.

Chapter Text

Hans watched restlessly through the window, while Henry read a book quietly by the fireplace. He could hear the nobleman thinking.

—Are you going to tell me what’s troubling you? —he asked, without lifting his eyes from the pages.

—Where is Radzig? —Hans grumbled, more to himself than as an actual answer.

—He is simply delayed… what difference do a few more days make?

Hans frowned and kept staring outside. His muscles were tense, as if he were ready to jump out and confront the world at any moment. His sighing was becoming genuinely bothersome, so Henry closed the book and walked over to him.

He hugged him from behind, but Hans remained stiff. Through the glass, he could only see a group of children playing with his siblings.

—What is it? —he asked kindly, trying to make his noble lower his guard.

—Look at Heinrich… he never leaves Ludmila’s side.

—They are only playing, Hans. Let them be children… —he murmured, kissing his neck softly.

Hans turned around, worried. He gently pushed Henry away and began pacing around the room.

—We have to do something… you have to do something! —he exclaimed, pointing a finger at him.

—Me? Why me?

—B-because he’s your family —he muttered awkwardly—. You know what is at stake. It’s dangerous.

Henry sighed, tired of hearing the same excuse.

—Hans…

—I’ve got it! Heinrich is old enough now… Go fetch him and start his sword training. He will be so busy that he won’t think about Ludmila for a single moment… —a mischievous smile appeared on Hans’s face, as if he believed his plan was flawless.

Neither of them said anything. They had already spoken about Heinrich’s future training, but it never seemed like the right moment for Hans. Yet now, he looked willing to do anything to avoid any ties with the Kobyla. Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Hans stepped closer, pleading with his eyes as he took Henry’s hands.

—Please, Henry. You know why I’m asking you…

Henry got lost in Hans’s face. His eyes begged and his lips were pursed, threatening to pout like a small child. His heart melted far quicker than he wished.

How could he ever deny him anything?

The morning sun fell over the training yard, gilding the stone walls and the spearheads lined up against them. The metallic sound of a blade being sharpened rang from afar, each spark bringing a trace of melancholy.

Henry waited beside the combat ring, arms crossed. Two wooden swords lay next to him, freshly carved by the carpenter. The air smelled of damp grass and iron, a familiar scent, almost comforting.

Heinrich came running from the stables’ corridor. His blond hair was a mess and his shirt half buttoned, like someone who was late yet trying to seem punctual. In his eyes was that same restless spark his father must have had at his age.

—I’m on time, right? —he asked, trying to hide his heavy breathing.

Henry smiled slightly, without moving. The boy was far too similar to his father.

—Which one do I start with? —he asked, pointing at the swords.

—With neither. —Henry tapped the ground— Before wielding a weapon, you must learn to move. A sword is useless in hands that don’t know where to place their weight.

Heinrich frowned, confused, but obeyed. He placed himself in the centre of the yard, adopting a stance closer to that of a farmer in the market than a future knight. Henry walked around him, evaluating every movement, every clumsiness. Then he stopped in front of him.

—Spread your feet. Not that much. There. —He gave his shoulder a gentle push, and the boy lost his balance—. If I can topple you with one finger, imagine what a real strike would do.

Heinrich clenched his teeth and tried again. This time, he held his ground better. Henry nodded.

—Better. Now breathe. A warrior who forgets to breathe has lost before he begins.

The boy filled his lungs. Henry, pleased, picked up one of the wooden swords and spun it in his hand with the ease of someone who has lived with one for half a lifetime. Then he offered it to Heinrich.

The boy took the sword with both hands, lifting it just before Henry struck his forearm. Henry smiled, impressed by the quick reflexes.

The blows echoed through the yard, dry and rhythmic, wood against wood. Henry corrected each mistake with a word, a look, a gesture. And when the boy fell, Henry made him laugh instead of humiliating him.

He knew Hans would be watching from the window. He could not see him, but he was certain his heart would be filling with pride seeing his son train. Henry wanted this first lesson to be masterful, unforgettable.

From the shadows, someone else was watching. And although still hidden, Heinrich felt that smile like a wound at a distance. Two bright blue glimmers shone in the dark.

Heinrich received a blow to the head, lost his balance and fell to the ground.

—Sakra! —muttered Henry —Are you alright?

It was only a small bump. Henry offered a hand and helped him up. He checked every inch of his head, finding no real harm. The boy had simply been distracted.

—You must focus, Heinrich.

—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

Henry heard the exhaustion in his voice. He decided it was time for a break and asked Pavel to bring fresh water and beer. They took shelter under the stable’s shade, and while Heinrich cooled his neck, Henry saw his younger sister sneaking down the corridor.

He smiled to himself. Now he understood why Heinrich was so distracted.

He looked at him tenderly. He had raised him as if he were his own son, he loved him… more than he could ever say. Henry recognised that same feeling, for he himself had suffered the pain of forbidden love.

He said nothing. No warning, no lecture… nothing. He simply… could not.

A linen cloth soaked in cool water rested on his forehead. His uncle Henry’s strike had left a small bump, but nothing serious. He only needed rest.

Night had already fallen, and silence covered everything. Heinrich tried to close his eyes and drift into sleep, but he could not. A pair of blue eyes invaded his thoughts, dragging him back to reality again and again.

He heard the door close. Was he dreaming? He removed the cloth and half-opened his eyes to be sure, but the darkness concealed everything. He leaned over the bedside table… lit a candle… and his heart nearly stopped.

—Ludmila! —he breathed, a whisper between surprise and relief— What are you doing here? You almost scared me to death!

The girl smiled, amused, and with the lightness of someone used to sneaking into forbidden places, she climbed onto the bed. Since the day they met, Heinrich had been fascinated by her ability to glide like a shadow: silent, unpredictable.

She brushed her fingers over Heinrich’s head, feeling the bump, wincing as if it hurt her instead.

—I’m sorry… I distracted you —she whispered, lowering her gaze.

Heinrich tried to smile, awkward, unsure what to do with his hands.

—It wasn’t your fault. Training to be a knight… is tough —he replied, trying to sound brave, though his voice trembled at the end.

She let out a quiet giggle. Heinrich joined her, first shyly, then freely, until they both laughed without any reason, as if just being together was reason enough.

For a moment, Heinrich felt confused. He was comfortable beside her, with no need to hide who he was. That warmth he had long forgotten wrapped around his heart again, making him want to hold her, protect her… ask her to stay.

He had seen that kind of trust before. He had even lived it… but that warmth had long since left his home, replaced by a cold silence.

—Ludmila, you and I… we mustn’t…

—I know —she answered softly, before he could finish—. I know my father thinks differently. The masses in Dvorce are different, and I thought you would be too.

Those words pierced him like an arrow.

—So? Am I different? —he asked, searching for a truth he could not name.

—You are different from what I expected.

—What do you mean?

Ludmila didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned forward timidly and brushed her lips against his. Just a kiss, clumsy and light. The flame flickered. Heinrich’s heart thudded so loud he was sure she could hear it.

—You don’t judge or preach. You are strong and brave and… and… handsome. —her blush spread across her cheeks, and Heinrich, captivated, thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

—I don’t care what my father says —Heinrich whispered gently— I’m not sure I could stay away from you, even if I tried. You’re… you’re like an angel stepping out of dreams.

She laughed nervously, shy yet pleased by his words. She stroked his head again, this time letting her hand rest there for a while.

—I would like to stay here. To get to know you. Dvorce is so boring —she breathed.

Heinrich could not find the words to tell her how much he wanted the same. Ludmila curled up on his lap, and they talked the whole night. Hours passed unnoticed, until sleep finally conquered them both.

They curled beneath the sheets and slept embraced until dawn warned them of a new day.

Heinrich accompanied Hans to the hall for dinner, as usual. He wasn’t happy. It showed in his voice, his steps… and the distance he kept from Henry.

When they entered the dining room and he saw Heinrich sitting beside Ludmila, Hans scoffed. He seemed to bury his anger beneath layers of dignity, but Henry knew it was still there. He knew him too well.

The discomfort during dinner was almost tangible. It lingered in every glance, in every unsaid word, and even in the few spoken ones. Hans did not want to argue in front of their guests, so he returned to his chamber as soon as the meal ended.

The last spoonful got stuck in Heinrich’s throat. He knew what was coming. He had taken a risk… but there was something about Ludmila, an invisible pull he could not resist. He stood to follow his father and fix things, but Henry stopped him.

—Heinrich… no. —The boy froze in the doorway, and his uncle walked him out— You should go to bed. I’ll walk you there.

The walk to his room was as uncomfortable as dinner. Henry did not speak. He simply escorted the young noble with slow, steady steps. Once there, Heinrich lay down and Henry checked that the bump on his head had not worsened.

He ruffled his hair affectionately and smiled.

—Goodnight, son.

—Uncle Henry… —the boy murmured, stopping him— I… I would like to ask you something.

Henry frowned. Heinrich was rarely timid with his questions. This sounded serious.

—If this is about Ludmila… your father is the one who…

—It’s not that —he cut in, nervous—. It’s just that… well, I guess I miss how things were before.

Henry raised an eyebrow, confused.

—What do you mean? Nothing has changed, Heinrich.

—You and father —the boy said, with surprising firmness—. Lately you argue a lot… you seem distant. It’s like… —he searched for the words and sighed— like there’s no love.

—Love? —Henry forced a faint smile, trying to lighten the weight—. And what do you know about love, boy?

Heinrich pressed his lips together, tired of being underestimated because of his age.

—I know it is warm and comforting —he said quietly— that it feels like home. —Henry looked at him, taken aback— That it fills your head with ideas… and that, above all, it makes you want to be with that person, no matter what.

Henry swallowed. He had not expected that, not from him, but Heinrich always found a way to surprise him.

—Well… it seems you do know something about it. But love is much more. It grows… and changes. Of course I love your father, I am his knight. I protect him, and he does the same for me.

The boy lowered his eyes, disappointed. If love was just distance, silence and arguments… perhaps it wasn’t what he had imagined.

—I understand… I suppose. It’s… fine —he tried to smile, but failed—. I just… miss laughing with you both. —His thoughts drifted back to the endless laughter he shared with Ludmila— Goodnight, Uncle Henry.

He turned and curled beneath the covers, giving him his back. Henry remained still, not knowing what to do. For a moment, the entire weight of everything pressed on him again: Radzig, the danger of being here, his brothers, Hans… a life slipping through his fingers.

Right then, all he wanted was to hold his son and shout that everything would be alright.

That love always wins.

Chapter Text

In the city, the cold fell early and without warning. The silver galleries beneath the hill breathed a warmer air, damp, heavy with dust and smoke. There, where the night-shift miners left their tools lined up like relics, Brother Hermann, the preacher from the church of St. James, waited. He carried an oil lamp and a short cloak, its edges stained with soot. He had agreed to meet with an unknown visitor, a man he only knew from an unsigned letter.

The man arrived without an escort, wrapped in a dark cloak that barely revealed his face. The colors of Prague showed faintly among the folds of the cloak, impossible to hide. He introduced himself without a name and, after a brief bow, set the lamp down between them.

—Father Hermann —he said— I am not here to confess, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed.

The preacher raised his gaze. The lamp illuminated hazel eyes filled with resentment, but also conviction.

—No, certainly not… what do you want?

The stranger smiled in a way that made his skin crawl. He recognized that smile. He had seen it in the paintings that hung in the sacristy of Sedlec: in the demons tempting saints, in the twisted mouths that opened in the frescoes of the Last Judgment. That same calm of someone who does not fear punishment, because he already lives it every day.

—The fire is spreading through the whole city… but it has not yet been lit. I know you’ve seen it, Father. One single spark will be enough for everything to explode.

—And why would I want that? The districts are already divided enough. If we are not careful… it may be us Catholics who will have to abandon the city.

The stranger set down a pouch upon the stone. Ostentatious, heavy with enough coin to flood the parishioners with alms corrupted by tyranny.

For a moment, the only sound was the drip of water seeping through the rock. Hermann looked at the pouch without touching it. The other man’s face remained in shadow, but his eyes gleamed with a determination that bordered on inhuman. Was this what temptation looked like?

—Evil does not always arrive with a sword, Father. Sometimes it comes dressed in nobility, embroidered with golden thread… —the man stepped closer with measured steps—… set with jewels that could ransom a king. Collecting taxes for that same king who turns his back on us.

Hermann took a few steps back, intimidated not by the stranger’s size, but by his conviction.

—Think on it, Father. You will not have another chance like this… Keep these coins, and do not let them return to the coffers of the traitor.

The man withdrew without waiting for an answer. The light of his lamp faded down the tunnel, until only the damp breath of the mine remained. Hermann stayed there a moment, hands clasped, murmuring a prayer he was not sure was meant to ask for forgiveness… or courage.

That night, upon leaving, he heard from the houses the mutter of miners drinking and laughing. And he thought that, with the right words, that laughter could turn into something far more dangerous.

Night was falling over the cobbled streets. The houses were strangely quiet, as if keeping a secret that would soon come to light. The old priest, without a parish for years, walked slowly, trying to listen to the rumors of the city.

The wind carried a very peculiar murmur, filled with voices of all ages and sexes. Angry voices, indignant voices… words full of rage and pain.

Godwin quickened his pace and reached the square in front of St. James’s bell tower. There, a whole crowd had gathered, shouting and weeping. At the center, one of the preachers who had been railing against the followers of Jan Hus spoke in a firm tone.

—Brothers… the Lord tests His people with false prophets. You shall know them by their deeds, by their…

The preacher’s voice was lost beneath the crowd as Godwin pushed through toward the other side. He had seen someone familiar, sheltered under a green cloak. When he reached him, his expression changed. His friend was afraid, not for himself, but for Godwin.

—Samuel! What is happening?

Sam grabbed Godwin by the arm and pulled him away from the crowd, head lowered so no one would recognize him.

—You have to leave, now! —he fell silent as a group of miners passed by, heading toward the people— This is dangerous… they’re stoking the fire. Something bad is going to happen tonight, Godwin.

In the distance, the preacher’s voice rose above the shouts, letting the wind scatter it like sparks from a bonfire.

—Have you not seen who walks among us, collecting in the King’s name? Do you not know who protects those who blaspheme against the Church? A traitor sleeps in our city! And his name is known to all!

A murmur rose like a burning ember among the faithful. “Kobyla”, someone whispered.

Another repeated it, and the name spread from mouth to mouth, unstoppable as lightning splitting the earth.

Hermann lowered his gaze but did not stop them. He had crossed the line, and he knew it. He felt the weight of the coins beneath his tunic, witnesses to the power silver held in the hearts of men.

From the back of the square, just behind Hermann, a young miner rose to his feet, fists clenched.

—If God condemns him, then so can we! —he shouted.

The chorus of voices followed, turning whispers into shouts, into oaths.

The people deserted the square with the brutal conviction of those who have mistaken hatred for faith.

In the upper part of the city, Radzig enjoyed the warmth of the fire and the beer in his throat. His men spread throughout the inn, some playing dice, others simply talking while their mugs were endlessly refilled.

One of his captains muttered that he did not trust the place. Radzig smiled wearily.

—I have not come to fight —he said— Though I suppose no one enjoys the visit of a man who demands their silver, right?

Radzig gave him a few reassuring pats on the back, smiling nervously. He felt it too. The tension in the streets, far stronger than on his last visits. Something had changed, though he did not yet know what.

From the shadows, a pair of eyes observed him closely. He knew what was coming; he had been in the square… but unlike the others, he knew where to look. He had the choice to warn the mob so they would find him faster, or to try to warn Radzig to save his life.

He watched him laugh with his men, drinking, oblivious to the world’s troubles. Radzig supported the rebels in the city, stood against his own house and his beliefs… and yet he owed him something. The friendship they once shared, the alliances from which both had profited…

This would be the last time. For his knightly honor, for the old friendship, he approached the table.

Radzig looked surprised, but smiled as he always did. He offered him a seat before him, pushing aside one of his captains.

—Sir Jan! It has been so long since we…

—There’s no time, Radzig —he interrupted, urgency sharp in his voice— They are coming for you.

Radzig did not understand, shaking his head and drinking carelessly. Perhaps the alcohol had settled too quickly into his mind.

—For me? Who wouldn’t? —his men laughed while the mood of the tavern remained cheerful.

Liechtenstein, furious for having yielded to his nobler thoughts, slammed a hand on the table and stood. He knew it was too late: in their state, they would not get far.

—I have always been good at my job, Sir Radzig. That is why I arrived before anyone else —the men fell silent for a heartbeat— The Catholics have lit the fire. Run if you can, but they are coming. They… are coming…

Sir Jan hurried away and vanished into the same shadows from which he had come. Silence flooded the tavern for a few seconds. Radzig’s breathing quickened, worsened by the alcohol. His men seemed to await his order with barely contained impatience.

Radzig looked around. The tavern’s four walls suddenly felt smaller. He felt cornered. Especially because the mob’s shouts could already be heard. Too close. Too late.

Climbing the street, the uproar grew louder. Voices of drunken, enraged people, driven by wrath. Some carried picks and hammers, others torches dripping wax and fire. At the front, the same young miner who had shouted in the square advanced with bloodshot eyes. There was no order, no plan, just fury. Behind him, a mob followed, invoking God and cursing the traitor to the king.

The first blow thundered against the tavern door.

Inside, Kobyla’s men leapt up at once. The captain rushed to brace the entrance, but the bar would not hold long under such pressure. Radzig could barely fasten his sword at his belt.

—Quick —he ordered— We must leave through the back!

The wood of the walls groaned, windows burst into splinters. The tavern maid screamed in terror behind the kitchen, shielding her head with her arms.

The air filled with smoke and shouts. The door could no longer hold; it gave way and the miners flooded inside like a wave. Some wore crosses around their necks, others bore only the dirt on their faces like a badge. The silver they mined would not fall into the hands of a traitor to their faith.

Kobyla reached the hallway, trying to defend himself from the mob. He saw one of his pages bleeding on the floor, and at the other end of the corridor, his captain had just fallen. Nothing now stood between them and Radzig.

His untouchable nobility no longer protected him.

A stone struck his shoulder, then another hit his face. The men still standing fell back, overwhelmed. In the darkness, the young miner advanced and spat on him with pure hatred.

—Traitor to Christ!

Radzig fell to the ground. He tried to get up, but the human tide dragged him out of the tavern. Outside, the cold wind cut like a blade, though the fire of the torches kept it at bay.

He felt warm blood run down his face as another stone hit the back of his head, knocking him down again. People gathered around him, but only one person caught his attention. From a distance, wearing a dark cloak, a man watched him with a smile so cruel it could be seen even in the shadows.

The color of his clothes and armor betrayed him. Radzig felt a deep sorrow in his heart, but he knew that sometimes one won… and sometimes one lost.

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky, accepting that this was the end. It was unbelievable how quickly memories returned, his whole life unfolding in mere seconds.

The blows continued, but he was lost in his thoughts. Anna, Oldrich, Ludmila… the family that had preceded him and those still to come. His friends, his men, the woman he could never marry… Henry.

He was the best part of him left in this world. He was proud of the man he had become, of the life he had built. He let that memory fill his heart with calm and warmth.

The last thing he saw was the glow of torches painting the walls red.

When the noise ceased, Prague fell silent. Only the freezing wind blew through the narrow streets, carrying with it the smell of spilled wine and blood.

At dawn, monks from St. James came to gather what remained. They did not find whole bodies, only what hatred had scattered like wildfire.

Godwin climbed the hill and dropped to his knees. The stones were still stained with blood, and the metallic scent lingered in the air. He did not speak. He did not pray. He only knelt there, hands trembling against the frost, trying to understand how a man like Radzig could have fallen.

He had to return to Rattay, to the castle, and look in the eyes of the old friend waiting for his return.

He had to tell him the truth. Tell him that his father existed no longer.

That the war everyone feared and no one dared to name… had just begun.

Chapter Text

It was a freezing morning, one of those dawns when you long for the sun to warm the stones soon. The grass was stiff with frost and the first rays of light struck the frozen droplets.

Little by little, steam rose from the field as if a fire had spread across the whole ground. Birds sang under the sun, begging for spring to arrive already, and hares ran happily through the grain.

All that calm, that stillness, was interrupted only by the clash of wood against wood.

—That’s it! Very good, Heinrich!

The young boy tried to follow his uncle’s instructions, but he was strict and demanding. Dawn had barely broken and he was already dressed only in his linen shirt soaked with sweat from the effort.

Henry had also taken off his coat and had warmed up, although he did not sweat as much as Heinrich. It would not take him long to realize that the heat of youth seemed inexhaustible.

—No… the foot back. Like this. Again. —he corrected Heinrich’s stance, and the wooden swords clashed again.

The noise had awakened Hans, who had come closer to watch his son’s progress. He had barely started a few days ago, but it seemed that the art of the sword was something innate in him. Hans leaned against a stone wall, far enough not to interrupt.

His eyes overflowed with pride at seeing Heinrich receive instruction, and his heart felt warm again watching Henry teach him. That scene was… like a dream.

A miscalculated movement. Heinrich ended up on the ground, with a smile.

Henry offered him his hand and, at that precise moment, the boy noticed Hans. He erased the smile from his face and turned it into a blush, for he felt embarrassed that his father had seen him fall into the mud. Hans smiled, full of tenderness.

—Look who has come to see us… —said Henry as he set his wooden sword against the fence — Does His Lordship also wish to train?

Hans approached them and ruffled his son’s hair with an affectionate gesture. The boy laughed again, though he was still red with embarrassment.

—Careful, “Sir Knight”… I would make you tread so much mud that you would think you had gone back to being a peasant.

Heinrich sensed an unexpected and uncomfortable silence, as if no one knew what to reply. Even so, his uncle Henry burst into laughter. It had been a long time since he had heard him laugh like that.

—All right, all right… My lord, take your son’s sword and face me. I am ready. —his tone sounded serious, but his face was full of amusement.

Henry could no longer remember when was the last time he had joked with Hans. A decade of ruling had made him more serious and distant, like a visible but unreachable star.

Hans stepped into the training ground and took Heinrich’s sword. He stretched a little and heard his joints crack. He had spent too much time behind a desk.

He got into position, and then Henry attacked.

The first clash of swords rumbled through Hans’s arms. It happened in an instant: a small delay, a block that came a heartbeat too late. But Hans adjusted his stance at once.

Henry smiled.

—Slower than I remembered, my lord.

—I am just warming up —Hans answered, holding his breath.

Another attack. Hans found himself forced to step back and grunted, made his feet obey, and began to move lighter. His body seemed to respond to the movement, his shoulders loosened, and suddenly he blocked the next strike with full firmness.

The wood trembled between them.

—That’s more like it —murmured Henry.

Hans answered with a twist of the wrist that almost caught him off guard. Henry chuckled under his breath as he felt Hans’s hilt dangerously close to his jaw. That was it, there he was. The warrior he had never stopped being.

For several exchanges, Hans managed to keep him at bay. He blocked almost at the perfect moment, and a couple of ripostes even brushed Henry’s arm.

But Henry… was still Henry.

With a swift movement, he tricked Hans and caught him in his trap. The sword flew from Hans’s hand, he lost his balance, and before he could curse… the young knight fell with him while trying to hold him.

Henry ended up on top, dominating the fight and threatening Hans’s neck with the tip of his sword.

—I think I still deserve the title of Knight —Henry whispered with a half-smile.

—And I still let you believe you beat me thanks to skill —Hans replied, without looking away.

They were both panting, though not from effort. The memories swirled in their minds as if they were thinking the same thing. As if they shared the same need to lean closer and smile until the next day. Without duties, without worries.

—Up, my lord. You have earned a rest.

Henry pulled away and offered his hand, helping him up. Heinrich clapped at the spectacle and was already getting ready to fight his uncle again, full of excitement.

Hans stepped closer to Henry and whispered.

—Tonight. If you feel like it, we could…

He did not have to say anything more. Henry’s eyes shone like two jewels and he nodded, smiling in a way he had not done in days, or weeks.

The bath had done him good. His clothes, and he himself, were stained with dirt and mud, and he could not stay like that for the rest of the day. He decided to take a break and felt rejuvenated, ready to face the afternoon.

Someone had left the window open. The sound of clashing swords could still be heard in the distance, but Henry and Heinrich’s laughter stood out above all noise. Despite the cold coming into the room, he decided to leave it open.

The morning went by quickly, and when he was reviewing some letters, Pavel knocked on the door.

—Come in.

—My lord… a rider has arrived. With a message.

Hans frowned. Why would he bother him with such insignificance?

—Then collect it and offer him food and water. Anything else?

Pavel’s uneasy face told him yes, there was something different about this.

—My lord… it is just that… he does not look like a messenger. He bears no coat of arms, no colors. He looks like a beggar and says he wishes to speak only with you. —Hans looked bored with the description — And… he says his name is Godwin.

—Godwin?! —Hans rose from his seat, astonished. —Bring him here, now.

Pavel bowed and disappeared behind the door. He soon returned, accompanied by an elderly man dressed in old, ragged clothes. His face was dirty… and Hans would swear the stains on his knees did not look like mud.

—Lord Capon. —he greeted with a small bow —I…

—Godwin! For God’s sake, it really is you… Come, sit.

Pavel left them alone. Godwin removed the coif from his head and sat where Hans indicated, barely touching the chair, as if he were afraid of dirtying the exquisite fabric with his filth.

He looked Hans in the eyes and, despite the first wrinkles, he still saw the young boy from his memories. He could not help his eyes from watering, nor the words from clogging in his throat, nor the knot that formed in his chest.

—Sir Hans. —he said, with a grave voice —Something has happened.

Jitka paced in front of the fire, restless. Hans remained seated in his armchair, his gaze lost, reflected in the cup he held. A log split and rekindled the flames.

—You have to tell him, the sooner the better. —Hans did not answer —Radzig’s men… God, they… —she covered her face with her hands and tried to hold back her tears — I will tell them. I will explain it to them but you… you have to tell Henry.

She knelt in front of Hans, but his gaze was still lost. She took the cup from his hand and intertwined her fingers with his. She forced him to look at her.

—Hans.

Nothing. Hans’s mind was somewhere else, far from there. It was in Prague, imagining how it had happened. It was in Henry, in the pain he would feel. It was lost in the future he feared.

—Hans. —she repeated —Look at me. You have to tell him.

For a moment, he returned to reality. Jitka’s soft hands rested on his, and her eyes looked at him with worry and anguish. He cherished her as his best friend, his confidant, and it hurt him to see her suffer. Especially if she suffered because of him.

—Do not worry, dear. I will tell him. I… will do it.

They embraced and let the tears flow as if there were no obstacles. As if they knew they were the first tears of many.

—You must be firm, Hans. I know you cared for Sir Radzig, but you cannot break the agreements you signed in Vienna. Now more than ever, it is very dangerous. Tell me you will not do it. Swear it.

Hans opened his mouth, but he did not respond.

Henry entered the room, with the mud freshly washed from his skin. He had gone to the baths first, just so he could embrace Hans without remorse, knowing he would be waiting for him. That thought had occupied his mind all day.

It felt strange that the room was so cold. The fire in the hearth had burned out long ago, and the room was lit only by the small lanterns on the walls. Henry approached to light the fire, and then he saw Hans asleep in the armchair.

The wine cup had slipped from his fingers and lay on the floor. Empty.

He approached Hans silently and, when he was beside him, he knelt down slowly. With the tip of his fingers he brushed aside a stubborn lock from his forehead, gazing at him for an instant that felt eternal. Then Hans’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened, meeting a smile he knew far too well.

Henry leaned in without thinking, his lips brushing Hans’s with a softness filled with urgency. But Hans pulled away abruptly, rising from the armchair as if the touch had burned him.

—Henry… You should… sit down. —he murmured as he cleared his throat —I want to tell you something.

Hans’s expression was serious and grim, too much so. Henry became frightened for a moment, but he obeyed. He sat in the now empty armchair, letting the lingering warmth in the fabric wrap around him like an embrace from Hans himself.

—News has arrived from Prague. —he continued.

—Oh, good. Do they already know when my father will return?

Henry’s innocent words pierced Hans’s heart like daggers. He did not even know where to begin.

Hans swallowed, feeling every word turning into thorns inside his mouth.

—Henry… —he began, but his voice failed him. He had to look away toward the window, anywhere but at Henry waiting for an answer that would break him — He… he will not return.

Henry blinked. A pause. A disbelieving smile that tried to make sense of what he had heard.

—What… what do you mean? —he asked in a thread of a voice.

Hans clenched his fists, as if that way he could cling to the idea that saying it would make it less real.

—There has been… an attack in Prague. A riot. —he took a deep breath, breaking.

The silence became unbearable. Henry felt a knot rising in his throat, refusing each word. He stood up from the armchair as if it burned, placing himself at Hans’s height, begging that his words were not true.

—No —he whispered, shaking his head— No, Hans… my father is… he is…

—I know —Hans interrupted, suffocating —But Henry… —he closed his eyes for a moment —Radzig is dead.

The words resounded like a hammer striking an anvil. Harsh, heavy, precise.

Slowly and silently, Henry turned and leaned against the window frame. He lowered his head, and for a moment Hans did not know if he was going to cry, vomit, or scream. He remained silent for long seconds that felt eternal, until he turned back and Hans saw Henry’s true face.

He was not crying. He could not. His stomach hurt and he needed to scream, he needed to cry, but the tears simply refused to leave his eyes. Disbelief turned to pain, and that pain quickly became anger. Vengeance.

Henry knew that feeling. He had fed on it, breathed thanks to it… And like everything in life, it had returned.

—Who… did this?

His words cut the air as sharp as a blade. Calm, dangerous, full of contained rage ready to explode. His measured calm and his dark, painful stare were more frightening than any scream.

—I do not know, Henry. No one knows. It was… —he sighed, trying to steady himself —It was a mob. They say most were miners, but it is impossible to know their names.

Henry clenched his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white. His breathing grew short and fast, as if air was not enough to contain the fury trying to escape his chest.

—Min… miners? —he spat the word with contempt— That is not an answer, Hans! That is not justice!

Hans stepped closer, but Henry stopped him with a look. A look he had never seen in him.

—My father deserves a name. —Henry continued, his voice tense— A culprit. A face to confront. Someone to look in the eyes when I run my sword through him.

The entire room seemed to shrink around them.

—Henry… —Hans tried to speak, softly, cautiously.

—I will not sit here while his murder fades in the minds of those who forget quickly! —he interrupted, his voice breaking — I cannot… I cannot lose him like this, Hans.

Hans said nothing. He remained still, enduring Henry’s fury like a rock facing the sea.

—Give me your best men. I will leave for Prague today and deliver justice. I must go before the killers escape. Have my horse prepared and… —Hans did not move, he simply listened to Henry’s demands with a distant gaze. —… Hans?

The silence hurt more than his words, because he knew what it meant. Refusal. He exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath until then. With his eyes moist, he finally found the courage to speak to Henry.

—You cannot go to Prague, Henry. —his hands trembled, but he hid them behind his back —You are a knight of Pirkstein, you are one of my men. You… you cannot…

He faltered at the end when Henry interrupted him.

—Cannot? —he pronounced it as firmly as a sentence — Cannot demand justice for the murder of my father? Sir Radzig Kobyla! —he shouted —The Royal Hetman!

Hans clenched his fists. He did not like this, but Henry was his knight and he had to impose the respect due to a Lord of Leipa.

—You are not going, Henry. —Hans’s voice cracked before rising —We cannot attack the Catholics. There are pacts… alliances to respect. And of course Radzig’s death pains me! —the shout burst from deep within him —But I must think of Rattay. Of what we have built. No… —he took a deep breath, swallowing the knot in his throat —You will not go to Prague.

He forced himself to keep a firm gaze, even though tears threatened to overflow. Denying Henry his vengeance hurt him more than the news itself.

Henry did not respond. His silence was torment. He began pacing the room with no direction, like a cornered animal, until the pain became rage and he slammed his fist on the table. The wood trembled under the blow, but Hans did not move an inch.

Then came the scream.

A cry torn from both rage and sorrow, filling the room and making it seem to shake entirely.

—He was my father! They took him from me, Hans. They killed him like a dog in some filthy street. And you want me to sit here doing nothing!

He grabbed the table with his hands, lifting it and throwing it to the floor. Henry shook his head, incredulous, feeling betrayed by the only home he had ever known. He stepped back. Then again. The distance between them became an abyss.

—Fine. I do not need your men. I will go alone.

Hans shook his head.

—No, Henry. I repeat, you are Sir Henry of Pirkstein. You cannot attack the Catholics.

His voice sounded different. Firm. This was not a request or a suggestion, it was an order.

—Will you force me to beg? —Hans remained silent — After… after everything I have done for you? After everything we have lived through? —his voice began to rise, lost more and more between hatred and pain —I followed you all the way to damned Constantinople, to the very end of the world… and this is how you repay me?

Henry clutched his chest, as if his breath was escaping in pieces. His pupils shook, searching for a crack in reality that would let him escape.

—It cannot be… you are really going to do this. You… you!

He ran his hands through his hair in despair, messing it up with rage.

—Henry! —Hans shouted, wounded by his words —You must calm down.

—Calm down!? … Calm down…? —he looked at him again, fury burning in his eyes— I will calm down when I see life fade from the eyes of the murderers!

Henry was beyond reason. He felt betrayed by the person he had given everything to, the one he had given his life to. He needed to leave and breathe.

He walked toward the door, ignoring that Hans stood unmoving in the middle of the room. Henry did not think that he was not the only one with a shattered heart. He was ready to leave, ready to abandon him with no words of farewell.

—Guards! —Hans shouted.

That single word pierced Henry’s heart like a burning dagger. It hurt, physically hurt. More than he ever thought something said by Hans could hurt. He turned and fixed his gaze on the nobleman, but Hans had already decided.

The guards entered the room, astonished, ready to obey. They waited for Lord Capon’s orders.

—Escort Sir Henry to Pirkstein. He must not leave the castle. Close the portcullis if necessary.

The order struck like a stone hitting water.

—You would not dare… —Henry threatened in a broken whisper. Wounded, pained.

—It is not only for your sake, it is for everyone’s sake —Hans replied with all the coldness he could gather.

He made a gesture with his head. The guards seized Henry by the arms. He struggled at the first touch, but the weight of the betrayal burning in his gut finally overcame the fury. Disappointed, he let himself be taken.

They escorted him down the corridor. Henry could feel Hans’s gaze fixed on the back of his neck. He did not turn around. In his mind there was only space for the image of Pirkstein’s furniture he was going to smash.

Chapter Text

He had never seen Uncle Henry being taken away by the guards to Pirkstein before. Nor had he ever seen that look in his eyes, filled with pain and anger, defeated yet furious at the same time.

Heinrich got scared and ran to his mother, who explained what was happening. He couldn’t talk to his father, not now.

However, someone else filled his thoughts. Ludmila must have already heard the news, and he had no idea where she’d gone. Neither did Jitka. The boy searched for the girl all over the upper castle, cursing her great talent for hiding.

He went through corridors and rooms, but she still didn’t appear. Night had already fallen, and he began to worry: frost was settling coldly over the stones, warning anyone outside that it was time to light the hearth. If Ludmila didn’t show up soon…

That was when he remembered a very special place. The image flashed in his mind like lightning, appearing and vanishing as quickly as the light itself. Heinrich darted toward the courtyard, crossing the dirt and heading behind the smithy.

There, under a huge pile of hay, came the sound of muffled sobbing.

Heinrich hurried closer and pushed the dry grass aside, finding a girl curled up, trembling from the cold.

—Ludmila… —he whispered, barely audibly.

The girl straightened up and wiped her tears with her sleeve.

—Hein… Heinrich… —she had cried so much that she still couldn’t pronounce the words properly. —You… you found me.

Heinrich took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, and soon she stopped trembling. She nestled under its warmth, and Heinrich wrapped his arms around her, helping her to calm down. The freezing air fell over their heads, but the children didn’t move.

Minutes passed as they stayed embraced, huddled beneath the hay, trying to find a warmth that never quite reached them. Ludmila began to feel comforted, but the memory of her father kept returning to punish her again and again.

—Ludmila, —Heinrich’s voice was soft as a melody —we have to go back to the castle. We’ll freeze out here.

The girl shook her head and pulled away from him.

—Then go. Leave me. —she answered bitterly, burying herself deeper into the pile of hay. Hiding from the world.

Heinrich stood there, watching her dress disappear into the grass. The wind wasn’t blowing, yet the cold began to settle deep inside his body. He looked up at the sky, wishing he could carry all of Ludmila’s pain, hoping he could be strong enough for her.

He followed the girl into the depths and, beneath the weight of the dry grass, held her in his arms. Ludmila trembled, not from the cold, but because she could no longer hold back another sob. Heartbroken, curled beneath Heinrich’s cloak, Radzig’s face returned to her mind.

But then she felt it, the scent of Heinrich, his warm and sincere embrace around her. He hadn’t left; he didn’t seem to want to leave… None of those comforting sensations managed to soothe her until she heard Heinrich’s whisper in her ear.

—I’ll never leave you.

Dawn hadn’t yet broken, but Hans couldn’t wait any longer. He hadn’t slept a wink all night; his dark circles were silent witnesses to that. He felt exhausted, his head ached… but his heart ached more.

He wrapped himself up well and left the castle. He didn’t take his horse, he felt like walking, hoping the cold might clear his thoughts, or at least cool the heat burning in his forehead.

When he reached the gates of Pirkstein and saw the portcullis lowered, a bitter pang made his whole body tighten from within. The guard saw him waiting on the other side and, without needing orders, raised the gate.

Hans swallowed hard, trying to suppress the nausea forming in his stomach, and walked forward with determination. He took off his coat before entering the castle, and the guard collected it.

—Where is he? —he asked, his voice heavy with melancholy.

No further words were needed. Everyone in Pirkstein knew why Lord Capon was there.

—Second floor, my lord. Here’s the key.

Hans took the key without even looking at the guard. He could only think of one thing, or rather, one person. He climbed the stairs slowly, listening to the creak of the wood beneath his feet, bracing himself for what was to come.

When he stood before the closed door, he nearly lost his breath. He had to be strong, to be stoic… he was the Lord of Rattay.

He inserted the key and opened the door.

The heat hit him unexpectedly. He hadn’t expected to find Henry quietly sitting before the lit hearth, resting his head on his arm.

He stepped in and saw the wreckage. The furniture lay scattered across the floorsome broken, others simply left in careless abandonment.

The wooden chest had been overturned, clothes strewn everywhere as if a storm had passed through. A chair was split in half, one leg torn clean off. The table had been dragged until it crashed against the wall, leaving marks in the stone that screamed the strength of his rage.

The carpet was rumpled, displaced; glasses had fallen, one broken, and a dark stain of dried wine had spread like an open wound. Even the bed had been violently unmade, as if Henry couldn’t bear the touch of the sheets.

The room had become a perfect reflection of the young man’s heart: shattered within.

Henry was still there, motionless. He didn’t say a word when the door opened. He looked like a statue carved from pure tension, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the flames, as if searching within them for a reason not to completely fall apart.

His breathing lifted and dropped his shoulders in an uneven rhythm, as though each inhale were a struggle and each exhale a defeat.

Hans stepped inside, feeling that nothing about what he was seeing was right.

—Henry… —his voice came out lower than he’d intended.

Henry’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t turn. He didn’t move. He only spoke, in a tone so controlled it was more threatening than if he’d shouted.

—So… you’ve finally found enough decency to show up.

Hans swallowed. He hadn’t expected hostility, but neither submission. He walked carefully around the fallen furniture, as if afraid that any extra noise might trigger something worse.

He stopped behind Henry. He didn’t touch him. Not yet.

—Don’t pretend you don’t understand why I did it. You needed to calm down.

Henry stood up suddenly. The chair wobbled and fell to the ground with a dull thud. He looked Hans straight in the eyes and held back his anger, forcing himself not to become the destructive storm from the night before.

He was going to confront him, maybe shout, but he clenched his fists and stepped away from Hans without saying a word, protecting himself.

Seeing Henry like that felt as if something were tearing Hans apart from the inside. It hurt deeply; he suffered in a silence he couldn’t share.

—So… am I your prisoner, then? —he finally said, almost in a whisper.

—I never said that. —he replied — You’re free to go wherever you want. You always have been. But you must remember the name you carry.

Henry stood still, like a statue about to crack. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his trembling hands. Not from fear, not even anger, but because he knew Hans was right… and that truth cut deep.

The name he bore now was greater than himself, greater than his desire for vengeance. Pirkstein. The name of a lineage he had to protect, not drag into ruin. The surname of a man who had done the impossible to save him in Vienna.

Henry understood—it truly did. He knew why neither he nor Hans could strike at Prague; he knew it logically, unflinchingly. Yet pain and anger still clouded his judgment.

—I remember, Hans. —he admitted, his voice so low it nearly vanished in the room — I never forget what I represent… But perhaps, you have.

The accusation sounded so cold and cruel it could have extinguished the fire burning beneath the hearth. Hans closed his eyes. That last line hurt more than any blade could.

—I promised I’d look after his family… I gave him my word. —Henry went on, a knot tightening in his stomach.

Hans watched as Henry’s fingers moved toward his ring, almost as if to remove it and hand it back. He didn’t. Though he hesitated for a moment.

—I know. But… —Hans tried to step closer, to feel Henry’s warmth, but he moved away.

—I won’t go to Prague. That’s a promise. —he walked past Hans toward the door. —I’ll take my brothers to their mother, to Dvorce. I promised I’d protect them, and I will.

Henry didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He only stood for a few seconds before the door, his shoulders rigid, his breathing shallow and tense.

—Don’t worry about me. —he murmured— Not anymore.

He opened the door, and no one stopped him.

The creak of the hinges sounded like a cursed farewell.

Hans took a step forward, as if the movement could undo everything, but his boots didn’t reach the ground. The vertigo of fear paralyzed him. If he said one more word… if he asked him to stay… he knew everything would break.

So he stayed silent.

And Henry left, leaving him with the words choking in his throat.

The door closed with a dull, soulless thud.

Hans pressed a hand to his chest, gripping tightly, as if he could contain the emptiness expanding inside him. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, but all he could feel was absence.

The echo of Henry’s footsteps fading down the hallway was the last thing he heard before silence consumed him.

Silence had settled not only over the castle but also across the courtyard. The cart was already prepared, and only the farewells remained. The long faces around them made it clear that everyone was dying to say something, yet no one spoke. Everyone stayed quiet.

His uncle Henry was saying goodbye to his mother, so he took the chance to approach Ludmila. No one was watching; Sir Henry of Pirkstein was leaving, and he was the center of attention.

He took the girl’s hands and gave her a letter signed by him, sealed with the crest of Leipa. Ludmila accepted it with a faint smile, trying to let happiness take the place that Heinrich brought her, but her grief was still too recent.

—Thank you… for being with me. —Ludmila whispered, her voice breaking.

—There’s nothing to thank. I’m the one who should thank you for your company. —Heinrich replied, moved. —I… I’d like to send you more letters. If that’s all right with you.

Ludmila tucked the paper away and intertwined her fingers with Heinrich’s. It felt strange, the emptiness pressing on her chest seemed to vanish when she was with him, so she let herself be wrapped in the warmth of the moment. There would be plenty of time to mourn her father’s death, but Heinrich’s farewell was imminent.

—Of course. I’ll write too. —the young pair’s eyes met for a moment, bringing a small smile to Ludmila’s lips —I’ll miss you.

Heinrich smiled sadly, for his happiness was about to leave.

—I’ll miss you too.

As if an invisible force pulled their bodies together, they drew close and melted into a long, deep, and sincere embrace. Ludmila’s hair still smelled of hay, though the feeling of her breath near Heinrich’s ear made everything else around him fade away.

When they pulled apart, both their eyes were wet and sad. With a lump in their throats, they parted with a smile and a glance, and Ludmila walked to the cart that would take her to Dvorce.

Heinrich wiped his eyes with his shirt, sighed, and steadied himself. His body trembled slightly, yet he still found the strength to approach his uncle. Jitka was hugging him tightly, but Heinrich couldn’t see his father anywhere.

—Heinrich! My boy! —Henry exclaimed —Come here.

The boy came forward, and his uncle hugged him tightly, lifting him into the air. If Ludmila’s departure left an emptiness in his chest, Henry’s tore it apart from within.

—Old Bernard will continue your sword lessons, do you hear me? —he ruffled his hair affectionately—. You’re going to be a great knight. Better than me, even.

Heinrich looked at him, and inside, a part of him wanted to scream, to let out everything building up inside.

—Will you come back soon? —he asked in a murmur that sounded almost like a plea.

Henry hesitated.

He turned his eyes toward the cart wheels, toward anything that wasn’t those innocent eyes asking for an impossible truth.

—The future… is hard to foresee, son —he finally replied, softly, almost tenderly— But it doesn’t matter where I go… you’ll keep moving forward. And that’s what matters.

Heinrich felt a sharp ache in his chest. That wasn’t a “yes,” but neither was it a “no.” It was the vague answer of someone who doesn’t want to answer.

—I promise… I’ll take care of them. All of them. —the boy said, clutching his uncle’s clothes, as if holding him could chain him to Rattay.

Henry smiled. A broken, incomplete smile that didn’t hide his pain.

—And I promise I’ll be proud of you… always.

Henry then turned and climbed into the cart. Oldrich sat beside him, clinging to his arm as if afraid of falling. Ludmila stayed at the back, her eyes fixed on Heinrich, clutching the letter tightly beneath her skirt.

The reins moved gently. The wheel creaked as they began to roll, and the cart started to move away through the gates of Rattay.

From the stairs, Hans watched with a heavy heart. Henry hadn’t looked back. Not even once. There were no more words of farewell, only those of disappointment and betrayal felt, and, unable to stop it, a tear fell from his eyes.

The departure brought back the memories of Suchdol to Hans’s mind. Henry was leaving, perhaps to certain death, and he had to stop him at all costs. He had taken a risk, taken the first step to beg him to stay… with a kiss.

Not this time.

He wanted to shout his name. He wanted to run down the stairs. He wanted to stop him from leaving.

But he did nothing.

His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. In an instant, he relived every stolen kiss, every night shared, every battle fought together… only to realize that none of those memories could stop him now.

Henry was gone. His favorite blacksmith, his knight… His Henry.

By the time he realized it, the cart had already vanished beyond the horizon.

Chapter Text

The north wind blew against the battlements, carrying with it a smell of distant smoke and damp. Night had fallen over Prague like a thick oppressive curtain, and the torches barely lit the great hall of the Commander of the Guard’s office.

He skimmed maps and condemnation orders with tired eyes, yawning before the candlelight. The night was not expected to be interesting until one of his guards entered his office with a hand over his heart.

—Commander. —announced the soldier— I bring news about Radzig Kobyla.

That name caught his attention at once. He observed the guard with the inquisitive stare of a watchdog.

—Well? Speak. —he spat the order like an insult.

—His family, Commander. His widow Anna has inherited his properties and his children have been placed under the care of Sir Henry of Pirkstein. Do you require anything else?

The commander smiled in the darkness behind his desk. The noose was tightening around Kobyla’s bastard. He would not be able to run forever but he still could not go after him, not until he had tied up every loose end.

—Yes, I want you to send another letter to Father Hermann. We still have much to discuss.

The guard nodded and disappeared down the corridor while the commander returned to his work although the maps no longer held his attention. His mind was occupied with that small village, so insignificant yet at the same time… impenetrable.

He could not attack it, not without the King’s consent and the King had made it very clear that Kobyla’s death had been a terrible loss and misfortune. He had to find another way, one that did not bear Prague’s colors… Perhaps it was the right moment to review all the sentences on his desk and force those bandits to owe him.

The letter traveled urgently through cobbled streets and crowded bridges, dodging market stalls and the wary gaze of Hussite students. The messenger crossed the courtyard of a fortified convent and stopped before the priory door.

A monk received it in silence.

—For Father Hermann —said the soldier.

The monk frowned but took the intact seal without asking questions. He knew some words were more dangerous than swords.

Hours later, in a private room of the monastery, Father Hermann waited. The murmur of the night chants drifted from the adjoining church but inside, an expectant silence reigned.

The door opened.

The commander of the guard entered without ceremony, closing it behind him. Both men measured each other, aware of the risk they were taking.

—Your messenger was quick. —said Hermann with a sharp smile— I should have guessed you were someone important.

—No need to be condescending, Father. —the commander approached and set another coin-filled bag on the floor— Your work is not finished yet.

The priest bent down and picked up the bag, hiding it urgently beneath his cassock. The weight of the silver pushed him toward the floor, making his steps heavier, more… guilty.

—Kobyla is dead. What more do you want from me?

—To continue setting an example. —the commander approached with a hand on his hilt, threatening— I want those damned rebels out of my city. All of them.

Hermann stepped back, seeking refuge in the solemnity that had already been corrupted with silver coins. The bag he had picked up grew strangely heavy, as if screaming the price of his soul.

It was far too late for remorse.

—All of them? Commander… there is nobility among the rebels. People I cannot touch. The King…

—The King is not here. —he cut him off with authority— I am.

To quiet the priest’s doubts, the commander took out another bag of coins just as heavy and set it at his feet. Hermann’s eyes gleamed with the same intensity as his greed and he had few qualms about picking it up.

He felt the coins with his fingers… he had never seen so much silver together. The wonders he could do with so much money…

—Very well. I will find a way.

The commander smiled coldly. Every man had a price, even men who had given their souls to prayer and contemplation. One only had to find the right number.

—Perfect. —he walked toward the door and before leaving, delivered his contemptuous farewell— Go with God, Father.

The window remained shut. The clashing of wooden swords that had once brought him such calm and happiness now brought only melancholy. Heinrich trained every day with old Bernard but his laughter could not be heard. That only happened with Henry.

The letters lay open, scattered across the table as if their words could escape the paper and pierce Hans’s skin. His head ached. His soul ached.

The fire crackled intensely, hypnotizing Hans with the sway of the flames. The warm dim light of dusk slipped through the window, casting long shadows around him and the silence… that eternal silence that had not left him since Henry departed.

There could be people in his office, Jitka could keep him company for hours and tell him about her son’s progress… yet silence and loneliness remained in his heart.

There was not a single day he did not think of Henry, of how he hated and loved him in equal measure. Everything he had done had been for him. The pacts he had signed to save his life, the alliances he had forged to protect his home… and this was how he repaid him. With betrayal and abandonment.

Jitka knocked on the door and interrupted his thoughts.

—My dear? I bring news from your uncle. —the woman watched him from the doorway, cautious.

—Come in. —he answered curtly— What news?

Jitka closed the door behind her and sat in front of Hans. She began speaking with indifference, as if that news had been announced years ago.

—He no longer gets out of bed. They say this may be his last winter.

Hans sighed across the table. He intertwined his fingers and pressed them against his forehead as if that gesture could clear all the thoughts swirling chaotically in his head. Finally he rose from the chair with a tired sigh.

—If Hanush… truly is like that, I cannot stay here doing nothing. —he murmured.

He crossed the room toward the wardrobe where he kept his heavy traveling clothes. The wood creaked as he opened the doors and reached inside for something very specific. He pushed aside thick cloaks, wool undergarments, neatly folded shirts…

Nothing.

He frowned. He leaned in further, almost climbing into the wardrobe.

—What are you looking for? —asked Jitka from the chair, her tone soft and curious.

Hans did not respond. He pushed another garment aside with more force than he intended. It still did not appear.

—The red hood… —he admitted at last, almost in a whisper.

Jitka blinked. She knew it well. That hood was a memory of different times: younger, more reckless… happier. A past that would not return and to which he should not draw near for the sake of his future.

—Perhaps you stored it somewhere else —she said, wanting to soften the weight of the moment— Or… perhaps it is a sign that the past must be left behind.

Hans closed the wardrobe door with a slight tremor in his fingers.

—Perhaps you are right —he replied although neither of them truly believed it.

Hanush’s room was in gloom. Only a candle flickered against the thick hot air coming from his feverish body. Hans entered without announcing himself but the older man had already heard him.

—So you have come at last —grunted Hanush, trying and failing to sit up.

Hans hurried to support him by the shoulders in an act of kindness but his uncle made an irritated gesture.

—I am not dead yet —he spat with a coldness that was pure pride.

Despite the tone, Hans did not move far.

—What do the physicians say? —he asked although the answer burned his throat.

—What would they say —Hanush let out a bitter laugh— That I am rotting from the inside. That my stomach poisons my blood… that I have days left. Perhaps a week if God decides to amuse Himself a little more.

Hans held his breath.

Hanush looked at him fixedly, his dull eyes locked onto his nephew’s. He knew of Radzig’s death and of the circumstances that had caused it. He knew well the ideas his old friend had defended… and he had underestimated the danger they carried.

The news of Sir Henry of Pirkstein’s departure had reached his home quickly, confirming the natural sequence of life. Henry had always been a loyal young man and as such, he knew he would take care of Radzig’s children. Although perhaps that same loyalty could be his downfall.

—Listen carefully, Hans. Do not think with your heart. It will make you weak… and weakness is paid with blood.

Hans clenched his jaw because he knew exactly whom he meant.

—Do not make the mistake of betraying your strongest alliances. Do not be a fool.

His voice broke for only an instant but he regained firmness as he continued.

—The King is walking a tightrope. Prague is falling apart under the flames of fanaticism and that fire may spread through all Bohemia. Protect Rattay, protect your home.

Hans swallowed.

—I… will try…

—Trying is not ruling —Hanush cut him sharply— Ruling is deciding even when everyone hates you.

Hanush breathed with difficulty. Each word seemed to tear away a piece of life yet he kept speaking.

—Rattay does not need a child full of doubts. It needs a lord. Promise me that… when the moment comes… you will rise to it.

Hans sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze distant. He knew what his responsibility was, he knew what he had to do.

—I promise.

Hanush looked at him… and smiled with pride.

—Then I can die in peace.

Winter was dying reluctantly. There was still frost clinging to the roofs and breath turned to mist when speaking yet the wind had begun to smell of flowers and damp. The branches, bare and fragile, already showed timid buds on their bark.

In the courtyard, Henry held a practice sword while watching Oldrich take on a clumsy stance, more determined than prepared.

—Your feet, there. —Henry pointed— Very good, again.

The boy huffed, focused. Henry smiled at him without realizing it.

He had done exactly the same with Heinrich and the wound of their separation was still very fresh. His temperament had always reminded him more of his father than his blond hair or blue eyes and the memory inevitably opened a hole in his heart.

Oldrich lunged. Henry received the blow while distracted but deflected the next thrust with ease. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder to mark the point. The boy growled, frustrated, yet he took his stance again. He did not give up. That also reminded him of the eldest Kobyla brother even if he was a bastard.

—Again —he said, resuming his guard.

The boy attacked too quickly without having mastered his impatience. Henry saw it coming and stepped aside at the exact moment, trapping Oldrich in his arms. The sword fell to the ground and his neck was caught between his brother’s large hands.

—Henryyy! —he protested, throwing punches in the air.

—You need to control your nerves.

Henry ruffled his hair without letting him go and the boy squirmed. Little by little his protests turned into laughter and the head pats into tickles. In the end, they both ended up on the ground raising a cloud of dust.

—Is this how knights train? —asked Anna from the doorway.

She smiled upon seeing her son happy upon seeing that the shattered pieces of her family were slowly beginning to mend. Oldrich stood up quickly and brushed the dust from his clothes.

—Mother… —he whispered, embarrassed.

—Dinner will be served soon. Go on… let your brother breathe a bit and go wash up. —she said kindly.

The boy smiled and ran off. Anna and Henry exchanged a quick glance full of understanding that required no words. Every day she thanked him for being there.

Inside the house, Ludmila had taken refuge in her upstairs room. A blanket over her shoulders, her hair half tied and ink staining her fingers.

The letter rested open on her knees. She had read it a thousand times yet even so, she let her eyes run over the words again as if afraid a line might have changed without permission.

“I miss you.”

The ink was Heinrich’s. The handwriting firm and elegant as befitted the noble heir of Leipa.

Ludmila closed her eyes. Not a day passed without her imagining his face just before the cart tore him from her sight.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Henry stopped before the half open door and spoke with a soft tone almost a whisper.

—Reading that again?

She hid the letter with quick embarrassment.

—I did not know you were there.

Henry leaned a shoulder against the frame with that half smile he always managed to keep despite any circumstance.

—It is all right… the letters. —his voice broke just a little— But you know it cannot be.

Ludmila lowered her gaze, pressing her lips together.

—I know but…

Henry nodded, feeling a familiar weight in his chest.

—What is it about the Capons, hm?

The young woman let out a nervous laugh. She looked again at the letter, tracing the signature with her fingertip. Her brother approached and sat on the edge of the bed right beside the window.

Henry wrapped an arm around her and drew her against his side resting his chin on her crown as he used to when she was little. Ludmila rested her head on his chest listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

—I love you —she murmured barely audible.

—And I love you too, little sister.

The world seemed to stop for an instant. Only the two of them existed and the stillness of that room that smelled of ink and old wood. Until Henry lifted his gaze toward the window.

He had grown used to the village’s murmur to the false safety distance provided. But something had changed outside.

A group of torches advanced in the distance crossing the road that led to the estate. Too threatening. Too many.

Henry felt his blood freeze and his arm tensed around Ludmila without him even realizing.

—Henry? —she whispered, noticing the change.

He did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on the approaching figures as if his old ghosts had returned to torment him. But they were not ghosts, they were very real.

Just like the fire they carried.

Chapter Text

—Close the gate! —he shouted without thinking, leaning out the window.

Janek and Jaroslav ran to the entrance, startled by the urgency and desperation in Henry’s cry. His father’s old soldiers lowered the iron bars and the wood groaned at their touch.

The estate sank into a thick, uncomfortable silence. In the distance, the heavy steps and scraping of boots against stone began to echo. They were coming.

—Quick!

He grabbed Ludmila by the arm and pulled her off the bed. He rummaged through her drawers in search of a coat while shouting at the rest of the house to hurry. From the kitchen, Anna heard Henry’s raised voice, though she couldn’t make out the words.

She glanced outside and saw the guards cautiously backing away from the now closed door. She neither saw nor heard anything, but her body told her something was happening. The house began to stir.

The servants darted back and forth, anxious, searching for warm clothing to protect themselves from the night. Anna went up the stairs and heard her children calling for Henry. A few steps later, she almost collided with him on the last stair.

—Henry? What is happening? —she asked, still keeping her composure.

—We have to go! Now! —he shouted, his face contorted — To the stables!

Ludmila cried under his arm, shaken. Oldrich appeared in a rush and Henry seized him by the shoulder, pushing him toward the stairs. Anna followed them, trying to stop the chaos around her from swallowing her whole, at least not yet. Henry would protect them.

They rushed out the main entrance, and the bandits had already arrived. The light of the torches glowed above the stone wall while Janek and Jaroslav piled old furniture in front of the entryway to slow them down.

The wood groaned under the blows of maces and axes that were already carving holes. The guards tried to thrust their spears through the cracks, but the bandits knew how to defend themselves. A crossbow bolt took Janek down, freezing Jaroslav where he stood.

He would have remained petrified had he not heard Henry’s shout.

—Hold them off a little longer! I need more time!

Henry pulled the children along and crossed the fence toward the stables. They never reached the horses. The bandits had already jumped the small wooden palisade and were charging furiously toward the manor. The smell of burning wood from the torches filled the air.

His mind froze for an instant. There were too many of them. How were they going to get out? Ludmila squeezed Henry’s hand tightly, more frightened than ever. That simple gesture made him understand what he had to do. He had to protect his family.

—Back! Go… —he shouted, his voice raw.

—Henry! —Oldrich cried, pointing toward the wooden door, almost destroyed.

—Do not look back! —he grabbed Oldrich’s trembling body with his free hand and guided him into the house — Follow me. We will leave through the back door.

Anna cried out when she saw Jaroslav fall beside Janek. She covered her mouth with her hands and closed her eyes so she would not see them breaking through the shattered wood. She followed her children toward the back door, trying to control the trembling in her legs.

Henry went out first. The path looked clear.

Heavy footsteps began to sound behind them, searching. Henry did not hesitate. He pushed Anna and his siblings out of the house and left them alone in the darkness.

—Go toward the river. Do not wait for me. Now! —his voice trembled, but the order rang firm, leaving no room for refusal.

There was no time for farewells. No final glance. No promise that everything would be all right. Only fear, intense and painful, and the duty to protect them.

Henry stepped back inside and shut the door behind him. His siblings’ cries were muted by the stone walls, by the barrier he had to defend at all costs.

He drew his sword, feeling the steel become part of his breath, and moved deeper into the house.

There was a bandit in the kitchen rummaging through the cupboards. He approached from behind and slit his throat with barely a sound. He stepped into the hallway and came face to face with an older man who had nothing left to lose.

After a few exchanges without much difficulty, Henry pierced him with his sword and cast him to the floor into a growing pool of blood.

Henry’s heart pounded; his breathing was steady and his resolve was stronger than ever. He went outside, blocking the entrance of the house and taking advantage of the bottleneck they would have to break through if they wanted to reach his family.

The door had finally given way, and the bandits poured in like a dark, shapeless mass, stepping over Janek and Jaroslav’s bodies, running toward their own destruction. They paused for a moment when they saw Henry.

He looked like a specter risen straight from death. His eyes filled with rage, his chest lifted, and the dripping edge of his sword a fully realized threat.

—Here. —he whispered, almost calmly— This is where your path ends.

One of them rushed forward, confident. Henry cut him down before he could even raise his weapon. Another dared, and another, but the entryway was narrow. One of the younger men managed to split his lip, yet they could only come at him one by one. Each attempt ended the same way: another body collapsing at his feet, another red stream flowing into the earth.

Henry panted, covered in blood that he no longer knew if it was his or theirs.

He had become an unbreakable wall, an impassive beast filled with conviction. The corpses piled around him and they realized it would be impossible to push him aside with steel alone. Then a sharp whistle cut through the air and a crossbow bolt buried itself in his left calf.

Henry grunted and staggered, but he did not fall. He drew in a breath, forcing himself to focus only on his enemies and not the pain spreading below his knee. He simply could not fall. He had to endure. He would never run again.

The last bandits stepped back, fear shining in their eyes. They trembled, unable to face that silent fury that refused to collapse.

The silence after the slaughter was so thick it could be felt. Only Henry’s broken breathing filled the air in a monstrous rhythm. Blood dripped from his sword in thin streams that pattered onto the ground with steady cadence.

A little longer. Give me more time…

That thought held him up like a ship barely afloat in the midst of a storm.

The surviving bandits exchanged glances. The beast was wounded and still none of them wanted to be the next to cross that narrow, deadly threshold.

Then, as if the night itself split open, the men stepped aside, allowing someone to walk forward.

Calm footsteps. Far too calm.

The torchlight illuminated a face Henry never thought he would see again. The man met his gaze with a smile so malevolent it could frighten the Devil himself.

—You… —Henry whispered, his hand trembling on the bloodied hilt of his sword.

A quick, flickering memory flashed in his mind. A vow of death and destruction born from a shattered heart, a monster he himself had created.

Erik.

The man’s smile did not change when their eyes met. It was not a smile celebrating violence but the inevitable result of it. A smile that seemed to know the fate of that night. The revenge he believed was finally his.

—Bravo, Henry. —he applauded slowly, silent mockery in every clap— Truly… you have impressed me.

Henry felt his hands shaking. The steel tip of his sword tapped against the stone as he struggled to stay upright.

—Do not take another step. —he growled, unable to find a trace of his old defiant voice— They are safe now.

—Safe? —Erik raised a brow, amused— Such an… innocent word.

Henry swallowed, feeling the burn in his throat. He looked, for an instant, toward the darkness where Anna and his siblings had disappeared. He could not see them. But he heard them. His siblings’ desperate cries as they tried to escape their captors’ grasp.

Erik tilted his head, studying him with unwavering patience.

—Tell me, Henry… —he let poison drip from every word— how many more will you kill before you admit that… you have already lost?

In that moment of silence, Erik’s men appeared from the far side of the estate with the children firmly held in their arms. Oldrich had a cut on his cheek and Ludmila’s eyes were swollen from crying. Anna was nowhere in sight.

The world closed in around Henry. A crushing pressure, an inescapable void. A sense of hopeless defeat.

—Please… no… do not hurt them. Your quarrel is with me! —he cried, almost pleading.

Erik seemed delighted by the desperation in Henry’s eyes.

—Of course it is with you, you cursed bastard. I swore I would take everything you loved, including that dear Capon of yours.

Henry’s heart stopped for a beat. Erik’s smile only widened.

He reached into a bag and after rummaging a moment, pulled out a piece of cloth that he tossed at Henry’s feet. A red hood with golden trim, worn from years of use… stained with blood.

Henry knelt and his fingers trembled as he picked it up. He would never mistake that hood. He gripped it tightly, holding back tears.

—You lie… —the word stuck in his throat.

Erik stepped closer, his eyes bloodshot.

—Do you want me to describe it in detail, Henry? —he said slowly, savoring every syllable— Do you want to imagine your dear Capon’s face as I… drained the life from his eyes?

Henry clutched the hood to his chest as if it could still hold warmth. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Erik smiled, and there was no mercy in it.

—He looked at me with that mix of surprise and loyalty he always had for you. He thought perhaps I would spare his life.

He leaned in, letting his words fall into the silence like sharpened stakes.

—He begged me not to kill him but above all, not to kill you. Loyal to the very end… was he not?

Henry felt something break inside him. He lifted his gaze, the hood clutched to his chest, his face soaked in tears he could not stop.

—Tonight —Erik continued, almost affectionate— I will take everything you are willing to die for. And I will do it… in front of you.

His siblings’ screams shattered the night again. The bandits had thrown them to the ground carelessly, pressing their heads with their boots. Slowly, carefully, just enough to keep them still.

—You and I… left something unfinished. —Henry began to piece his voice back together— A duel. We never finished our meeting in Suchdol.

Erik burst into laughter. Despite everything, despite the pitiful state he was in, that bastard still found strength to surprise him.

—Why would I accept a duel with you? Look around, I have already won.

Henry took a deep breath. His voice came out broken but filled with a subtle, firm threat.

—Because you are not here to slaughter children… —he spat the blood from his split lip— You are here for me. It has always been for me.

Erik stopped laughing. He watched Henry with a strange glint in his eyes.

—A duel. —Henry repeated, raising his sword with both hands— If I win… you let my family go. Everyone still alive. You let them go and disappear.

The bandits shifted, murmuring among themselves. The proposal hung like a dangerous spark… but Erik snuffed it out with a soft laugh.

—And if I win? —he asked, tilting his head with false innocence.

Henry did not look away.

—If you win… you do whatever you want with me. I surrender. Without resistance.

A sharp silence fell between them. Erik began circling him slowly, studying him like a wolf measuring its prey.

—If you die, they all die. —he declared— If you lose… you will live long enough to watch me tear them apart one by one.

He pointed at the blood still dripping from Henry.

—But if… by some miracle… you win… I will let them go.

Henry swallowed. It was not a fair deal. It was not a humane one. But it was the only chance he had.

—I accept.

Erik smiled with hunger. Watching that proud knight fall would be amusing, and Henry had no chance of winning that duel.

—Then come closer, Henry. —his voice sounded like a sentence— Let us finish what began that day.

Chapter Text

The clash of steel against steel rang out sharply, like distant thunder, while the afternoon sun caught brief flashes with every strike. The exchange was fast and relentless. A perfectly learned dance in which the slightest mistake could be fatal.

When the boy was not strong enough and his guard gave way, the master’s blade stopped dangerously close to his face.

—Not bad —he repeated, watching the young man catch his breath.

The silence lingered for a few seconds, broken only by the warm breeze crossing the yard and by the slight tremor in the boy’s arm, still tired.

—Listen —said Bernard, not harsh but firm— When your strength fails you, and believe me, it will, don’t try to take the blow head-on. You can’t. Step back half a pace, change the angle, let the other’s force pass you by. The sword isn’t meant to prove you’re stronger… but to keep you alive.

Heinrich nodded slowly, as if the words needed to find a place inside him before settling.

Bernard pressed his lips together, loosened his wrist, and raised his sword again.

—Again —he ordered— And this time, when your arms give out… use your head.

The swords met once more, and the echo of their struggle resonated in his father’s window. Hans seemed to come out of his distraction when he heard the unmistakable clash of steel; like a melody perfectly fused with his soul.

His guest kept talking, and his cup of wine remained untouched.

Capon ran a hand through his hair, uneasy, as he watched the shadows cast by the fire over the map stretched out on the table.

—More pilgrims arrive every day. If we don’t take control of the situation…

Peter of Sternberk kept talking while Hans’s mind drifted elsewhere, to distant places or to words he had never spoken. He heard what he said, but listened to his voice as if from underwater.

It bored him. It was already the fourth time he had received his visit, and he was tired of always discussing the same thing: the rebels’ advance and the gradual loss of control. How many times did he have to answer that he had his support?

Sir Peter noticed Hans’s boredom, how his eyes struggled to stay open and focused on him. He took a sip of wine and sat down before him, pretending to take a break.

—How is the region? Do you have good men? —he asked without harshness, almost with resignation.

The question made Hans react. His men? Why could he only think of one?

—Stable, Sir Peter. I have good men, loyal and well trained.

Hans let out a sigh that seemed to have been trapped in his chest for weeks.

—I’m glad to hear it. Lately there are rumors of uprisings and villages reduced to ashes. Sir Radzig’s death has certainly lit the fuse.

Hans watched Sir Peter drink from his cup calmly, almost with a smile on his lips.

—If I didn’t know you well, I’d say you’re pleased about his death.

Peter said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed on Hans, as if the answer were obvious to anyone on his side.

—No… You… you had nothing to do with it, did you? —Hans’s voice trembled slightly, as if he feared hearing an answer he didn’t want.

The silence was broken by a laugh.

—Please, Lord Capon… I am not that foolish. I would never conspire to murder the Royal Hetman. Would you believe me if I said I only want peace? The Catholics made a mistake killing him in such a… savage way.

The word caught in his throat, as if he were imagining the horror Radzig had endured. He wouldn’t have wished it even on his worst enemy.

—Besides —he continued solemnly— they shouldn’t have gone after his family. This whole matter could get out of hand at any moment. I fear for Bohemia.

Hans kept his eyes on Peter, trying to decipher whether his words were sincere or just another layer of the half-truths nobles wrapped themselves in. But something in Peter’s voice didn’t sound like an act.

—What do you mean? —Hans insisted.

—You haven’t heard yet? Well, they’re only rumors but… —he took a sip of wine to wet his throat and continued without embellishment— the village of Dvorce has been reduced to ashes. They say no one survived.

The world seemed to shrink around Hans. An invisible pressure closed his chest, smothered his breath. Dvorce. The name echoed within him like a blow. He knew who was there.

For a moment he thought his voice would break if he tried to speak.

But Peter kept watching him, expectant.

Hans forced his jaw to remain firm. He straightened his back. Blinked once, slowly, just enough to swallow the tremor.

—I… see —he managed to say, with a calm so forced it almost hurt his throat.

Peter tilted his head, perhaps interpreting the reaction as indifference, perhaps as acceptance.

—I will not say Sir Radzig deserved it for supporting Hus’s followers, but I am surprised they dared strike his lands and his family. The King’s power grows weaker each day… That is why we must remain strongly united!

Hans felt his hands, hidden under the table, clench so tightly his nails dug into his skin. Inside he was a storm: fear, anger, disbelief… a vertigo threatening to swallow him whole. Dvorce. Ashes. Henry…

But his face remained unbroken. A mask he could not afford to let slip.

Peter let out a heavy sigh, as if the news were just another in a long list of tragedies.

—Indeed, Sir Peter. House Leipa will support Sternberk.

The words tasted of iron and salt on his tongue.

Peter turned his gaze back to the map, perhaps satisfied that the conversation could continue.

Hans, meanwhile, felt something inside him begin to collapse silently, like a house without foundations. And yet he held his expression steady, as if nothing had happened.

In Lady Jitka’s chambers, the sweet scent of freshly baked honey pastries floated through the air, arranged along the table to please the ladies’ palates. Katarina of Kolovrat, Sir Peter’s wife, was busy cross-stitching while chatting with Jitka.

The sound of swords could no longer be heard in the yard, so she assumed Bernard’s training had ended.

—Has your son also begun his fencing lessons, Lady Katarina? —she asked out of simple curiosity, holding a warm cup between her hands.

—Not yet. His father had decided to postpone it until next year, but with how things are… —Katarina left the phrase hanging, pulling the thread with more force than necessary.

Before Jitka could respond, a soft knock sounded at the door. Not a ceremonial one, but the impatient tap of someone unsure whether they should enter.

—Come in —said Jitka, already smiling, knowing who she would see.

The door opened just enough for Heinrich to peek in. His hair was messy, still damp with sweat from training, and his eyes shone with that mix of tiredness and curiosity only the young could carry effortlessly.

—Mother… am I interrupting? —he asked, though he was already stepping inside.

—No, son. What is it?

Heinrich hesitated a moment, feigning a very serious reflection to justify his presence.

—Sir Bernard… told me… to rest before continuing. And… —he glanced sideways at the table, where the pastries were still steaming— …I thought maybe I could help you… test them.

Jitka hid a light laugh.

—Ah, yes. How thoughtful of you. Come, sit a moment. But just one —she said with a smile.

The boy dropped into the seat beside her, stealing a small piece of pastry, as if that would preserve the illusion that he was there purely out of culinary duty.

—Peter received news this morning. Terrible news. —Katarina continued, without lifting her eyes from her embroidery.

Jitka felt a shiver at the sudden change in tone.

—What is it?

Katarina took a deep breath. The silence grew so heavy that Heinrich, still chewing, froze completely.

—Rumors… —she finally said— Rumors carrying words of fire and destruction. Rumors that the entire village of Dvorce burned, and no one survived. Dear God…

She made the sign of the cross with her fingers, calming herself as she did so.

Jitka parted her lips, but no sound came out. Heinrich went rigid. Half the pastry slipped from his hand without him noticing.

—Dvorce…? —he repeated, in a voice so thin it barely seemed his own.

Katarina looked at him then, surprised, perhaps regretting speaking so plainly in front of the boy.

—I’m sorry —she whispered—. I thought… that you already knew.

Jitka understood perfectly the weight of her words, but she feared for her son. She glanced at Heinrich, gripping his hand tightly. She felt the tremor in him, small and hidden, but impossible to deny.

—Terrible news indeed. It’s a wise idea for your son to start his lessons as soon as possible. My Heinrich has improved so much in these past months that…

Heinrich noticed the shift in the conversation. His mother had redirected Katarina’s attention, giving him a moment of privacy, a moment to breathe and calm his chest.

He looked at the floor, tried to remain steady as his father had taught him, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from watering, nor the tears from escaping against his will.

He turned so they wouldn’t see him, and excused himself from the ladies.

He ran down the corridor, searching for anywhere to hide. Perhaps with his father, perhaps beneath the blankets of his bed… Anywhere that didn’t make him feel the castle walls closing in on him.

The retinue was ready to depart that sunny morning. The banners of the Sternberk family waved above, and the veteran knight was bidding Lord Capon a cordial farewell.

The lord of Rattay, dressed in a yellow doublet and a velvet tunic, stood with an elegant and serene bearing, exactly as expected from a man of his rank.

Heinrich still had red eyes and his head lowered, shoulders slumped. Not even the sun warming his back managed to chase away the cold that had settled in his heart.

Lady Jitka stood behind her son, her hands on his shoulders, letting him know she was there and would not let him fall. She too had cried the night before. For Radzig’s children, for Henry… and for the pain she knew would soon consume her husband.

The alliance hadn’t fallen. Lord Capon remained on good terms with Lord Sternberk, and so it would continue until the moment Sir Peter both foretold… and feared.

—Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Capon. —said Sir Peter.

—It has been a pleasure to receive you, as always. I wish you a safe journey home.

Hans’s words sounded steady and calm, like him. The two knights said their goodbyes and, after spurring their horses, the retinue slowly left Rattay’s courtyard.

The silence that followed was broken only by Heinrich’s unconscious sob, unable to hold back his tears any longer. He knew his house’s position, knew he shouldn’t weep for the daughter of a rebel… but he was still too young to master his emotions.

Everyone expected life to continue as usual, that Lord Capon would return to his office to catch up after Sir Peter’s visit… but that was not what happened.

With the firm step of a man who has already made a decision, Hans approached his family. He embraced Jitka and crouched to meet his son’s eyes. They looked at each other, and Heinrich saw a determination in his father he had never witnessed before.

—They’re only rumors. —he said firmly. —I will bring them back. I promise you.

He kissed his forehead and headed toward the stables, steady and resolved, unafraid of being judged. Jitka froze, watching how her husband was ready to leave, ready to endanger an alliance that kept them safe.

She left her son behind and ran after Hans.

The stablehand was hurriedly fastening Atenon’s reins while Hans quickly changed clothes. Right there in the stable, into garments he had prepared the night before.

His hunting attire, as familiar to him as his own skin. A dark linen tunic, light but sturdy, and a cured leather jerkin. He adjusted the mottled green cloak, perfect for blending into the undergrowth, and buckled the wide belt from which hung a dagger, a pouch of tinder, and a leather waterskin.

The tall, reinforced boots were stained with dry mud. A reminder of the last hunt he had shared with the one now missing from his life.

The young stablehand strapped some saddlebags onto Atenon’s back, filled with supplies the kitchen had prepared. There was dried and smoked food for several days, as well as several skins of wine to warm the stomach.

Hans was about to mount Atenon when hurried footsteps echoed at the entrance. Not the heavy rhythm of a soldier, nor the nervous tread of a servant.

Lighter. More determined.

—Hans! —Jitka’s voice reached him before she did.

She burst into the stable with her skirts lifted slightly to avoid tripping, her hair loose in strands that showed how quickly she had run. Her cheeks were flushed, not only from the effort but from fear.

—You can’t leave like this —she said, positioning herself between him and the horse, as if she alone could stop him.

Hans didn’t look at her, trying to avoid hearing “you can’t break your oath.” But that wasn’t what Jitka said.

—Here, don’t forget this. —she extended her arm and offered Hans his bow.

He took it and felt the roughness of the old but well-kept wood. The string was still taut, and at the tip, a small piece of wood was missing. He remembered how he had carved that tiny bit into the shape of a ring.

Something so simple, so insignificant and of little value… and yet Henry had never taken it off since the moment he gave it to him. Henry. He shouldn’t have let him go…

The stablehand stepped aside silently, knowing this was none of his concern.

Jitka lifted her eyes to Hans; they were misted, though she tried to keep them steady.

—Tha… thank you. —Hans managed, a knot tightening his throat.

—Bring them back. —the young woman pleaded.

He met her eyes and nodded, a promise without words: he would do it, he would go to the ends of the earth to find them.

He slung the bow over his back, spurred Atenon, and left Rattay without looking back.

Chapter Text

The silence had overtaken the forest, broken only by the pounding of Atenon’s hooves and his ragged breathing. The stallion, once strong and vigorous, was not accustomed to riding for nearly three days without rest.

When they reached the road that led directly to Dvorce, Hans allowed him a moment to breathe. His legs trembled, his skin frothed with sweat beneath the saddle yet even so, he did not fail his master. He pawed at the dry earth and Hans calmed him with a gentle stroke.

—We’re almost there. Just a little more… —he whispered into the animal’s ear.

With one last effort, they hurried down the road until they reached the manor. Or rather, its ruins.

A very real chill ran down his spine when he saw Radzig’s mansion collapsed in on itself. The horse approached slowly, as if sensing something Hans could not.

The silence was deafening. The birds were gone, the wind had stilled and the echo of his steps resounded on the floor tiles, on the cracked stones of the walls. They reached the entrance and Hans felt a brief dizziness when he saw the shattered door.

The wood had been reduced to splinters, the doors had given way under what seemed to be the pressure of an army and the ironwork was bent and forced. He swallowed and dismounted.

Slowly, very slowly, he crossed the courtyard and headed toward what remained of the house. The upper floor had burned and the roof had collapsed, bringing several pillars down with it. He entered with extreme caution, shielding his head, unsure of what to look for or what to expect.

All the rooms were ransacked. The beams were blackened by the fire and the remains of burnt objects were scattered across the floor. When he opened a door, a wardrobe toppled over and sent up a cloud of ash that made Hans cough. He covered his nose with his sleeve and ran out.

He coughed again as he breathed the clean air, then brushed off all the ash that had fallen on him. He stared at his hands, blackened and dirty with the remains of a disaster that should never have happened. His legs wavered and he had no choice but to kneel.

A knot formed in his chest. A heavy lump that cut his breath, that trapped his mind. He brought his hands to his eyes. He wasn’t crying; he refused to. He needed to release it, he wanted to scream what he felt. Scream… scream.

—HENRY!?

Had that been a question? Did he truly expect Henry to emerge from all that destruction as though nothing had happened? The lump in his chest slowly shifted into weight behind his eyes, a need to cry… but something caught his full attention.

There, right by the door, beneath the mud and ash, a small red piece of cloth emerged. It didn’t belong there. Something so delicate… and colorful.

He crawled a few steps and brought his trembling fingers to the tiny scrap that had not been stained. Like a small miracle, like the only flower to bloom among ashes.

But it wasn’t small. He grasped the red tip and pulled it toward him, leaving a trail of ash behind. He shook it and the red reappeared little by little… revealing that it was a hood.

—What the…?

He took his canteen and with the water he had left, cleaned the cloth until he could see it clearly. It wasn’t just any hood, it was HIS hood. There were stains that the water didn’t remove, dark stains clinging to the threads… Blood.

Hans still didn’t understand how it had ended up there but bloodstains were never a good omen. Had Henry taken it and been harmed? Unlikely…

He clutched the hood tightly, as if he could hold on to a past that had already slipped through his fingers. He looked around, searching for something, anything that might help him understand. Everything remained in that strange calm, as though any disturbance would shatter the spell.

He stood and headed to the stables. Maybe something had survived. He passed through the entrance and walked into the wide stretch of land where the horses used to graze, and then he saw them.

In the distance, in the shadow of the tallest stone wall, he saw several crosses planted in the ground. The hood slipped from his fingers and fell silently, as though it had always belonged to that scene of horror and grief.

Hans ran, though his legs shook, and when he reached the crosses he collapsed. He counted them, five in total. Five wooden crosses driven into the swollen earth, still too fresh for anything to grow upon it. There were no names or marks, only five mounds.

He lifted his eyes and hands to the sky, begging, pleading for a little mercy.

—Do you want me to dig five graves to find out who lies there? Is that what you expect of me? —he asked upward, as though expecting an answer.

He couldn’t even imagine it. He truly needed to know whether Henry lay beneath his feet, though the sad reality was that whatever had happened, the family had inevitably fallen. He imagined his younger siblings, the girl his own son had fallen in love with…

He turned aside and tried to vomit, but he hadn’t eaten in days. That helped him keep his composure. He looked toward the wall and there it was, almost mockingly, the shovel they had used to bury the bodies.

Hans let out a tired, sorrowful laugh, as if he knew fate itself were laughing at him. Well, he couldn’t leave without Henry. He… couldn’t.

—My lord? Are you all right?

A sharp, distant voice pulled him from his thoughts. Too sweet, too gentle. He turned and saw a young woman, dirty and exhausted, holding a basket with barely one or two apples.

—What… happened here? —he asked, his voice hoarse and broken. The girl crossed herself, still fearful of that day. She let the basket fall and clasped her hands in prayer before speaking.

—Oh my God… if you only knew… —she crossed herself again and stepped closer— It was horrible, an army of bandits arrived with torches at nightfall. They let the servants go but… but… my God.

—Who? Who is buried here? Speak, woman. —his tone turned suddenly stern, filled with urgency for the truth.

The girl looked at him, her eyes wet.

—All… Lord Kobyla’s men, his wife… the… the… —she swallowed her tears— the children.

Hans felt a stab in his chest, as if his heart had skipped several beats. After a few seconds, it steadied. It was true… they were all buried beneath his feet. But… what about the person for whom he had left everything?

—Sir Henry? Sir Radzig’s bastard? What became of him?

The girl said nothing, as though she lacked the strength to form the words. Hans rose, and with undeserved fury, shook her.

—Speak! Where is Henry?

She began to cry in his arms, desperate and afraid.

—I don’t know, my lord… They… I think… they took him.

—They took him? Why? Where?

The girl sobbed, curled in Hans’s arms like a wounded creature. He loosened his grip for an instant, aware that desperation was turning him cruel without meaning to. Even so, his breath remained ragged, almost painful, as he waited for an answer.

—Please… —he managed, in a faint voice that hardly sounded like his own— I need to know. I need to know what became of him.

The girl covered her face with both hands, trembling. The sound of her broken breaths filled the empty air between them.

—I… I didn’t see everything, my lord —she stammered at last— I was inside… I was preparing the bread… and suddenly I heard the screams… the horses… the fire…

Her voice cracked and her knees buckled, forcing Hans to catch her. He swallowed, feeling impatience scorch through his blood.

—Breathe —he ordered, though he couldn’t follow his own advice— Tell me what you remember.

The girl nodded without raising her head. Tears slid down her chin and dripped into the mud.

—The guards tried to fight… but there were too many. They came through the windows… the broken walls… everywhere… —she shuddered, as if seeing the torches again— The servants fled through the back. They said that if we didn’t resist… if we didn’t scream… they would let us go.

Hans closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn’t compassion he felt; it was rising terror, a fear that chilled his hands.

—Did you see Henry? —he insisted, his voice too low to hold all his anguish— Did you see him leave? Did you see him… fall?

The young woman shook her head, trembling harder.

—No… I didn’t see him fall. I heard… I heard something about a duel. —she struggled for breath— There were shouts, but I know nothing else.

Hans felt the world narrow around that single phrase.

—I saw them ride off… —her voice became a trembling whisper— They headed northwest, my lord. Toward the forest. I didn’t look anymore. I didn’t want to.

Hans didn’t wait to hear anything more.

His heart hammered so hard it nearly stopped his breath. He stood so quickly the girl dropped to her knees, unable to follow him with her eyes. He was already walking, then running, mounting Atenon in one swift motion.

—Thank you —he murmured without turning back, though the word was barely audible.

The girl watched him vanish, a shadow disappearing among the trees. She covered her face again and wept, though she no longer knew whether it was for fear, for what she had lived… or for the desperate fury that had just passed by her.

Hans moved through the forest like a man driven by a single purpose, without rest, without any clear direction beyond knowing he had to head northwest. Athenon breathed heavily, steam escaping his nostrils in brief clouds that vanished among the trees.

The ground was damp. The branches brittle. The birds hardly sang. It was a strange silence… expectant. Hans felt that any shadow could hide a clue or an enemy, and still he did not stop. He could not afford to.

Only when night fell and the darkness grew so thick that not even torches could open a path did he stop. He tried to sleep out in the open as he used to as a young man when he went out hunting hares, but he was unable to find rest.

His body felt tired, his eyelids heavy… but the anguish inside him would not let his mind settle. He needed to keep going. Every second spent under the starry sky felt like wasted time. He needed to find Henry.

When the forest opened and the first huts of a village came into view, Hans dismounted before Athenon had fully stopped. He walked, almost stumbling, toward the first person he saw, an old man carrying firewood.

—Have you seen a group of men pass by? Bandits? Soldiers? Anything.

The old man shook his head without looking at him for long, as if the questions were not important enough.

In the next village, a group of women were washing clothes in the river. They shrank back when they saw him appear soaked in sweat and mud, eyes burning with urgency.

—Please… —he barely managed— have you seen armed men? Anyone taken against their will?

—No, sir —whispered one of them, without fully lifting her gaze from the water— No one has passed through here.

Hans kept moving. Village after village. Road after road. His throat burned from asking so much and his voice grew more hoarse. Exhaustion hit him in waves, but he could only picture Henry ahead of him, lost among enemy hands.

It was at the edge of exhaustion, in a small village surrounded by fields coming back to life with spring, when at last a different answer appeared.

A young man, barely more than a boy, watched him with attention from the table of a battered tavern. His arms were crossed and his expression was hard to read.

—Looking for strange folk? —he asked before Hans could open his mouth.

Hans turned so fast he nearly spilled his mug of beer. The first one in days.

—Tell me what you know —he asked, with an urgency the boy seemed to feel in the air.

The young man leaned forward and lowered his voice.

—Two days ago… some outsiders asked for work. They weren’t farmers. They weren’t soldiers. They wanted to know where they could join… a band.

Hans felt his heart strike the inside of his chest.

—What band?

—I don’t know. But I heard something else. They said they were heading to Uzice to attack the village. That it was supporting the rebels or something like that.

The world seemed to snap into place.

Uzice, Godwin’s old parish. An imminent attack.

If ever there was an opportunity like this, he had to take it.

Hans barely muttered a farewell and dropped a few coins in front of the young man. He went to find his horse and mounted with such abruptness that Athenon turned his head in surprise. He pulled on the reins, breathed deeply for the first time in days… and spurred the animal onto the packed dirt road.

He rode toward Uzice without looking back, without feeling hunger, without thinking of sleep.

Knowing his destination, it was not difficult to find them. A group so large left tracks easy to follow. The road that followed the river led directly back toward his home, passing by the small village of Uzice.

He urged Athenon on as much as the animal allowed. It took him longer each time to recover his breath, but the horse remained strong and determined, just like his master. It took them barely a day to find the group.

The noise coming from the lower part of the river could be heard from the road. Any traveler with common sense would have hurried on, praying not to be attacked. But Hans had another idea in mind.

He led the horse deeper into the forest, behind some bushes, where he left him to rest with some freedom. He gripped his bow firmly, checked that his sword was still at his side, and crept toward the river.

The laughter grew clearer, louder, and Hans crouched down. He moved slowly, as he used to when stalking deer, watching the wind, stepping lightly so as not to break any branches.

The sounds and laughter came from an area surrounded by bushes and brambles, with barely any visibility. Hans looked around and saw a small clearing hidden behind a rock, just on the other side of the river.

He crossed the thin stream without making a sound, barely wetting the tips of his shoes. He moved gracefully through the woods, as if his body had never forgotten what it meant to be a hunter.

He reached the clearing behind the rock easily and hid there. He gripped his bow tightly, holding on to something tangible to keep himself grounded. With hands damp from tension and his heart still hammering, he leaned out slightly and examined the camp.

He saw everything at once, with striking clarity. The half-lit fires, the men laughing and drinking without restraint… But no prisoners. He did not see Henry anywhere.

He searched every corner, every tarp and tree. Perhaps Henry was being kept in a tent, hidden from sight. A deep pang struck his gut, as if uncertainty were clinging to his insides. Maybe…

Hans crouched behind the rock and rested the bow across his knees. He breathed in deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He had to observe. He had to think like a hunter, even if his heart wanted to burst in there like a desperate man.

And he waited.

The sun sank slowly between the trees, gilding the camp. The men kept moving: some carried wood, others cleaned their weapons, others slept sprawled like tired animals. Hans did not look away even for a moment, watching like a hawk stalking prey. He had been there almost an hour, completely still, legs numb, fingers cramped, and an anxiety so heavy it felt as though it were pulling him into the earth.

He looked for the leader, or anyone who seemed to give orders. He looked for supplies, in case he needed to sabotage them. He counted the men, and was disappointed every time he reached at least twenty bandits.

He was so focused on the simplest tasks that he almost missed something. The man stepping out of the largest tent, stretching his muscles and heading toward the river.

He was no common bandit, not even a stranger.

Bile rose up Hans’s throat, but he swallowed hard.

His massive size, his blond hair, his skin pale as snow… A man who seemed to make the shadows step aside for him.

Erik.

Hans felt the air leave his lungs. His vision blurred suddenly, damp with the tears he refused to shed. His heart raced and he covered his own mouth to silence the urge to scream.

It was him, it had always been him. He should have guessed.

He tightened his grip on the bow so much his skin cracked. Rage burned inside him, knowing Henry had fallen into that bastard’s hands… He could not allow it. He simply could not.

God, give me strength.

He left his hiding place and descended to the brush by the shore. From there he saw Erik walking into the water up to his knees to cool off. The camp was far behind him, drowned in the noise of his men. He was alone and no one would hear him.

Hans drew the bowstring back to his cheek, inhaled deeply, and aimed from the shadows. Erik’s figure was vulnerable. No helmet. No armor. No one watching his back.

Hans held his breath and focused. This was the moment.

He released the arrow.

Erik jolted when he heard the arrow strike just centimeters from his hand, right into the small jar of soap. A shadow emerged from the brush, aiming a bow at him with a determined look and a taut string. No, it had not been a mistake.

—The next one will aim for your head. —the man threatened.

Erik raised his hands, amused by the interruption and puzzled as well.

—You have good aim, but I think your sight is failing you. I have over twenty men in that camp. What do you think will happen if you attack me?

—That doesn’t matter. —the attacker stepped forward a little, letting the last rays of sunlight light up his face and reflect the gold of his hair— They won’t hear you.

Then Erik laughed, this time with a deep, rolling chuckle.

—Really? I don't believe it… Lord Capon himself… —he muttered with disdain, eyeing the strange clothes Hans wore.

—Shut up! —Hans threatened, pulling the string tighter— Where is Henry? Tell me, and I’ll let you live.

Erik shook the water from his hands slowly. He moved only a few centimeters toward the closest rock, even as Hans kept aiming at him. He knew Hans would not shoot, not without knowing where his damned squire was.

—Has the Lord of Leipa dared to rise in arms against his allies?

With the calm of someone who knows he is in control, he bent down to pick up his sword.

—Don’t move! —Hans took two steps forward, but he did not shoot.

Erik examined him with his eyes. The young lord certainly had courage, but he knew he would not shoot if Erik had something to offer him.

—You came… alone. —Hans did not reply, and then he understood.

He was not there as the lord of anything. He had come in hunting clothes, with no men at his command… He was simply Hans Capon, searching for Henry of Skalitz.

Erik approached slowly. Without force, without threat, only holding that piece of metal so Hans could see it clearly.

The long polished blade… the finely engraved quillons and the octagonal pommel. The marking on the steel left no doubt. Seeing Henry’s sword made Hans want to vomit to the side, but he held himself together.

—Bastard… —he whispered with hatred— Tell me where he is!

Erik decided to amuse himself further when he noticed the unmistakable red of the hood peeking from Hans’s bag. He knew Hans had been there, had seen the horror, and had found it. Good, it would not be half as fun if Capon was not already suffering like Henry.

—You should have seen his face, Capon… When I tossed that hood into his hands and told him how you had begged. How you had pleaded for his life.

The bowstring trembled slightly.

—Yes… I saw him break inside, just as he did when they told him he had killed Istvan. It was a pleasure to watch his world fall apart before my eyes.

Hans’s breathing quickened. He wanted to release that arrow. He wanted to drive it into Erik’s chest and watch him writhe before dying… but then he might never get Henry back.

Erik’s smile twisted into something darker, almost feral, when he saw Hans holding the bow with increasingly trembling hands. He only needed to press a little further.

—Your dear Henry lost the duel he himself begged me for… —he drawled, savoring each word with sick delight— But the fun came afterwards.

Hans did not answer. The silence burned in his chest.

Erik stepped closer, so naturally Hans did not even notice.

—You cannot imagine how long it took for him to stop moving —he whispered— How much noise he made. How much he cried.

A pause.

—And the worst part… is that he cried for you.

Hans felt the world close in for a moment, as if the air thickened around his throat.

—Stop. —he managed.

—Stop? —Erik laughed, a thin, cutting laugh— Is that what you told him when he needed you?

Hans trembled. He no longer knew if it was from anger or fear.

—Tell me where he is. —he asked. He did not command. He asked.

—Oh… I will. —Erik tilted his head with calm cruelty— But not without having my fun first.

He lifted Henry’s sword, holding it as though showing off a stolen trophy.

—If you want to know whether he’s still alive… or what’s left of him… you’ll have to earn it.

Hans loosened the bowstring without realizing it. Erik’s words had sunk deeper than he wanted. Nothing existed but Henry, his memory, the way Hans had failed him… and that monster smiling with Henry’s sword in his hand.

—I don’t want to fight you. —Hans said, his voice rough.

—I know. —Erik admitted, amused— That’s why I’ll enjoy it more.

Hans felt something break inside. Erik was the only thing standing between him and Henry. That impossible obstacle he did not see himself capable of facing.

It no longer mattered. He did not have time to think whether he could defeat him or not.

Erik took one more step, raised the sword quickly, and Hans realized he had him almost upon him. He released the arrow, too weak, too misdirected, and it fell into the water like a leaf falling from a tree.

—Come on, Capon… raise that sword. —he roared as he reached him, his breath just inches from Hans’s face.

Hans clenched his teeth. He remembered the weight of the sword in his hand the day Henry gave it to him, the sincere smile, the trust he did not deserve. He drew the blade with a desperation his trembling hands struggled to control. The steel glinted even in the dim light.

It was not courage. It was despair.

—You will not leave this camp alive —Hans murmured, without a trace of grandiosity.

Then Erik lunged at him.

Chapter Text

Erik was the first to strike, and he did it with brutality. The slash came down like a hammer driving a nail, precise and powerful. Hans blocked it by sheer reflex, but the force of the blow numbed his arms instantly. The impact echoed through his body.

He stumbled back two steps, wavering, but Erik gave him no respite.

The next strike came from the side, brutal, aimed at his ribs. Hans barely twisted his blade to parry it. The enemy’s edge slid along his sword and opened a shallow cut along his side.

He pressed his hand to the wound, folding in on himself. His body did not respond at the speed he needed; it had become slow. Too many years behind a desk, too much time forgetting who he used to be.

—He cried just like that —Erik murmured as he advanced— Exactly like that.

Hans lunged desperately, clumsy and imprecise. Erik dodged him with ease and, using his momentum, drove his elbow into Hans’s jaw.

The impact blurred his vision and knocked the breath out of him. He fell to his knees, but Erik did not allow him to recover. A kick to the stomach folded him forward. Another, aimed at his shoulder, sent him rolling onto the ground.

The sword nearly slipped from his hands. His fingers had lost their strength.

Hans tried to get back up, but Erik grabbed him by the collar with one hand. Hans gasped, dazed, as Erik slammed him against a large rock by the riverbank. Erik did not wait for him to react; he struck him in the temple with the pommel of his sword.

A sharp blow that left him completely stunned.

Another hit split his lip. Another, straight to his brow, opened a gash that began to bleed into his eye, tinting his sight with red.

Hans tried to lift his sword, but Erik knocked it aside with a violent swipe and drove his knee into Hans’s face, throwing him onto his back. Hans’s sword slipped from his hand, disappearing among the river pebbles.

—Henry lasted longer. —Erik mocked, breathing without effort.

Hans spat blood. He tried to roll, to crawl, anything. But Erik grabbed him by the hair and forced him to remain on his back, staring at him like a rabid dog.

Hans struggled, but Erik was far too strong. He barely managed to shield his face before a new barrage of blows fell on him, ripping a scream from his throat. He gasped, fighting for breath. He stretched his arm toward the grass, searching blindly for his sword, but his hand found only wet pebbles and weeds.

Erik planted his boot on Hans’s chest and pressed him into the ground, threatening to push his face into the water.

—You fell just like he did. —he whispered, each word poisonous— Weak, pathetic, fighting a battle you lost before it even began.

Erik raised the sword.

Henry’s sword. And he aimed it straight at Hans’s chest.

Hans could barely move his head. Everything was blood, pain, and a constant ringing. But when the blade began to descend, a face surfaced in his mind, vivid as if standing beside him.

Henry.

He had failed him. Henry had been taken because of him, and now his sword rested in the hands of their enemy. And Hans would die beneath it.

That thought was the spark that made him react. Not for me, for you.

With a final desperate surge, Hans twisted his body, rolling just in time. The thrust drove into the earth, grazing his cheek and leaving a burning cut. Erik growled. He tried to yank the sword free, but the wet sand held it for a brief instant. A small moment that marked the difference between life and death.

Hans, breathless, searched around for anything. Everything was pebbles or dead grass, until he found a stone the size of his palm. He grabbed it and, with a ragged scream, smashed it against Erik’s shin.

The leg buckled under the blow.

—You… bastard…! —Erik roared.

Hans crawled further, blind with blood and pain, but clinging to that one thought that kept him alive. He pulled himself away from the water, and finally saw the glint of his sword in the grass.

Erik fell onto him, reaching for him, throwing wild punches in his fury. One of them burst Hans’s nose. But Hans endured, breathing in sharp, broken gasps, stretching his arm as far as he could.

His fingers brushed the pommel. Just a little more.

Erik lifted his arm for the final blow, ready to end him once and for all. But Hans closed his hand around his sword in a last, trembling breath.

And, from the ground, he drove the blade upward with a hoarse, desperate cry, soaked in blood and fear and rage.

The sword slid into Erik’s abdomen with shocking ease, as if cutting through roast meat. Erik froze halfway, breath hitching, his hands locked around Hans. Then the tension became a tremor, and little by little, his strength faded.

—You… —Erik gasped, incredulous, choking on blood.

Hans pushed once more, burying the blade to the hilt. Erik vomited blood and finally lost his breath. The fury in his eyes dimmed, and before he exhaled his last, Hans understood what he had done.

—No… No, no! Erik! —he shoved him aside and laid him down.

Not even in his final moments did Erik lose that crooked, spiteful smile.

—Where is Henry? Please! —Hans shook Erik’s body, desperate— Just once in your life… do something right!

Erik opened his mouth, trying to speak. Blood poured from his throat in choking spurts, so Hans leaned closer. He heard only a strangled laugh drowned in blood, and the last words Erik would ever speak.

—Too… late…

Hans pulled back, searching Erik’s face for even a trace of remorse, but found none. He was laughing. Delighting in his own cruelty, in the suffering he had inflicted on Henry and the suffering he was inflicting now on Hans. He died content, nourished by the pain of others.

He exhaled one last breath and his body stopped trembling.

Hans shook the limp body for a few more seconds, but there was no answer. That bastard had died without telling him where Henry was.

Then he felt the void. A horrible sensation that mixed with the fading rush of the fight, a hole in his chest growing larger by the second. He had come for answers, and he had only more questions.

He pressed his hands to his head, trying not to drown in despair. Erik is dead. Henry… Henry… He stifled his sobs with his hand over his mouth. He smothered his cries as he stared at the body cooling beside him, Henry’s sword still buried in its chest.

The small topaz glinted in the growing darkness. The words Henry himself had carved into the blade sank into Erik’s flesh. Unyielding, everlasting, heavy. It had not been Hans who killed Erik, but the sword Henry had forged.

In contrast, Henry’s own sword lay peacefully at Erik’s side. Innocent, untainted by blood, as if it knew it could rest, having caused no harm to Hans.

Hans took it in his hands and tried to focus on it. He knew that pommel by heart, as if it were an extension of himself. Seeing it away from Henry felt like an insult, a crime against the natural order of things.

He tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white. This was not his sword. It had an owner, and he intended to return it.

In the distance, Hans heard the bandits’ laughter again. No one had heard the fight, which opened a path for him. Perhaps there was still something in Erik’s tent that could help him.

There was no time to waste.

He gave himself a small slap to pull himself together, to anchor himself back to the moment. He gripped the hilt of his sword and pulled hard, tearing it from Erik’s chest and leaving a trail of blood along the blade. He wiped it on Erik’s shirt with a grimace.

Hans forced himself to stand, even as the world spun around him. It took several seconds to steady his footing and, once he felt the ground beneath him, he moved toward the camp. He would find Henry, one way or another.

It was not difficult to find Erik’s tent. The largest, and the best supplied. Hans approached it cautiously, trying to keep the ringing in his head from making him stumble.

By the firelight, the men laughed and drank, completely unaware of what had just happened by the river. Good news, but he had to hurry. Sooner or later they would notice their captain’s absence.

There were too many of them. Approaching and entering Erik’s tent was a risk, but he could not stop now. Not after killing the only man who could tell him where Henry was.

That thought pierced through him like lightning. He drew in a breath and left his fear behind. He moved quickly into the tent, nothing more than another shadow in the dark.

The tent was a chaos of clutter and disorder. Firelight slipped through gaps in the canvas, painting the interior in a dark red that made everything look more sinister. Hans leaned against one of the poles to keep himself upright. He felt the splintered wood tear his palm, but he did not care.

Nothing mattered except one thing.

—There has to be… —he murmured, short of breath— Something…

He collapsed to his knees before the table, almost falling. Blood from his brow dripped onto the parchments, forming small stains that spread like ink in water. His fingers brushed papers, but none held answers. River routes. Maps of Uzice. Old orders stamped in the name of the Commander of the Prague Guard.

Prague?

—Tell me where you are… —he whispered, speaking to Henry.

He searched through another pile of papers. Nothing. Another. Nothing. He felt the pulse in his forehead like hammer blows, relentless and cruel.

He opened a chest beside the table. He pushed aside clothes, blankets… nothing of interest. Except perhaps the colors of the tabard he held. Prague again.

Could it be? That bastard… Commander of the Prague Guard…

He tossed the tabard aside, as if the fabric itself burned him. It made sense that Erik would dress like a bandit if he came from Prague. He could never have attacked Radzig or his family under those colors…

His hands shook so badly he had to brace himself against the table. Erik, aligned with Prague; his stolen hood; Henry, missing… Hans was surrounded by silent rats ready to bare their teeth at any moment.

The realization hit him as hard as Erik’s punches.

Panic began to coil around him as he saw himself back at the start. Still no idea where Henry was.

—You cannot die… like this. You cannot leave me… with nothing…

Erik’s final words boiled in his mind. “Too late. Too late…”

He bent over the papers, breathing so hard he seemed about to break apart. A stab of pain in his ribs forced him forward, gasping.

He almost missed the folded paper, buried among the others. He felt it more than saw it: a wrinkled edge, stained like everything else. He pulled it free with clumsy fingers, without hope. It was tied with thick cord, and he tore it open.

The words did not make sense at first, more from disbelief than misunderstanding. He had to read them again.

"Delivery secured. The prisoner will be taken to Prague at dawn."

Hans blinked. For a moment he thought he would faint. His heart lurched so violently that he had to steady himself on the ground. Delivered. Prisoner.

Prague.

His breath quickened at once, as if the air had returned only to hurt him more. A tear fell without permission, sliding along the edge of his nose and onto the paper. They were talking about Henry, who else could it be?

Hans rested his forehead on the table, letting the parchment crumple beneath his hand. And he cried. He cried without realizing what those words truly meant.

—You’re alive… —he whispered, as if he needed to convince himself— You’re alive.

Relief and terror surged together in a wave so intense it nearly made him retch. Prague. Night had already fallen, and the city was three days away by horse. The paper did not even bear a date…

He was alive… but for how long? If Hans lost a day… an hour… a single misstep… he could lose him forever.

Hans squeezed his eyes shut, letting the tears fall silently. His hands were stained with blood, his own and Erik’s. And still they trembled as he pressed the letter to his chest.

—I’m sorry… —he murmured, voice breaking— I should not… I should not have failed you…

He pushed himself upright with difficulty, swaying as if the ground tilted beneath him. Every movement was a reminder of the duel, the failure… and the clumsy victory. And still, his body urged him with a pressing demand to return to his horse.

He placed a bloodstained hand on the tent canvas and stumbled out into the falling night. The name of a certain city would not leave his mind, etched into his guilt like fire.

Chapter Text

It was still early. The light had barely touched the convent’s bell tower when Hermann pushed the heavy oak door and stepped into the main hallway. The echo of his footsteps resonated on the cold, bare walls, mixing with the persistent smell of dampness and wood. Most of the guards had not yet finished their breakfast, and only some distant murmur broke the silence typical of the first hour.

He continued moving forward in peace and slowly, until one of the priests came running out of the dining hall and joined his walk.

—Father Hermann! I… well. I have heard… —the young man took a breath, preparing to launch the question — Is it true? Are we executing the prisoner today?

The words of the curious priest did not interrupt Hermann’s steady and relaxed pace.

—We will not be the ones executing him, Mathias. Others will take care of that.

Hermann continued his calm steps, heading to the cellar to check the state of the situation. Mathias, however, quickened his pace to keep up with the father.

—I heard he is the son of a noble. I… I don’t know. Can we do this? Not that I…

—He is a bastard. —Hermann corrected quickly —He is a nobody, he doesn’t even carry his father’s surname. But he will be enough to keep the masses content and united to our cause.

—But… —he protested with doubt in his voice.

—Trust me, son. We will not stain our hands, the mob will take care of it.

Hermann stopped suddenly, making Mathias halt and turn toward him. Doubt and worry filled his face, so Hermann guided him to a small window at the opposite end of the hallway.

—Do you see them? Look how they begin to gather for the spectacle.

The convent rose proudly from the upper part of the city, and from there tiny dots could be seen beginning to join together in the square. The very same square in which Hermann gave his speeches, the same in which the spark that had ended Radzig had been lit. Mathias sighed, more worried than before.

—No, my son… —Hermann continued speaking, more to himself than to the priest — It will not be us who carry out the order.

He stayed for a few seconds observing through the glass, hypnotized by the movement of the people. This was what he had achieved, what he had provoked. The power of his words had gathered the faithful followers of Christ, ready to deliver justice once more.

He smiled without realizing it.

The cellar door creaked as it opened. Hermann walked forward with steady steps, adjusting his cloak and rubbing his hands to chase away the cold that lingered in that basement throughout the year. The nearest torch crackled as he passed beside it. At the back, behind iron bars, the prisoner was kept in an improvised cell.

The guard straightened up upon seeing him approach.

—Father Hermann.

He barely nodded and pushed the door open, which opened with a familiar creak. Inside, the air was denser, saturated with a rancid smell that combined sweat, old straw, and resignation.

Inside, a lump remained on the floor, motionless.

The bowl of soup remained untouched, just like in the last days.

Hermann grabbed the lamp the guard handed him and illuminated the young man. The bandage on his leg was soaked in dried blood, and his chest rose and fell shallowly, struggling to maintain the constant rhythm of life. Hermann approached and gave him a slight kick, only to check he was still alive.

—Everything is ready now, it will be at noon. Do you wish to confess now?

There was no response. Hermann sighed, bored.

—Do you really not wish to eat anything? Will you waste your last day on Earth consumed in darkness? Do you not wish to redeem yourself and confess your sins?

Silence.

The prisoner did not move a single inch. He simply remained with those enormous blue eyes staring into the void, almost without blinking. A shiver ran up Hermann’s spine, as if that gaze transmitted to him all the pain in which he was drowning.

—Very well. —he grumbled finally, angered by the convict’s indifference.

He closed the door behind him and handed the lamp back to the guard.

—Take him to the square at noon, I will be waiting.

—Very well, father. —the guard replied.

The slam of the door as it closed thundered in Henry’s mind. For an instant he did not know if it was the metallic echo of the cell… or the sound of his own sword bouncing uselessly against Erik’s armor. He remained still, breathing in ragged pulls, trapped in an image that returned again and again, like claws clinging to his consciousness. He could not break free.

The pain of the bolt stuck in his leg.

His inability to dodge Erik’s strong thrusts.

The blow to the ribs.

The fall to the ground.

The floor of the cell was hard and cold, but that was not what he felt on his cheek. He still felt his face sinking into the mud. The fierce heat of the fire behind him, burning his back. Reality blurred into a thin line his mind was not capable of distinguishing.

The doors creaked in the hallway, and that metallic sound distorted in his mind, turning into screams. Into the screams of his brothers. Henry brought his hands to his ears, pressed hard, trying to drown the voices that insisted on returning. But the more he tried to bury them, the clearer they became.

He had fallen, he had lost. Erik had taken his sword as a trophy and held Henry on the ground, gripping him by the hair. Forcing him… to watch.

—I told you that you had already lost.

Erik’s whisper was so real he felt the warmth of his breath on the nape of his neck.

Oldrich was first. The bandit holding him did not hesitate for a second. With repugnant ease, almost routine, he took out a short knife and slid it across the boy’s throat. The skin opened instantly. Blood gushed out, warm and thick, staining his small hands. Oldrich tried to inhale, but only a voiceless whimper came out.

Henry saw how the boy’s eyes widened, surprised at first… then terrified. Life began to drain out of him in spurts. It was slow. Painfully slow.

Henry shouted his name until his voice tore, trying to get up, trying to break Erik’s grip. But he was nothing more than a doll sinking into the mud.

Ludmila came next. She screamed in terror when she saw the knife still stained with her brother’s blood, but that did not stop the man. Without a trace of doubt or humanity, he drew a clean, precise, deadly cut, as if he were slitting an animal in the butcher’s shop.

The girl brought both hands to her neck, unable to contain the blood that poured out. She tried to breathe, without success. Henry heard the wet, desperate sound of her lungs filling. She coughed, and a red cloud burst out between her fingers.

Henry cried, begged, pulled at Erik’s hands, scratching, desperate. His throat hurt from screaming so much and his heart shrank inside itself, unable to endure such pain.

He wanted to reassure her, he wanted to shout that everything would be all right, but he could not. The girl sobbed, terribly afraid, with her hands on her neck. She could no longer breathe. Ludmila looked at him… with terror, with pain, with a question he never managed to answer.

And then, she simply… went out. Like candles that go out at dusk.

The cell came back at once.

The damp cold, the smell of urine and old straw. The narrow walls closing in on him, burying him alive.

Henry gasped, convulsed, curled up on himself as if he could protect himself by becoming smaller, as if he could disappear from the world. But his heart was still there, in the courtyard of that mansion, dying with them.

The guilt devoured his insides. He felt dead inside and could not wait for the moment when all of it would end; when death would reach him as salvation.

He moved only a few centimeters, just enough to try to loosen his muscles. It was a mistake. Pain burst from the wound in his leg and spread like fire up his back, tearing a spasm from him that he couldn’t contain. The bandage was soaked, heavy, stained with a dark red. He stared at it… and as soon as he did, the border between reality and memory broke once again.

The cell vanished again, and the dried blood he clearly saw on that filthy bandage turned into Capon’s hood.

That red hood, his favorite, the one he had worn by his side for so many years, the one he always wore when he tried to act brave, when he tried to seem bigger, nobler, stronger than he believed himself to be. He held it tightly against his chest, trying to ignore the blood staining it. Erik had been very clear with his words: Capon had begged.

He imagined his face succumbing beneath Erik’s cold, heartless steel. His blue eyes pleading for mercy for him… and for Henry. Those words lodged themselves in his mind like a burning iron. Again and again. Hans, on his knees. Hans, trying to stand. Hans, struggling to breathe as Erik’s blade came down.

That thought destroyed him. He broke inside as if someone had cut him open. A pain so deep, so absolute, that for an instant he stopped feeling his own body.

He did not consider that Hans hadn’t worn that hood in years, nor did he question how Erik had slipped through the darkness and managed to corner him. The impact of that blood-soaked fabric, surrounded by all that pain, had been enough to shatter Henry into a thousand pieces.

Because he could not imagine a world without Hans.

He did not want to live in a world without Hans.

The man who had accompanied him, who had loved him, who had chosen him again and again… and whom Henry had turned his back on.

That moment in Pirkstein, when he decided to leave without looking back, without saying goodbye to the person who meant everything to him, tormented him like a never-ending nightmare.

Henry felt something break definitively in his chest. A vast emptiness opened inside him, cold, relentless, devouring him from his stomach to his throat. He tried to breathe, but the air didn’t obey him; each attempt hurt more than the last. It was as if Hans’s absence were ripping the lungs from his body with its bare hands.

Henry leaned his forehead against the blood-stained hood and let the pain consume him. There was no hope. There was nothing, not even that hood was real. Only a dark, bottomless abyss…

The kind of emptiness left by the loss of the person who means everything to you.

He wasn’t even aware that he had been lifted by the arms. His mind was still lost in his memories, mixing the voices outside with the ones in his own head. Unable to tell whether the ground brushing the tips of his toes was truly beneath his feet.

The flash of light from outside was almost painful. It made him blink, made him return for a moment to reality, but everything around him quickly blurred again. The light reflected on the orange rooftops swiftly transformed into the flames of his home.

The fire, its hellish heat, the violence of his house’s destruction. The flames spilling from the windows, the stones of the walls darkening and cracking… and the memory of Skalitz fused with the ashes of Dvorce.

The corpses of his family, once again wrapped in flames. He had not run, never again would he do so, but he had lost. He had failed them.

—Hang him! —someone shouted near him.

—Traitor! —another shouted.

Henry awoke for a second. He was being dragged by two men through a crowd. How had he gotten there? Confused, he looked ahead, where a priest awaited him beside a gallows.

He looked at that rope like a thirsty man looks at crystal-clear water. At last. The end of the pain and guilt was near. At last the meaningless life would stop hurting.

The people shouted. They seemed angry.

Why?

Why did they hate him, if they didn’t even know him? The gallows then merged with another memory, one filled with desperation… but also with certainty.

It wasn’t him they were dragging to the noose, but Hans. He had crossed the entire damned Trosky castle in secret, only to cling to the improbable idea that Captain Thomas might intercede for them.

He had still been in the tower, trying to lower the fever of the badly wounded captain, when the bells began to ring.

The convent’s bell tower truly rang the chimes marking noon. They brought Henry up to the gallows, and Hermann observed the strange smile on the young man’s face. The mob was beginning to stir. They had come all the way there to see the execution of another Hussite, and that was what they would get.

It was at that precise moment, when he heard the first chime, that he realized something else. The idea of not making it in time to save Hans was very real, and if that happened… what would he do then?

He wasn’t thinking of Hanush or of his failed duty, no, he was thinking of his life. Of how empty it would be without him, of the pain he felt just imagining a world where Hans didn’t exist. He needed to run to him, needed to be by his side, hold him, feel that his presence was real.

His heart hurt in a way he had never felt. Was it loyalty? Devotion? No. Henry knew it was something far deeper, something he still couldn’t understand or express with words. Something unknown that he clung to as if it were as familiar as home.

He ran with Thomas leaning on his shoulder. Too slow. Another chime.

The crowd shouted, some even throwing rotten vegetables at Henry. Father Hermann had just finished his last speech, inflaming their spirits, feeding their thirst for blood. He had turned Henry into the perfect outlet for a frustrated town: an unknown man to blame, a sack upon which they could unload all their misery without consequence.

Several miners climbed onto the wooden platform, their eyes burning with hatred. One of them recognized the young man’s features; he was undoubtedly Kobyla’s bastard. Someone who would pay for his father’s sins.

The other miner didn’t wait a second. He landed a punch straight into Henry’s stomach, forcing the air out of him. Henry let out a dry, choking sound. Reality struck him for a moment, weak but firm: the cold, the crowd, the rope biting into his wrists.

He staggered. His legs wouldn’t hold him. He fell to his knees on the rough wood and then onto his side, cushioning the fall as best he could with his bound hands.

The dust filled his mouth and throat. He smelled damp wood, rusty metal, the sour sweat that clung to the crowd.

At last he could see the citizens gathered around the gallows. Hans stood there waiting, with the rope tied around his neck, while the chamberlain shouted his speech. He was almost done. The urgency Henry felt in his chest clouded all his senses. The pain in his feet didn’t matter, nor did the stabs in his lungs from breathing so quickly. It didn’t matter that he had no strength left.

He held Thomas tightly, hoisted him onto his back, and carried him like a dead sack toward the lower part of Trosky. Time was running out. The last bell had rung.

The two miners lifted Henry up. Between the blow and the wound in his leg reopening, the young man could barely stand. They slapped him to make him focus, but his eyes were still unfocused, as if he weren’t really there. Better to finish this quickly.

They placed him on the unstable wooden log, which wobbled under Henry’s weight. One of the men grabbed the rope and placed it around his neck, while the other held him still. Soon, everything would be over for him.

A few last words from Father Hermann, and the crowd cheered, excited.

Henry opened his eyes and looked at the sky. He felt the rough rope against his skin, tight. Everyone around him demanded his death, and for once, he agreed with them. He could no longer endure that pain.

He saw the corpses of his parents in his village burned to the ground. The screams of his brothers. Hans’s disappointment, murdered because of him. The flames of Dvorce.

Everything had been taken from him.

Nothing made sense anymore.

He closed them again, and prayed for it to end.

The mob fell silent for a moment, eager to hear the order. The prisoner was already prepared. Only a small push was needed.

Father Hermann looked around. There were more people than last time. More faithful united by a common cause. He tried to hide his satisfied smile as he extended his arm and addressed the miner holding the wooden log.

—Go ahead. May Christ have mercy on his soul. —he made the sign of the cross with his hand, and asked the man to push.

And so he did.

He shook the unstable log with his foot, and it rolled to one side. Henry’s body dropped with a dull thud, the rope tightening around his neck and cutting off his breath. He closed his eyes.

He had managed to make it all the way. Thomas was at his side, still breathing. He only needed to get a little closer and shout, beg them to stop that madness.

He saw Hans with the noose around his neck, frightened but at the same time strangely resigned. He seemed to have accepted the end, though every muscle in his body trembled beneath his clothes. The young noble closed his eyes… and that was when Henry felt something break inside him. He opened his mouth and screamed so loudly his voice tore as it left him.

—STOP! You cannot execute this man! He is a noble!

All the heads turned toward him. He could feel every gaze stabbing into him like needles, surprised, incredulous, judging him. But Henry did not falter. For an instant, he believed he had achieved something. That he had saved Hans. He felt a small spark of hope ignite again in his chest.

But reality struck hard.

The suffocating and liberating pressure on his neck suddenly ceased. The rope loosened and his body fell to the ground like a lifeless sack. He felt his lungs burn as they received fresh air again. His chest convulsed and he began to cough, trying to steady his pulse.

He did not realize those words had not sounded in his memories, but in reality.

In the voice of someone he should never have heard again.

Chapter Text

His chest burned. The air stumbled into his lungs, trying to pass through the part of his neck that was still crushed. His chest convulsed and he coughed several times, pushing the rope farther away, revealing the dark mark that had begun to form on his skin.

— Henry!? Can you hear me?

The voice sounded distant, far from the dream where he was trapped, so far it seemed impossible to reach. The iron grip on his shoulders seemed to pull him back for a moment, just long enough to feel someone shaking him.

His torso ached with every breath, worsened by the sharp stab he felt in his ribs. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision full of black and white spots.

A pair of deep blue eyes looked at him with worry and a glimmer of affection. The fine nose, the full lips he had dreamed of so many times… at last, Hans was in front of him again.

—Is this… is this heaven? —he murmured hoarsely.

He reached out to touch his face, and when the tips of his fingers brushed the skin, a spark ran through his whole body. It felt real, too real to be true.

But then he heard the screams. The roar of the crowd turned back into Dvorce, into the pleas of his brothers, into the infernal flames. He saw them again, felt again that unbearable pain that had devoured him from within.

Henry curled in on himself, closing his eyes, covering his ears, praying for everything to end. If he had finally reached the warmth of death, he had ended in hell, not heaven. I deserve it. That thought kept torturing his mind.

—What is this nonsense?! Get this man out of here! —Father Hermann shouted while pointing at Hans.

The arrow that had cut through the rope with extreme precision was still lodged firmly in the wood. The guards stared in shock at Hans, who had climbed onto the platform and was crouching beside the prisoner.

His face was covered in bruises and scratches, his clothes worn. He had forced his way through the crowd with his horse, perfectly positioned a short distance from the gallows. A massive beast that did not fear the crowd, like a warhorse. That young man was more than he appeared.

—Back! —he shouted as he drew his sword.

Everyone saw the gleaming steel of the blade, the topaz in the hilt, and the intricate details on the guard. The guards halted with their hands on their swords, confused, waiting for orders.

—I am Lord Hans Capon of Leipa! —he roared to the crowd, raising the metal and showing the crest of his house —You cannot execute this man! He is… —he took another breath, to shout even louder so everyone would hear him —He is Sir Henry of Pirkstein! Knight of Rattay!

The square fell silent for a few seconds. The whispering, the rising murmur quickly grew and the crowd began to shout at him. They had come to see an execution, not to leave with a sense of injustice.

Hans looked around desperately. Henry wasn’t moving, the crowd demanded his head, and no one seemed to believe him. The guards approached slowly, people grew restless.

He went to Father Hermann, trying to have a private conversation within their limits. The man grew uneasy, but with a gesture he signaled the guards not to approach. There was something in Hans’s bearing and words that made him want to listen.

—This man is Sir Henry of Pirkstein. Did you not hear me? You cannot execute him; he belongs to the lower nobility.

Hans’s eyes pleaded, but his tone was firm and steady, like the Lord he was. Hermann hesitated for a moment, but the clamor left no room for doubt.

—It is not up to me, Sir Hans. The rabble wants entertainment. —he replied with false innocence.

Athenon neighed behind him, nervous. People were getting dangerously close to the gallows, as if ready at any moment to climb up and tear Henry apart as they had done with Radzig. Hans had not come all this way to allow that.

—I am Lord of Leipa, ally of the King and of this city. This man is in my service; if you execute him… your head will be the next to roll on the ground. —he said without his voice wavering.

Hermann looked around, trying to find a way out, but he was trapped between a rock and a hard place. It was the consequence of overstepping his authority.

—If I let him go, others will cut my throat. I cannot risk…

—If you mean the Commander of the Guard, he will no longer be a problem. —Capon interrupted, his gaze steady and unyielding. —Who do you think left me like this? He is dead.

That statement seemed to awaken something in Hermann. Doubt —but also the possibility of negotiation.

—Convince them that this man has nothing to do with Sir Radzig. —Hans continued —Give me time, however much you can, and I swear I will not take reprisals.

Hermann felt the weight of the leather pouch at his leg. Desperation mixed with authority was strange, but no less overwhelming. He glanced at the prisoner who still struggled to breathe, and then it became clear: let them try. He would not stain his own hands.

—Very well. I will buy you some time, but look around you… You will not leave here alive.

Hans stepped aside but did not stop challenging him with his eyes.

—We shall see.

He sheathed his sword and ran to Henry.

Father Hermann’s voice rang behind them. He shouted with all his strength so his voice would rise above the uproar, managing to be heard for a few moments. At first the people were confused by his words, but soon they began to grow impatient.

Were they really not going to hang that traitor? Were they truly going to let some stranger dressed like a hunter take him away?

These questions spread quickly like the plague, causing discomfort and exasperation.

Hans felt urgency pounding in his heart. The fervor in that square was about to explode, and they could not be in the middle when it happened.

He shook Henry forcefully, but he did not respond. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, he trembled and curled up, but he didn’t react to Hans’s words.

—Henry!? We have to go! —Hans glanced at the crowd and saw it closer, angrier.

—Henry! —he shouted, shaking him again —Do you hear me? It’s me, Hans!

Henry protested with a groan, pushing his hands away and curling tighter into himself. He wanted to disappear; none of this felt real except the guilt and the pain in his heart.

Hans felt his own heart slam so hard against his chest it seemed ready to escape. Every second they stayed there was one more second toward disaster. The voices of the crowd rose like a dark tide, rising and falling with an unsettling rhythm.

The nearest guard was already arguing with two furious citizens. Another had begun to struggle with a miner determined to get closer. Someone threw a stone. The dull thud against the wooden platform made Hans swallow hard.

There’s no time.

—For God’s sake, Henry… wake up! —he repeated desperately.

He tried to lift him, putting an arm under his armpits to drag him however he could. But Henry was too heavy for him. Hans tried again, but his friend barely moved a few inches.

The crowd kept advancing.

—They can’t take him!

—We want justice!

Hans felt a knot of panic in his throat. The hatred in people’s eyes grew more visible, more violent, increasingly directed at them. The guards retreated fearing for their lives, Hermann had halted his speech and was now only praying.

We have to get out.

Hans knelt in front of Henry and took his cheeks, forcing him to lift his face a little. He was burning, his eyes shut with a tension close to agony.

—Henry, look at me —he said, this time in a trembling whisper— Look at me, please…

But Henry was still trapped in a place Hans could not reach. A place full of blood, loss, and guilt. He could feel it in how his body shook, in the way he muttered incomprehensible things, in how he curled up as if he wanted to disappear from the world.

Hans felt a stab of despair so sharp it stole his breath. He couldn’t lose him. Not after coming this far. Not after everything they had lived through, everything they had overcome.

—Henry… —he whispered, leaning his forehead against his— I’ve been thinking a lot about the two of us… about what you told me in Malesov —his voice trembled in a warm, familiar tone— Do you remember the story I told you about the knights Galehaut and Lancelot?

Henry didn’t open his eyes, but something shifted. His breathing faltered just slightly, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture —but Hans saw it. He felt it.

Hans continued, more firmly.

—Galehaut… the commander… surrendered while he held the advantage… only because Lancelot… —Hans swallowed hard, feeling the crowd close around them like a swarm—… fought like no one he had ever seen, dressed in black. Because he realized he wanted… to share his life with him.

Henry let out a rough moan. He was getting closer —Hans could feel it.

—And then you… you… —his voice broke— You told me we were a lot like them.

There were blows behind them, but Hans did not move. He would not leave without his companion.

—And then I kissed you… —he whispered, with his soul in his throat— Because I knew you were my life, because I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind. I’m here. Open your eyes.

And then, with a deep breath filled with pain and fear, Henry opened them. As if waking from a nightmare too long, as if reality were worse than the dream.

His pupils took a few seconds to focus, to distinguish the figure kneeling in front of him, the gaunt and bloodied face, the blue eyes full of anguish —but also of hope.

—Hans…? —he said, with a broken voice barely above a whisper.

Hans smiled shakily, trying to feel relief but knowing they were in grave danger.

—We have to go —he whispered— Now.

Athenon stood firm, pressed against the platform, keeping people away as he threatened them with his powerful legs. Now that Henry was conscious, lifting him had been easier, but he could barely stand on his own.

The wound in his leg kept him from putting weight on it, added to a possibly broken rib and the burn in his strangled throat. He was still trying to process that the one helping him was Hans, that he truly was there, that Erik had not killed him.

He had suffered far more than necessary because of a cruel lie.

Though the screams of his brothers were still painfully real.

The memory threatened to steal his mind again, but Hans kept him anchored to reality.

—Henry! Stay with me! Come on… —he groaned, strained by the effort of holding his weight.

He pushed him onto the horse, making him fall over its back. Henry cried out in pain as the broken rib dug into his insides, but he fought to stay atop the animal. Hans didn’t hesitate and jumped up, landing perfectly in the saddle.

He helped Henry sit, but Athenon was extremely agitated. People approached closer and threw vegetables at the horse to frighten him. He neighed and urged Hans to leave. There was no time to lose; Hans spurred him forward and they began to ride.

No matter that they were in the middle of the square, the animal pushed forward fearlessly and people had to move or risk being trampled. Even so, progress was slow and frustrating.

Hans held Henry however he could, until Henry finally managed to sit on Athenon’s back, just behind the saddle. When Hans felt Henry’s arms wrap tightly around him, he felt immediate relief.

Henry’s breath on his neck, the warmth on his back, the firm grip on his stomach… Henry was there —alive, with him. He would not let him slip away again, ever.

After a few meters, the density of the crowd began to thin. The horse moved quickly until disappearing into the narrow cobblestone streets, too tight for an animal of his size carrying two riders.

Hans pulled gently on the reins, cursing under his breath. The shouts of the crowd, hurried footsteps, insults —all echoed behind them, bouncing off the stone walls. Henry trembled against his back, and Hans felt every irregular breath like a knife.

They couldn’t return to the square. They couldn’t go straight. They were trapped.

—Damn it… —Hans whispered, looking around— There has to be another way…

Athenon spun nervously, pawing at the ground, sensing the tension. Henry clung tighter to Hans, as if afraid his body would vanish.

And then, from a side alley swallowed in shadow, a clear voice cut through the chaos.

—This way!

Hans turned so quickly he nearly lost his balance. A broad, hooded figure approached them in a hurry. His hand shot to his sword’s hilt almost out of reflex.

When the figure lifted his face, Hans recognized the determined dark eyes immediately.

—Sam…? —he asked, incredulous.

The young man nodded silently without wasting a second. He moved beside the horse and pulled the reins toward the hidden alleyway.

—If you keep going that way, they’ll catch you. —he whispered tensely— They cut off the bridge to contain the crowd in the square. And the people… well, you’ve seen them.

Hans swallowed. Fear pressed against his chest —but also an unexpected spark of hope.

—Where are you taking us? —he asked while adjusting Henry so he wouldn’t fall.

Sam looked at both of them with a determination rarely seen in him.

—To a safe refuge. A place no one will think to look. But you have to move now.

Athenon snorted nervously, stepping back by instinct. Henry muttered something incoherent against Hans’s back, still half lost. Hans clenched his jaw.

—All right. —he said in a thin but urgent voice— Take us.

Sam nodded and started running.

Hans spurred Athenon, and the horse followed the boy into the darkness of the alley just as the mob turned the corner behind them.

They moved through streets in every direction, as if lost in a maze. The sound of the crowd grew more distant, and Sam’s pace eased. Henry grimaced and shifted against Hans’s back, making the nobleman worry again.

—Is it much farther? —he whispered, afraid to break the strange silence hanging in the alleys.

—No, we’re almost there. —Sam replied calmly, walking now.

They turned down two more alleys, and Sam stopped. He looked around, checking that no one followed them, that no prying eyes were watching. He opened a wooden gate leading to a small yard with chickens, guiding the horse so it wouldn’t crush one.

They turned again, and Sam opened the pen where a couple of cows rested. He moved them aside so Athenon could stay hidden.

Hans dismounted and felt the weight of the past days crash onto him. Not yet —he needed to tend to Henry first, but his arms were too weak to lower him safely.

Sam rushed over and grabbed Henry, who was already slipping and about to fall like a sack of flour.

—It’s all right, I’ve got him. —he told Hans gently, almost like an older brother. —Open the door and move the table. You’ll see a trapdoor.

Hans didn’t argue; he could barely stand himself. He did as told and found the wooden hatch, which he opened by pulling a metal ring. Stairs descended into darkness, into the unknown… But surely they could trust Henry’s brother, right?

Sam soon appeared carrying Henry on his back, muttering and cursing under his breath. They lowered the young man together, easing his pain.

Below, there were only four stone walls, holding barrels of beer aging with delicious precision in the cellar. They brought some dry grass from the animals’ pen and managed to settle down.

—Sam… I don’t know how to thank you. —Hans stammered, never taking his eyes off Henry.

—Don’t thank me. Not yet. —he looked at his brother with relief, then at Hans — I need to take care of a few things… don’t leave this place until I return. It’s dangerous. Do you understand?

Hans nodded.

—Good. There’s food upstairs, and you can drink the beer down here. Really, try not to go up unless you must…

—Sam, I understand. —Hans interrupted wearily. —Now… I think I should tend to Henry.

The young man nodded after seeing his brother’s terrible state, and handed Hans the oil lamp he carried.

—Take care of him, Hans. I’ll be back soon.

Sam hurried away, closing the trapdoor behind him and leaving the two young men in darkness, broken only by the faint light of the lamp.

The entire world seemed to collapse on Hans the moment he heard the dull thud above him. It was as if the wood had sealed more than the entrance: it had closed the last trace of strength he had held together. Everything he had swallowed for days: the exhaustion, the fear, the suffocating anguish, the adrenaline burning through his veins... burst without asking permission.

He leaned against the wall, his chest tight and a rough knot pressing his throat. He let the lamp fall to the floor, his clumsy hands no longer obeying him, and allowed his back to slide slowly down the stone until his body touched the cold ground.

He felt the weight of exhaustion, the smell of horse sweat in his clothes and hair… the pain in every inch of his beaten body. The anguish in his heart.

His breathing quickened as his body relaxed, losing control. Tears welled in his eyes and he began to cry uncontrollably. Not out of sorrow, but out of exhaustion, even relief. Joy that all his effort had been worth it, that Henry was still alive beside him.

His arms fell to his sides like dead weight, unable to feel anything in that moment. He was going to lose control. His breathing was wild, his heart frantic… Everything Henry had seen and suffered, Hans felt as his own, like a grief and burden almost impossible to endure.

It was all too much.

He wanted to scream, though he didn’t know why.

But then… A warm sensation, so small he almost missed it amid the storm in his chest. So gentle he thought at first he had imagined it.

Henry, still half-unconscious, had intertwined his fingers with his. His trembling hand sought his, clinging to that touch as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat.

Warmth spread from that point of contact, climbing his arm, loosening knots, easing the tightness in his chest little by little. His breathing, once a frantic chaos, began to match Henry’s. Not exactly, but enough to give him back a sense of control.

Hans exhaled, shaking, finally releasing the air he’d been holding without noticing.

Henry was alive. Beside him. Clinging to his hand as if he feared disappearing if he let go.

Hans smiled in a way so sincere it felt strange.

He brought his free hand to Henry’s hair and stroked it softly, with a tenderness he had missed for too long. The young man had fallen asleep. Unable to stop himself, Hans whispered a few words in his ear, more for himself than for Henry.

—Here you go, my blacksmith boy.

Chapter Text

Hans had barely slept. It was strange: he felt exhausted, yet his body seemed incapable of surrendering to sleep. He was uncomfortable, sore… and the only thing he wanted was to lie down beside Henry and hold him the way they used to, before routine drove them apart, when they were still young and naive.

He did not do it. It did not seem appropriate, not in the state Henry was in, trapped between reality and madness. Even so, he clung to that hand that would not let go, to that grip Henry did not release even in the deepest sleep.

He tried to settle more comfortably, gathering a little more dry grass beneath his body without waking Henry. The young man grunted in protest, still asleep, and Hans could not help but smile. He lay back again, becoming absorbed in the calm rhythm of Henry’s chest rising and falling.

Without realizing it, he fell asleep.

The first thing Henry felt when he woke was the warmth of Hans’s hand gripping his own. He did not open his eyes, not yet, as if he feared the reality he would find when he did. What if Hans was not there and he was still dreaming?

But the sensation was too real: the weight of his hand, the softness of his skin… He moved his finger just a little and brushed the other man’s palm, feeling a shiver run through his entire body. Without releasing his grip, he finally dared to open his eyes.

It was him. It really was him.

He blinked several times to clear his vision and studied his bruised face. One eye was swollen and purple, and there was a cut on his nose that had not fully healed. It reminded him of himself when he returned from some skirmish, and then he felt the weight of reality.

If this were a dream, he would never have imagined Hans like that.

He squeezed his hand a little tighter, and Capon opened his eyes.

—Henry! I was so worried!— he exclaimed as he caressed his face —Are you all right?

Their gazes met. Henry was still dazed, confused, as if his mind were trying to stitch together two worlds that contradicted each other. The image of that red hood soaked in blood snapped back into his mind like a lash. Erik’s words were still echoing in his head: “Capon begged.”

—Hans… is it… you?— he managed to say in a hoarse, broken voice.

The noble leaned toward him, resting his forehead against Henry’s. He let out a relieved sigh as he gently stroked the back of his neck.

—Of course it’s me… Look at me, feel me. I’m here, with you.

Henry released his hand and brought his trembling fingers to Hans’s cheek. He cupped his face, and Hans let himself be guided by the touch, closing his eyes and letting out a soft moan.

—I… I thought that you… Erik…

—I know what Erik told you.— he interrupted gently, trying to pull him away from that memory —But he lied to you, Henry. It wasn’t real. He only wanted to break you. Look.

He took the red hood from his bag, still stained with blood, and offered it to him. Henry took it cautiously, unsure whether he should touch again that piece of cloth that had symbolized his condemnation.

—You don’t need to worry about him anymore, Henry… I…— he continued, his voice raw, as if those words were harder to say than he had thought —… I killed him.

Henry held it for only a moment before letting it fall.

So much suffering… for a lie. Hans was there, right in front of him, alive. He could touch him, feel him… And yet Hans’s presence did not dispel the shadows that still gripped his soul. There were other deaths, other losses, too real, too final. He had seen it with his own eyes: the blood, the small bodies, the indescribable void taking hold of his chest until it nearly drove him mad.

Hans was there.

But his brothers were not.

Those he had sworn to protect, those he had fought for until his last breath… but it had not been enough. His body began to tremble as the clear image of the children being slaughtered filled his mind.

—Henry?— Hans’s voice, though worried, sounded farther and farther away.

Everything was very clear to him, too clear. He had not lost his grip on reality, and that only made the pain more intense, more real.

His breathing broke and began to speed up.

Dvorce had burned because of him. He had thought he lost Hans. His brothers had been murdered by the enemy he had sworn to avenge. Everything was collapsing around him.

And he with it.

Henry broke down crying. It was not simple tears, but a wrenching sob, born from some deep, dark corner of his chest, a cry that choked him.

—Henry… I’m here. I’m here…— Hans whispered, with a tenderness that tried to shelter him.

His hands began to shake, then his arms, then his whole body. It was not a tremor of fear, but of a pain so absolute that it could find no way out. His chest caved in and expanded in uncontrolled spasms, as if he no longer knew how to breathe.

—No… no…— Henry murmured, bringing his hands to his face, burying them in his own hair as if he wanted to tear the memories out by the root —I couldn’t… I couldn’t save them…

His voice broke, and the rest turned into a moan that no longer sounded human.

Hans adjusted Henry and let him cry against his chest. The sob tore out of him with such violence that he doubled over, clutching Hans’s torso as if it were the only fixed point in a world shattering beneath his feet.

Hans clenched his teeth, holding back his own trembling. He stroked the back of his neck, his back, not trying to calm him, but to support every shudder, every crack opening inside him.

Henry clutched at his shirt, digging his fingers in with desperation.

And he cried. He cried without control. He cried as if his soul were trying to escape through his tears. Muffled screams, broken breaths… sobs that scraped his throat raw. The flames, the blood, the screams… they seemed unwilling to leave, cutting him from the inside again and again.

And beneath all that pain, that regret… Hans’s body remained, firm and unyielding like a rock, holding Henry… or what was left of him.

When Sam arrived at Sir Jan of Liechtenstein’s house, he was received with less courtesy than usual. He did not usually go to the main entrance, but his mind was so full of worries that he forgot that small detail.

The butler frowned, but still went to announce his arrival to his lord. Sam was led to a sitting room, cold and dark, where he was made to wait. The young man sat down, but the dampness of the walls began to prick his skin like thousands of needles. He stood to light the fire when Jan came through the door.

He did not seem angry, but neither did he look pleased. It had been a long time since Jan had greeted him with a smile, so Sam got straight to the point.

—Please, tell me you didn’t know. Swear to me you didn’t know…

The noble frowned, puzzled.

—Is this how you greet a nobleman in his own house? Sam… what are you talking about?

—Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know what I mean!— Sam stepped closer, raising his voice, so near to Jan that he could feel his breath —Swear to me you didn’t know it was my brother.

—Oh…— the expression on his face showed that he was beginning to understand —The incident in the square…

Sam nodded without saying a word. Jan sighed and then offered him a seat with genuine courtesy. He called for a servant to light the hearth and bring wine, assuming he would need it to calm Sam’s temper. When they were settled and the atmosphere had grown somewhat more relaxed, Jan decided to speak.

—I truly didn’t know. I could… suspect it.— Sam’s gaze cut him like a blade, provoking an immediate response —Don’t do this, you know we couldn’t do anything.

—And your solution was to hide it from me? He’s my brother!

Jan drank from his cup with a steady hand, despite Sam’s reproaches.

—I didn’t know, I can swear that on my honor.— the promise soothed the young man somewhat, but it was not enough —What did you expect me to do? Storm a convent to take some nobody, also accused of conspiring against us? Sam… we’ve been in this for many years.

Sam did not drink. He felt that if he did, his stomach would turn. However, he knew Jan too well. He had to enter his game, paying with the same coin. With information.

—It’s curious…— he said calmly, almost with a smile —… that the Lord of Leipa appeared at the last moment to save him. Appealing to his chivalry, no less.

—What?— Jan cleared his throat to hide his surprise —That’s not possible, Hans Capon has alliances that go against defending…

—The son of Sir Radzig Kobyla?— he interrupted, silencing Jan —He’s more than that… he is Sir Henry of Pirkstein, in the service of the Lord of Leipa. Risky, yes, but with reason.— he took the cup in his fingers and smelled the wine —We cannot blame Sir Henry for his father’s sins, not when he does not even bear his surname.

Jan smiled subtly, as if trying to hide his own opinions.

—Yes, noble titles look very nice on paper. But reality…

—The reality is that Sir Hans rescued my brother.— he interrupted again —And that is something I cannot overlook.

They looked at each other in an uncomfortable, heavy silence, almost defiant, remembering all those past conversations in which every word increased the distance between them. Sam finally tasted the wine.

—I don’t overlook that reality either.— Jan spoke calmly, but with tension in his face —Perhaps the Lord of Leipa needs to be reminded who his allies are.

Sam knew that look, that subtle, calm tone whose core was filled with a barely perceptible threat. He was tired. Tired of his games and conspiracies, of the things that were said and above all… those that were left unsaid.

He had seen with his own eyes what Hans had done in the square. The same Hans who had saved his life on the journey to Constantinople, the same man who had ignored the world around him to save the companion with whom he had shared his life. Would Jan do the same for him?

No matter how much he tried to ignore the answer, his heart seemed to know it.

—Sir Hans Capon did not rescue Henry in the name of Leipa. He brought no soldiers, he wasn’t even wearing his house’s colors. He appealed to his name only to buy time, but without real representation.— Jan looked at him with a hint of anger, knowing perfectly well that Sam was defending him —If you decide to take action against him, you will be the traitor in the eyes of the world.

He set the cup gently on the table, barely making a sound. His stomach was so knotted that he could not take anything. Even if there were no sides in this tangled web of alliances, Sam was no longer on Jan’s.

And they both knew it.

—Of course, of course…— Jan replied with a practiced diplomatic smile as he drained his drink —Naturally, the Lord of Leipa is an ally. I would never suggest otherwise.

There was a brief silence. Sam waited. He did not know exactly for what, but he hoped for something: genuine concern, a mention of Henry, a doubt, a crack in that mask.

His words hurt more than if he had remained silent.

—By the way,— Jan added, turning slightly toward the window —we’ll need to review the taverns’ resources. And that matter with the merchants… we can’t allow any more delays.

He spoke in the same calm voice, as if the previous conversation had carried no weight at all. As if Hans, as if Henry, as if all of it were nothing more than a passing nuisance.

Sam felt something tear loose inside him.

Jan’s words began to reach him muffled, distant, as if he were hearing them through a thick wall. He understood that this change of subject was not accidental, it was a decision.

He said nothing. Not because he did not want to, but because he knew there was nothing left to say. The damage was done, and expressing it would only have been a useless gesture, almost pathetic.

As Jan continued talking about trivial matters, Sam realized that the conversation had not been an argument.

It had been an ending.

Henry’s body had finally calmed, and he was breathing slowly under Hans’s gentle caress in his hair. His head rested on his lap, as they used to do when they were alone, when they had hardly any worries.

Hans knew he was not sleeping, because he could see the gleam of his enormous blue eyes even without looking down. Henry shuddered when the caress grew heavier, and at last he spoke, his voice raw from so much crying.

—You shouldn’t have done it.

Hans was surprised to hear his voice again, but he did not stop stroking him.

—What do you mean?

—Shooting that arrow. Cutting the rope. I…

—If you think for a single moment that I was going to let you die, you’re very mistaken.— Hans’s voice sounded hard for the first time, as if the very idea of Henry wanting to end it all angered him.

He slowly pulled his head away, as if he wanted Hans to stop stroking his hair. He shifted and moved away from his lap, supporting himself only on the ground.

—I wanted to die, Hans. I can’t live with what I did.— Hans felt his throat tighten —I was supposed to protect them… I lost the duel and they… he…

The words caught in his throat again before they could come out. His whole body began to tremble once more, and tears threatened to spill again. That sight broke Hans’s heart, and he would not allow Henry to sink back into a pit he might never escape.

He moved closer again, despite Henry’s rejection, wrapped his arms around him, and settled him back in his lap. Holding him firmly, showing him that he would not let go.

—Why are you doing this, Hans?— he protested when he felt the warmth of his companion.

—Doing what? Hugging you?— he replied, the knot on the verge of dissolving into tears.

After a few moments of silence, he heard the answer to his question.

—Loving me. Still supporting me… I don’t deserve it, Hans.

There it was, the Henry he had always known, the one who never stopped tormenting himself. The one who ignored that his pain did not affect only him, but also the people who loved him most.

Henry was not the only one who sought culprits within himself. Hans carried far more demons than he thought.

—I’m the one who doesn’t deserve your love, Henry— his body stopped trembling under his arms, finally reacting —. I never should have locked you away. I should have supported you, offered you solutions so you wouldn’t feel cornered or…

—I left, Hans. I abandoned you— Henry had turned, and his blue eyes watched him, wet and trembling —. I never should have done it, everything has been my fault.

—Your fault?— Hans raised his voice slightly, stammering as he struggled to convince him —I should have paid you more attention these past years. I suppose I took it for granted that it would be easier, that you would always be there even if I did nothing. I forced you to leave because I pulled away without even realizing it!

The knot in his throat could not hold any longer and broke into tears. Hans brought his hands to his face to hide it, ashamed of the confession that had tormented him for so long.

Henry pulled away again. Hans thought he had driven him off with that pathetic image of himself, that he would return to the cold floor to continue tormenting himself. Away from him, away from his excuses.

Instead, he felt the weight of Henry’s arms over his shoulders. Henry was hugging him, not in a superficial or consoling way, but deeply, sincerely.

A hug he had not felt in years, filled with the purest love they had ever felt for one another. The touch of their cheeks was no longer strange or distant, it was warm and comforting.

Hans lifted his arms and held Henry’s body tightly against him, as if every second they spent like that blurred their problems a little more. He had stopped crying, and he did not even know when. He only knew how Henry’s scent seemed to calm every inch of his body.

—Don’t apologize for that. I was angry, but I never should have left.

His voice, deep and reassuring, echoed in Hans’s ears. They breathed deeply, and Henry pulled back, fixing his gaze on Hans’s eyes, desperate to take the guilt from him.

It was strange. It felt as if the last months they had spent apart and angry had never happened. As if the years in which they had slowly drifted apart had not weakened their bond. Nothing else mattered in that moment, the only thing real was the two of them, embracing in the cellar. Bruised, traumatized… but together. Ready to give everything for one another.

—Henry… when I saw you hanging from that rope… I… I…— his voice broke again, though Henry held his cheeks so he would not look away —I thought that if I didn’t arrive in time, I would hang myself from that rope. I can’t… I can’t live without you.

—Hans…— he whispered in a thread of a voice.

—Forgive me. Please, forgive me for everything.

—Hans.— Henry pressed his forehead against his, and for the first time his lips twisted into what looked like a smile —There is nothing to forgive. Because I can’t live without you either.

The hand holding Hans’s cheek moved slowly, changing its grip into a caress. A gesture he had missed, something so simple and avoided for so long.

Slowly, very slowly, their faces drew a little closer. Their hands caressed each other without restraint, needy, as if they could make up for the lack of affection in just a few seconds.

They were so close they could feel each other’s breath warm against the tip of their noses.

A little more. Just a little more.

A fleeting brush. The other man’s warmth on their lips, their breaths growing faster.

And finally, the kiss they both surrendered to.

Chapter Text

Atenón needed those caresses. He had been very tense ever since they fled the square, and Hans felt guilty for having almost forgotten about him. Sam had been very clear that he must not leave his hiding place, but a day had already passed and the animal needed attention.

He offered him a few apples he found in a barrel, rewarded him with caresses, and soothed him with the softness of his voice.

—You did well… You know that, right? —the horse nodded its head, perhaps looking for more apples, but Hans took it as a “yes” —That’s how I like it. Behave yourself, all right? We won’t be long.

Atenón nudged him with his nose, as if he were truly answering his questions. Hans smiled as the nag sniffed his hair and played with his fringe, allowing himself to enjoy that simple moment, even if only for an instant.

That was what he needed. To feel like he was a normal boy again, worried only about the horse not pulling too hard on his hair. But Henry was waiting for him, vulnerable and wounded. And not all wounds could be seen on the skin.

He sighed deeply and picked up the sword that had been left lying next to the horse’s tack. Now that Henry was awake, it was time to return it to him. He kept a couple of apples for them and went down into the dark hole where the light of his life was waiting.

—Hans? Is that…? —Henry’s huge blue eyes shone when he saw the steel.

—Yes. I got it back for you. —he said solemnly as he handed him the sword.

Henry took it carefully, grimacing in pain as he stretched too much and strained the wound in his leg. He examined the sword in silence, thinking about everything it represented, everything it had caused since the day it was forged.

He could not stop the memory of Erik snatching it from his hands from returning to his mind. That cold, wicked smile, the iron grip of his hand on his throat… it felt far too real.

Henry brought a hand to his neck, almost as a reflex. There were no marks from Erik, but there were from the rope that had almost ended his life: a long bluish bruise encircled his entire neck.

—How did you do it? —Henry asked without taking his eyes off the steel —How… did you finish him?

Hans preferred not to remember the fear he had felt when he thought he was going to die, when he thought he would leave this world without knowing what had become of Henry. The desperate struggle by the riverbank, the blows to the head that had left him on the verge of collapse…

But Henry was begging without saying it, and that look alone was enough to know that he needed an answer.

—A stroke of luck… I suppose. —Henry said nothing —He almost killed me, you can be sure of that, but I managed to find the moment to run him through with my sword.

Henry remained silent, his gaze fixed on the steel, lost in his own thoughts, his memories… and his guilt.

It was not hard to guess what was going through Henry’s mind. Hans had been by his side for many years, long enough to know that he would never stop torturing himself.

—You couldn’t have won that duel, Henry. You can barely stand, and I know firsthand how strong he is… was, Erik. Please, don’t think about it anymore. —Hans’s voice pleaded for a little mercy toward him.

—They died because of me. I lost, and they died. That… was… the deal.

Henry lowered his head, hurt, remorseful, on the verge of crying again. Hans could not allow him to break down once more, because every fall seemed harder than the last. He placed a hand on his shoulder, letting him know he was still there.

—Henry… do you really think that if you had won, Erik would have spared their lives? —Henry lifted his gaze, full of sadness and hopelessness —Of course not. He didn’t go to Dvorce to leave loose ends, he went to wipe everything out.

After a pause that felt eternal, Henry took hold of the sword and set it beside him, finally at rest. He sighed deeply and remained calm, clinging to a reality he would not let go of easily.

—I… know.

That was all he said. Two words that weighed like a hammer over their heads, carrying all their raw meaning. Hans did not reply, because there was nothing more to say. He simply moved closer to Henry and hugged him so tightly that the young man almost, just almost, smiled.

Hans woke with a start, as if he felt an invisible urgency that would not let him keep sleeping. Down there, in the darkness of the cellar, it was hard to tell day from night. The noise in the streets was his only clue, and from the sound of it, it must have been very early or very late: the voices of the last passersby could barely be heard.

A protesting murmur sounded beside him. Henry was curled up, trying to keep warm, and every movement seemed to bother his leg. The last nightmare had been strong enough to wake him with a kick, which made him cry out despite himself.

His blue eyes met Hans’s in the darkness.

—My God… did I wake you?

Hans smiled and stroked his hair to calm him.

—No, darling. Wait, let me take a look at that.

Henry remained silent, making his brain work to be sure that what he had just heard was real. Hans came closer and carefully removed the dirty bandage from his leg.

—What… did you call me?

—Huh? Mmf… —Hans seemed not to have heard either his words or his question. He continued with his task until the skin was exposed. Hans brought over the only lantern they had and examined every inch, every drop of blood that might signal danger.

—It’s opened a little, but it looks pretty good. You’ve always healed quickly, Henry, I don’t know how you do it.

He tore a piece from his own shirt and began to wrap the leg again, under Henry’s watchful gaze. He was not going to give up so easily.

—You had never called me “darling” before. Why now?

Hans paused for a moment, as if the doubt hurt him without any ill intent. He shyly caressed the skin that was still exposed, and went on bandaging the leg with the care it needed.

—I always wanted to. But there was always… someone watching, listening. —that turn he tightened it too much without realizing —I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.

—Why? —he asked with his innocent gaze.

—Because… —he tied the cloth and stroked his leg once more —… because I realized that if I lost you, I would regret every day not having done it.

He moved closer to Henry, playing it down, and wrapped his arms around him to give him warmth. They both cuddled together, and Henry buried his head in his lap, feeling how that contact seemed to heal him far better than any medicine.

—Thank you… darling. —he whispered with a half smile before pretending he had fallen asleep.

Hans could not help letting out a soft laugh, something as pleasant as it was liberating. He would never have imagined that hearing those words would have melted his heart.

The calm, however, did not last long.

The sound of a horse’s hooves echoed as it entered the same courtyard through which Atenón had come. Hans went on alert and grabbed his sword when he heard footsteps on the floor above, while Henry did the same. He could not fight, but it was better to have a sword in his hands on the ground than to have nothing at all.

Furniture scraped across the floor, and finally the trapdoor opened and the light of a torch illuminated the stairs.

—Sam! —they both shouted at once.

Sam came down so hurriedly that he did not even have time to greet his brother, now conscious.

—You must leave now. This is the ideal moment, no one is guarding the South Gate. Come on, I’ll guide you.

Hans jumped up and was on his feet at once, ready to leave that cursed place for good. Henry took a little longer to grasp what was happening. He remembered seeing Sam… or did he? Those moments when reality still blended with his imagination were confusing and exasperating.

But Hans was in a hurry and had not asked questions. Perhaps this really was real.

The two men lifted Henry by the armpits and practically dragged him outside. There was no time to explain everything that had happened, much less to convince him that the man he was looking at was real.

They set him down on the stable floor while Hans hurriedly fitted Atenón’s tack, trying to make sure no strap was loose or badly placed.

Night was falling, and the last lights were going out in the windows of the houses. The usual bustle of the city had given way to a soft murmur, a subtle melody that mixed gossip and conspiracies with familiar, affectionate words. A city falling asleep.

—How are you, brother?

Sam examined Henry’s leg while Hans finished with his horse. He was not a doctor or a surgeon, but if there was one thing Sam knew about the human body, it was fractures and open wounds in the legs.

He had suffered it for far too long, a recovery that was too slow and painful for such a pitiful end. He had decided to distance himself from the person who had accompanied him for the last decade. The one who had supported him… but also the one who had disappointed him.

—Alive, it seems. —he replied with an accepting snort.

Their eyes met and the young Jew could not help laughing.

—I’ve never known anyone so eager to seek death! And yet… here you are!

Sam tried to coax a smile out of him, but it was in vain. Dark memories struck too hard, preventing any hint of happiness or relief. He simply curved his lips into what looked like a smile, and that was enough for Sam.

—All set! Let’s go! —Hans shouted as he lifted Henry again.

They managed to get him onto Atenón between the two of them, though it was harder than they expected. Henry was a strong, muscular man, and Atenón a very tall horse. When they were done, they were exhausted.

Hans sat right behind Henry, securing him firmly with his arms and keeping him from falling, the way knights rode.

Sam nodded when he saw him safe, and with the area clear, it was time. He mounted his horse and led them through the labyrinthine streets of that district without getting lost at a single corner: he knew that city like the back of his hand.

It did not take long for them to reach the gate, and just as Sam had said, it was clear.

They crossed quickly, without looking back.

Hans made a superhuman effort to keep Henry on the horse as they galloped, but he did not give in despite his arms trembling. They put as much distance as possible between themselves and the city, and although they could have hidden in the forest, they did not. No one was chasing them.

They gradually slowed their pace until they reached a crossroads where Sam stopped to observe the different directions. He had made a decision, and he had to be faithful to it.

—Our paths part here, Sir Hans. Head southeast, to the left, and you will soon reach Rattay.

Hans was not there to convince him of anything, but he valued Sam not for who he was, but as a true friend. He had not hesitated to help them in that square, and he knew he could always rely on him.

—Are you going back to the city? —he asked, worried, knowing that he might be getting into trouble.

—There’s nothing left to hold me in Prague. —Hans looked visibly surprised, knowing what that meant —I’ll go back to my family for a while. After that… well. I have time to think about what I’ll do next.

The answer came from Hans’s heart immediately, as if it did not even need to be considered.

—Come with us. To Rattay. There will always be a place for you, Sam.

—I know. —Sam stepped closer and gave him a tap on the shoulder by way of farewell —I’ll keep it in mind when I don’t know where to go, I promise.

Hans nodded cordially. It saddened him, but he could not force him to go with them.

—We’ll see each other again, brother. I hope next time you don’t greet me at death’s door. —he addressed Henry, who was struggling not to complain too much about the pain in his leg.

—I promise nothing, you know me. —he replied with an attempt at humor.

Sam sketched a half smile, the kind that weighs more for what it hides than for what it shows. He flicked the reins and turned his horse away.

—Take care of yourselves. —he said at last—both of you.

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and took the road to the right. Soon he was lost amid the dust and the last light of dusk, until his silhouette was reduced to a long shadow that finally disappeared around the bend.

Henry followed him with his gaze for as long as he could. Then, with a weary sigh, he leaned more of his weight against Hans.

—Let’s go. —Hans murmured—It’s a long road, and there’s no time to lose.

He guided Atenón to the left, slowly moving away from the crossroads. Two different directions, two destinies separated by barely a few meters… and yet, by a whole world.

Chapter Text

The red of the flames darkened the clear blue eyes, which did not close even as the fire blinded them. They remained fixed on the sway of the flames, on that mystical dance that bewitched anyone who gazed upon it.

He could not help it. The flames had ensnared him and seemed unwilling to let him go, dragging with them memories of sorrow and pain. The screams echoed in his ears as if they were right beside him. The anguish in those gazes pierced his heart like a cruel dagger that twisted to double the suffering.

He heard his name in the distance. His brothers were calling him… and he had failed them. He had disappointed everyone who had ever believed in him.

—Henry!

The young man blinked several times, as though waking from a dream despite not having slept.

—My God! I thought I had lost you again… —Henry sensed the worry in Hans’s words— Are you all right?

Of course he was not. Perhaps he never would be again. Hans had rescued the wreck of a man who had lost everything, hoping he might return to who he once was. However, something changed when he stopped looking at the fire and focused his attention solely on Hans’s worried face.

Those blue eyes with their piercing gaze, that persistent air of nobility hidden beneath his true face. Someone kind and warmhearted, someone mad enough to love him.

Perhaps he had not lost everything.

—I’m fine —he replied, cold and curt.

He watched Henry curl up beneath the blanket, grimacing in pain every time he moved his leg without realizing it. Perhaps the chosen campsite was not the most comfortable, but it was the safest.

Hans did not want to risk stopping at an inn, not with the situation so delicate. He had decided to leave the road and spend the night sheltered beneath a great oak, where the campfire remained hidden behind the trunk.

He thought it might be a good idea to try to make Henry remember happy moments, to keep his bitterness at bay.

—And… and… God, the shame I felt when I couldn’t perform with Jitka on our wedding night. Honestly, Henry, thank God you weren’t there… —he watched the young man, searching for a hint of joy, without success— I know at least something good came out of it… Heinrich, our Heinrich. I still remember when he tried to take his first steps and headed straight for you without thinking.

Henry shifted beneath the blanket, and Hans continued, believing he was cheering him up. —Do you remember what his first words were? It still melts my heart when he tried to say “Henry” and it came out “E ri.” The look on Jitka’s face was priceless —he said with a faint smile, as though those happy memories might turn against him— Do you… do you remember?

Blue eyes peeked out from above the fabric, still blinded by bitterness.

—Heinrich… How am I supposed to tell him, Hans?

The words cut through the air between them, and Hans froze. The sadness in his voice was so deep it seemed contagious with just a breath.

—How will I be able to look him in the eyes… and tell him that I failed? —his voice broke and his eyes grew moist, distant, staring into nothing.

That question left Hans completely defenseless, unsure of what to say. Rather, unsure whether his next words would lift him up or sink him even deeper into the pit he had fallen into.

—Henry… you know our son. I’m sure Heinrich will understand —he replied gently, trying to pass that feeling on to his companion.

Henry said nothing. He curled back up beneath the blanket and turned away, giving his back to the fire and to Hans. He murmured something unintelligible and remained curled in on himself, as though the whole world were crashing down on him.

He was cold, despite being beside the fire. He felt alone, even though he was not.

It seemed that nothing could soothe his inner pain until he felt something truly warm against his back, wrapping around him. A strange sense of peace flooded his heart, and he began to feel his muscles slowly relax.

The tension faded, the feeling of home quieted his mind. And none of it was due to the fire or the warmth of the blanket.

It was simply that Hans had curled up beside him.

The cool morning air struck his face. His breath immediately turned into a cloud of fine vapor when he saw the banners of Leipa fluttering and sighed in relief. A laugh escaped him, seeming to encourage the horse, exhausted after days of travel with two riders on its back.

Hans bore almost all of Henry’s weight, half asleep from exhaustion, defeated by the situation. But it no longer mattered, just a few more steps and they would enter Rattay, their home. The place where they would be safe and could finally rest properly. Without worries, with a comfortable bed beneath them and without the constant fear of someone setting them ablaze in the night.

They crossed the gate, and the guards recognized Lord Capon at once. They were alarmed to see his many wounds and bruises, but he insisted that Henry’s condition was more serious and that they needed to reach the Upper Castle as soon as possible.

—My lord, I beg you. Dismount and we will escort Sir Henry —pleaded one of the guards.

—If you wish to escort us, you’ll have to follow us to the castle. I will carry Sir Henry to his chambers myself if necessary. Call the physician, now!

The men had neither time nor right to argue. They would do as their lord commanded, especially since he had already spurred the horse forward, leaving them behind. They looked at one another, surprised by Capon’s condition, and ran toward the physician’s house.

Henry opened his eyes as they ascended from Pirkstein to the Upper Castle. He blinked several times; the morning chill soothed his eyes and sent a shiver through him. Unconsciously, he nestled closer to Hans, seeking his warmth.

—Have we… arrived yet? —the confusion was still visible in the tremor of his words.

—Yes, my dear Henry. We’re home.

The path felt longer than he remembered, the wounds ached and exhaustion weighed heavily, but none of that stopped him from continuing to hold Henry with the little strength he had left in his arms.

They passed by the square where proclamations were announced and stocks were set up. It was not unusual to see someone suffering there for a minor crime, but the face of the exposed man seemed strangely familiar.

He slowed the horse and looked more closely, causing a slight unconscious squeeze that Henry felt as a warning.

—What’s wrong? —Henry asked, uneasy.

—That’s… Pavel? —Henry looked at the condemned man and nodded without hesitation— Well, I’ll ask what happened later. Right now we need to get to the Castle. If I carry you for one more minute, I think my arms will give out.

Henry tried to smile, but instead adjusted himself better in the saddle and relieved some of the weight resting on Hans.

—I’m sorry to be such a burden, my lord.

Henry’s tone was so gloomy that Hans no longer knew whether he was joking or serious. He simply spurred Atenón and they finished the ascent in silence, broken only by the guards’ shouts announcing their arrival as they entered the courtyard.

—Quick! Help Sir Henry! —shouted the captain of the guard, who was already holding him.

Lady Jitka and her son Heinrich quickly appeared at the top of the stairs, hopeful upon seeing Hans return with someone else.

But there was only one person.

Heinrich saw his father dismount in a pitiful state: exhausted, covered in bruises and wounds; while his uncle Henry could not even dismount on his own. When the guards held him, he could not put weight on his leg and was so exhausted that they practically carried him like dead weight.

Then he knew. He knew what that meant. Neither Henry nor his father would have returned alone if not for…

Their gazes met for barely a second. From the courtyard, blue eyes confirmed the suspicions of the one watching from the stairs. Heinrich felt the air leave his lungs, as if someone had suddenly crushed his chest. His father… his uncle Henry… alone. The absence weighed more than all the visible wounds.

Hans tried to manage a smile for his son, an awkward, almost painful expression that failed to light up his eyes. And that gesture, so weak, so broken, was enough to destroy any hope that remained.

Little Heinrich took a step back. Then another. His lips began to tremble as he barely shook his head, as though he could reject reality with that imperceptible movement. His mother tried to touch his shoulder, to comfort him, but he pulled away before her fingers could brush him.

—Heinrich… —she whispered, her voice heavy with fear.

He turned on his heels and ran into the castle’s interior, his heart in pieces, tears burning his eyes before they could even fall. The echo of his footsteps on the stone was the only farewell he left behind.

Jitka remained still, rooted at the top of the stairs, holding back the tremor in her chin as best she could. She swallowed once… twice… trying to compose herself before descending.

When she looked back at Hans, the truth was no longer hidden. His entire body spoke of loss. She descended slowly, each step an effort not to collapse right there as she watched them carry the battered Henry away. And when she finally reached Hans, there were no tears and no questions.

Only the need to remain standing by his side.

The warmth of home was necessary to heat Hans’s body, which was slowly growing cold now that he finally felt at ease. Lying on the floor in front of an armchair, he endured patiently while Jitka cleaned his wounds.

—Are you going to tell me what happened? —she asked in a gentle tone, inviting conversation.

—Is it necessary? I think it’s quite obvious that they…

—I know. —she interrupted before Hans could break down— I mean the state you’re in. Have you even looked at yourself? I thought you wouldn’t be able to walk in here.

Jitka pressed too hard on a bruise on his forehead, perhaps to legitimize her scolding, and Hans groaned in pain. He flinched instinctively, but she held his head steady and continued cleaning the dried blood.

—The one responsible for everything… the man who destroyed Dvorce and Henry… I killed him.

Jitka remained silent, trying to hide her anger at the danger her husband had put himself in. And he almost killed you, too… she thought, but did not dare to say it aloud.

—After that I rode for two days without rest. I thought Atenón wouldn’t make it. But I had to reach Prague, they were going to execute Henry.

Jitka remembered the strange mark she had seen on his neck when he arrived, and her hand trembled for barely an instant before growing still again.

—When I finally got there, he was already hanging. He… when I saw him with the noose around his neck… I… I…

Jitka did not try to interrupt him. She said nothing more. She simply took his hands firmly, anchoring him to the present, forcing him not to lose himself completely in the memory. When he lifted his face, she was looking at him with an almost painful calm.

—You saved him, Hans —she finally said, her voice low but steady— You’re both here. That’s the only thing that matters now.

He clutched at his wife’s dress and buried his face in the fabric, breathing in her scent, searching for something familiar to hold on to. He cried without shame, without pride, until the trembling subsided and the emptiness stopped hurting so much. When the sobbing faded, what remained was a deep exhaustion… and a strange sense of relief.

Jitka then rested her hand on his shoulder, without squeezing, without demanding anything. She was simply there.

Hans looked up and managed a weak smile, feeling understood. He needed something different. Anything that wasn’t thinking about that moment when he had nearly died alongside Henry.

—And… well —he murmured, pulling away awkwardly— did anything happen while I was gone?

He paused briefly.

—Why is Pavel in the stocks?

Jitka took a second to answer. Long enough to arrange her words. Long enough to choose them carefully.

—For stealing. —she finally said, without harshness— He’s been stealing from the castle for some time now. Small things, at first. No one noticed… until it stopped being so small.

Hans frowned, confused.

—Stealing…?

—Yes. —Jitka held his gaze— Even clothes from our chests. He was the one who took your red hood.

The silence fell abruptly.

Something changed in Hans’s eyes. Confusion turned into disbelief… and then into a sudden, brutal fury, completely out of proportion.

—What? —he spat the word, sitting upright at once.

Jitka took a step back, startled by the violence of his reaction.

—Hans, he’s a thief. I already took care of his punishment.

—EXECUTE HIM! —he roared, slamming his fist against the table.

Jitka froze.

—Hans… —she whispered, unable to understand— It’s just a hood.

He looked at her with eyes bloodshot with rage and fury, as if the entire world had lost all meaning.

—No, you don’t understand. —he said through clenched teeth— It’s not.

Though Jitka could not know it, that hood had been the reason Henry thought Hans was dead. The reason that, before continuing with that suffering… he had preferred to die.

—Hans, you need to calm down. —she ordered firmly as she watched her husband pace back and forth.

He muttered to himself, angry, distressed. At times he stopped and ran his hands through his hair, rubbing the shaved side and ruffling the blond strands. His breathing quickened, and Jitka felt he might lose control at any moment.

—Why don’t you go talk to Heinrich? —she suggested— He’s missed you. You and Henry.

Hans stopped at once and looked the woman in the eyes. Of course he wanted to speak with his son, but that meant he would have to do exactly what Henry feared so much: explain what had happened. Still, given the situation, perhaps it was for the best. If he could take that weight off his shoulders… he would.

—You’re right, my dear. I’ll go right now.

He kissed her on the cheek and, after thanking her for her care, rushed out the door. Jitka knew the anger was still there and would persist, because she knew him too well. Perhaps she really would have to call the executioner after all.

The warm rays of the sun slipped shyly through the window, warming the hand that had been left outside the blanket. Henry woke slowly, trying to remember where he was, wrapped in a strange sensation of warmth.

The light flooded the room as if it wanted to shout that a new day was beginning, full of hope. Beside him, a small, warm body was still sleeping, tightly clutched to him. As if afraid to let go. As if he had been there all night.

Henry shifted to ease the stiffness in his arms, and inevitably the boy woke up. He could not talk to him, not yet. He did not feel ready to relive the horror again.

However, Heinrich was neither sad nor full of questions. His blue eyes grew moist with joy at seeing his uncle finally awake and safe. He threw himself at him and hugged him even tighter.

—Uncle Henry!

His heart seemed to stop for a second. He gently stroked the child’s golden locks, almost superficially, until at last he let go of the weight that had been tormenting him.

—Heinrich… my Heinrich… —he whispered as he returned the embrace with the same intensity.

The boy pulled back with a smile, wiping away tears of emotion.

—I missed you so much… thank goodness you’re back! Captain Bernard isn’t as good as you, but Mother insisted I had to keep learning with him. And Father… well… he was always busy and bitter. —the boy sighed as if all of that were a bad memory— Now that you’re here, things will be like before again, right?

Henry felt the words catch in his throat before they could leave his mouth.

—Heinrich… I… —he did not know how to tell him that nothing would ever be the same again, that he had failed him in the most disappointing way one could fail someone.

—You’ll train me again! Right?

The boy interrupted him, eyes damp and voice trembling, as if he knew Henry’s remorse perfectly well. He was choosing his words deliberately, downplaying what Henry did not want to say. Showing him that, despite everything, what mattered was that he was there with him.

Henry swallowed and forced a faint smile to please the boy.

—Of course, Heinrich. We’ll train again once my leg heals.

The boy could barely contain his excitement when someone cleared his throat at the doorway, drawing their attention. They both turned and saw Hans leaning against the stone, watching in silence, visibly happy to see them like that.

—Father! Henry has…

—…woken up. Yes, I can see that. —Heinrich did not speak again after the interruption— Your mother is looking for you, why don’t you go and tell her that Sir Henry has woken up?

His father’s tone was so strangely soft and warm that Heinrich could not help but smile. He hugged Henry one last time, so tightly that he accidentally struck the wound on his leg, though Henry held his breath and said nothing.

He watched the boy leave through the door, and Hans closed it behind him. He approached slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his hand tightly. Henry did not let go.

—Welcome back, my dear knight.

Henry took a few seconds to answer. Hans’s voice, so close, so steady, anchored something inside him that had been adrift for days. He breathed in deeply. The smell of cold stone, dried herbs, and distant smoke felt strangely comforting.

—I thought… —he began, but the sentence fell apart before he could finish— I thought Heinrich would be looking for answers.

Hans squeezed his hand a little tighter, as if to make sure he was still there, that he was real.

—He knows. I explained it to him. —he said quietly— At first it was hard for him to take it in… but you know our son. He’s a smart boy.

Henry turned his head just enough to look at him. The weariness still weighed on his bones, but for the first time since he had woken up, he did not feel afraid. There was something deeply calming in that silent presence, in the warmth of familiar fingers holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

—He fell asleep at your side. —Hans added after a moment— He didn’t want to leave all night, all he wanted was to be with you.

A shadow of a smile crossed Henry’s face.

—He’s always been stubborn.

—Just like his father.

They shared a brief, comfortable silence. The kind that needs no words. Henry closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be carried by the feeling of safety, by the certainty that, whatever happened, he was finally home.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the moment.

—My lord.

Hans looked up, clearly annoyed. A soldier stood stiffly in the doorway, his gaze fixed on some undefined point on the floor.

—The executioner is awaiting your presence.

Hans’s hand tensed at once. His expression changed, hardening like a wall raised in an instant.

—I’m coming.

Henry frowned, sitting up as much as his body allowed.

—The executioner? —he asked— For what?

Hans did not answer immediately. He stood up, turning his back to the bed.

—Pavel. —he spat the name— He’s been stealing for some time. He… he was the one who stole my red hood.

—Hans… —Henry’s voice was a plea even before it fully formed— That doesn’t justify executing him.

Hans turned sharply.

—Doesn’t it?! All the suffering he caused you! —he snapped, furious— What he made me suffer… too.

—You’re not like this. —Henry replied, firmer— This isn’t you.

Hans fell silent, caught between the reality Henry was trying to express and his most primitive desires of rage and revenge.

—I still remember when you threatened to send me to the stocks to try to impose respect. How curious that days later you told me you would never be capable of something like that.

The grip on his hand loosened. He had completely disarmed Hans. His expression softened, his shoulders sagged… everything suggested he had surrendered to Henry.

Hans then leaned toward him, resting his forehead against Henry’s.

—You always manage to bring out the best in me. —he murmured.

Henry smiled, exhausted, but at peace.

Chapter Text

The icy air swept across the landscape without mercy, threatening an imminent drop in temperature. Summer had already ended, and with it the bitter memories of Henry’s recovery were fading away.

The bruises on his neck had disappeared quickly, but his leg had caused more trouble than expected. The summer heat had struck it hard, making it fester and preventing it from healing properly. And after that, Henry tried to walk again.

Clumsy at first, he seemed unable to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. With great calm, patience, and Hans’s constant attention, he slowly began to walk on his own. Hans teased him whenever he saw him leaning on his wooden staff, trying to coax a smile out of him.

But Henry had not smiled again.

Hans watched from his window as Captain Bernard kept training his son, even though the most suitable person for that task had already returned to the castle. It hurt him to see how Henry had become a shadow in the darkness, always avoiding that courtyard, avoiding any contact that reminded him of the past.

Feeling a heavy weight on his chest, Hans left his room and stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the courtyard. Once, Henry had fought and won for him. He had seen him rise above the other knights, and now… he was sitting in a corner.

Hidden from the light, reading another book from the shelf while curling in on himself. Like a wounded dog, terrified of the outside world. Hans sighed and walked toward him.

—What a splendid day! Would you like to go for a walk? —he asked with exaggerated, feigned cheerfulness.

Henry, paler than usual, closed the book carefully and glanced over the wall.

—Do not be fooled by the morning sun, my lord. It is cold and the wind comes from the north, the clouds will appear soon. —he said with no interest or emotion, opening his book again.

Exasperated, Hans snatched the book from his hands.

—What are you reading that is so fascinating? Compendium Moralis Philosophiae ad Usum… —he yawned on purpose before even finishing the title — For God’s sake, Henry, if you keep reading such tedious things I will have to send you to the monastery where I sent Pavel.

Showing no hint of annoyance or amusement, Henry took back the book and opened it again.

—Godwin recommended I read. It keeps the mind occupied.

He said nothing more, did not react in any way, as if he were only an empty shell. It hurt Hans to see him like that, dim and lifeless. As if the Henry he knew had never returned from Dvorce.

—You know… Heinrich has been asking about you, about your leg. When do you think you will be able to train with him again? —he asked plainly, in a desperate attempt to make him react.

Calmly, Henry turned a page with slow care. He adjusted himself on the cold, hard bench and without any hurry, answered.

—Not yet. It still hurts.

He had not even looked up.

Hans stood there frozen, in silence, while the icy air numbed his hands. He felt a knot in his throat, as if he were about to cry, but he could not allow himself to see that as defeat. He would not give up on Henry, not now, not ever.

—Very well. Come to my office at dusk, there are several matters I must deal with.

Henry nodded, barely a movement, expressionless, while turning another page. He did not notice Hans watching him with a smile that hinted he was plotting something.

Just as his lord had ordered, Henry presented himself in his office at dusk. He dragged his feet as if he had neither the strength nor the desire to be there, but an invisible force kept him moving. He liked being at Hans’s side, he felt warmth in his presence, but something inside him fought against that feeling. As if he himself were fighting to stay sad, resisting the few things that gave him happiness.

He knocked on the door and entered when he heard Hans’s voice.

Before he could step into the room, Hans himself assaulted him, placing a coat over his shoulders without giving an explanation. He too wore warm clothing, and without a word, he walked out the door.

—Come on, follow me. —he ordered when he saw Henry standing still.

Henry’s body reacted to the command automatically, and he followed. Hans first thought of going to the stables, but remembered Henry still had no horse. That had to change as soon as possible.

He did not want to be riding Atenon and see Henry following on foot like a hound, but even less did he want the townsfolk to see him riding with his own knight on the same horse.

They crossed the square and left the town. Both remained silent until Hans stopped in front of the old bathhouse he used to frequent. He had not returned there since becoming Lord of Rattay, but that night he decided to approach it.

He knocked on the door, and the mistress was already waiting for him.

—My lord, everything is ready.

—Good. —he said while removing his gloves — Bring us the best wine you have. Come, Sir Henry.

Hans walked in with firm steps while Henry hesitated slightly at the door. Why would the lord of Rattay bother coming to that den? He simply let himself be carried once more by that invisible force, as he had done these past months.

He entered and followed Hans to the far end, a large private room with a single bathtub. The water gave off steam that smelled of lavender and rosemary, fading quickly as it met the cold air.

The fire crackled softly in a newly built hearth, and a maid finished filling the tub with the last pitcher of hot water. In a corner, Capon was finishing undressing before the maid’s blushing cheeks.

—That is all, Ana. You may go.

The young woman nodded and, without lifting her gaze from the floor, ran off and left them alone. Hans was already completely naked when he stepped into the hot water and let the scent and warmth envelop him. He let out a pleased sigh and then looked at Henry.

Henry had not moved. He stood planted before the door, fully clothed, flushed from the heat of the room.

—Henry, what are you doing there? Come on, undress and get in here with me.

It felt strange. That scene was far too familiar, far too… welcoming. He gave a faint smile, a hint that the inner struggle against his own joy was losing strength. He undressed just as Capon had asked, without blushing for even a moment.

The water spilled over the edge when Henry stepped in, soaking the wooden floorboards. The maid had left the jug of wine beside Hans, and he wasted no time serving a cup and offering it to Henry.

—Go on, drink. The wine will not improve if you stare at it like that.

Henry hesitated for a second, but finally accepted. The first sip was cautious; the second, a bit more generous. The warmth of the water and the wine seemed to conspire together, loosening his shoulders, opening a crack in the shell he had built around himself.

—You see? —Hans said, resting an arm on the edge of the tub— No philosophy in Latin, no obligations. Just hot water, decent wine and good company.

Henry huffed, almost a laugh, and drank again. The hearth crackled, and for a while only the quiet splashing of water and the clinking of cups could be heard. Hans, true to his nature, soon broke the silence. He took some dice from among his discarded clothes and dropped them onto a wooden board the maid had left nearby.

—A game. If I win, you drink. If you win… you drink anyway.

Henry shook his head but accepted. At first he threw awkwardly, still stiff, still halfway between restraint and surrender. But the wine kept flowing, one cup after another, and with each roll his frown softened.

—You always cheat —he murmured, though he already sounded more amused than accusing.

—Slander! —Hans protested, placing a hand on his chest— I am the very model of noble honesty.

Henry let out a short, startled laugh, as if he had not expected the sound. He froze for a moment, as if listening to himself, then drank again, faster this time.

The games continued, the dice rolling and clacking, the wine lowering and the world becoming simpler, lighter. Henry began to speak more freely and confidently. Scattered comments, memories, the occasional complaint that no longer weighed as heavily.

Hans never stopped talking, as usual, and at one point he said something foolish. It was not even especially clever, but Henry suddenly burst out laughing. Not a faint polite smile nor a soft puff of amusement, but an open, clean laugh, one of those born in the chest that escape without asking permission. He leaned forward a little, splashing water, laughing like he had not done in a long time.

Hans watched him.

He said nothing. He made no further jokes. He simply observed him, with a calm, satisfied smile. There it was, that laugh he had not heard in so long. Proof that, even if only for one night, he had managed to pull him out of the pit.

When Henry finally calmed down, still wearing a clumsy smile, Hans raised his cup one last time.

—That. —he said quietly— That was all I wanted to hear.

And he drank, knowing that not all was lost, that the Henry he knew was still there somewhere.

Henry, for his part, looked at him with surprised eyes. Perhaps he was drunk, but he had not felt this clear-headed in a long time, his mind strangely sharp. He knew what Hans had done, and that guilty part of him wanted to be angry, wanted to sink back into the darkness where he had felt so comfortable.

But something stopped him. Perhaps Hans was the light that showed him the way, perhaps the wine was too strong to allow sadness to return. Whatever it was, he felt good. And he wanted to stay that way.

—Why here, Hans? How did you know this would work?

Hans tilted his head back and felt the warmth of the wine in his cheeks. He could not stop smiling.

—I did not know but… this was the first time.

Henry did not know what he meant. The first time they had seen each other naked? He did not guard that memory so closely, perhaps because that night he had drunk until losing consciousness.

—The first time you laughed. —he clarified when he saw Henry’s confused face — The first time… since Skalitz.

They kept drinking, as if their cups had no bottom, as if they were searching for an answer they could not find.

—Truly? The first time? — Hans nodded, his eyes half closed — How… how can you remember that?

Hans threw the empty cup to the floor. He put his head under the water and when he emerged again, his golden hair clung to his face. He brushed it back and Henry found him more handsome than ever, surprised to feel such irrational desire again.

—Of course I remember. You mattered to me even then, Henry.

Henry’s body began moving toward Hans without him realizing it. He had felt such tenderness that he did not know how to explain it, how to tell him that he had been everything in his life.

Perhaps it was the wine speaking for him, but he allowed himself, just for a moment, to stop feeling sorry for himself. Hans remembered that their first shared laughter after the tragedy of Skalitz had been here, proving that after the bad times, good things still came.

He only needed someone to reach out a hand, someone who would stay by his side without asking, without judging, simply supporting him for who he was. For who he is.

Yes, his whole family had died, perhaps because of him, perhaps not. But he realized in that moment he had the most important person at his side. Someone who, despite not sharing his blood nor having grown up in the same world, had stayed with him. Hans was, literally, his reason to live.

He moved closer in one sudden motion, knocking the cup aside, holding Hans’s face with both hands… and finally kissed him. Not a timid or polite kiss, no, one filled with all the passion he had held back for so long.

—But Henry! —Hans exclaimed, surprised by his reaction.

—You are everything to me. —he whispered while stroking his cheek.

Hans could not stop the smile from turning into a helpless grimace. He had finally done it. He had brought Henry back, and the emotion of the moment was overwhelming. He was happy, but he wanted to cry. He wanted to release every worry that had haunted him for months, even years.

—Henry, I… I have missed you so much. Tell me you are here, that you will not leave again. —he pleaded with his eyes, too close to Henry’s.

—Thank you for reminding me who I am. — his smile was sincere, not one altered by wine — Tell Heinrich that tomorrow we will train when the sun rises.

Hans closed his eyes and smiled widely, terribly relieved, as if he still could not believe it was real.

—Hans… —Henry murmured, taking his chin and lifting his face — I love you.

He kissed him again, a wet kiss not because of the steam in the bath, but because of Hans’s tears. He was so moved that he wrapped his arms around Henry, pulling him closer.

Their bodies intertwined like before, fitting so well it was as if they had been made for each other. Henry never stopped kissing him, and his hands began to roam down his chest. He touched him with restrained strength, as if he could no longer hold back.

Hans slid his hand lower and rested it on Henry’s backside. He squeezed lightly in a playful way, pinching his skin, and Henry laughed. It had been so long since he had been close to Hans like that that he felt the urgent need to embrace him. To hold him tight, to squeeze him just to feel that it was real, that neither of them was going anywhere.

Only the two of them.

In that place where they had laughed together for the first time.

And without saying another word, they merged with each other, trying to make up for lost time.

Chapter Text

The boy had improved much more than he himself wanted to admit. Captain Bernard was not a bad teacher, despite his advanced age. He had taught Henry everything he knew and, by extension, Henry was the closest thing to a young version of Bernard.

He didn’t need the excuse, but he felt better thinking it was true.

Captain Bernard was not a bad teacher. He simply missed Henry.

—Good strike, Heinrich! Try stepping a little farther forward, like this. —explained Henry between gasps.

The boy obeyed and followed all of his teacher’s advice until he finally achieved the objective of that lesson: disarming Henry.

He had repeated that move so many times that it now came out naturally, he only needed to perfect it. He stepped forward and leaned to one side to let the enemy bring the sword closer, while he raised his hilt to catch it with a precise twist of the steel.

Henry’s sword fell to the ground, and with it came his teacher’s broad grin of approval.

—You did it, Heinrich! That’s my boy!

He ruffled his hair with his hand and hugged him, lifting him into the air. They had never celebrated Heinrich’s progress like this before, but it was a kind of closeness the young one was not going to complain about. It felt… good.

His uncle’s smile was something he had long wished to see, and he couldn’t help but be carried away by the emotion. He returned the hug, still lifted in the air, and little by little Henry lowered him until the tips of his feet touched the ground.

—Come on, boy, let’s rest a little, you’ve earned it.

A new servant, named Peter, brought them water to drink and clean cloths to wash up. Henry passed the white towel over his face and handed it back to the servant practically brown. The mud reached their noses and that could only mean they had trained properly.

Heinrich was exhausted after all the effort. His arms trembled slightly as he reached for the cup in the air and he tried to hide it, ashamed. He watched Henry recover his breath quickly and, hardly bothered, drink and regain himself instantly, ready to return to battle.

The boy lowered his head, looking at his trembling hands.

—Someday I would like to be as strong as you. —he murmured, not too loud but not so soft that it could be taken as a whisper to himself.

Henry raised an eyebrow, half surprised by the comment and half flattered. He noticed how the boy seemed embarrassed by his body’s fatigue, but he had already done far more than anyone expected of him.

—You already are, Heinrich. —the boy looked up, puzzled —We’ve been training all morning. You’ve done nothing but take hits until now and… have you given up? No, not once. —Henry drank calmly from his cup —I’m sure that if an army walked through that door right now, you’d be the first to grab your sword and face them. Believe me, son… when you think you’ve reached your limit… you can still hold on a little longer.

Henry handed the empty cup to Peter and ruffled the boy’s hair again, drawing a smile from him.

—It’s getting late. —he said as he looked at the height of the sun —Go get a bath prepared and rest for today, you’ve earned it.

The boy smiled. He didn’t want to disappoint his uncle, but he didn’t want to lie either: he was so tired he could only think about lying in bed and sleeping until the next morning.

—Thank you, uncle Henry. Will we keep practicing the disarm tomorrow?

Henry grimaced, cursing his bad memory.

—Not tomorrow… I promised… to take your father hunting. —he said in a thin, guilty voice, as if it pained him to disappoint the boy.

But disappointment was not what his words reflected.

—Really? That’s… wonderful! —he hugged Henry again and handed everything to Peter so he could leave —I won’t keep you any longer, uncle. Enjoy the hunt.

And with a polite little bow, he left with a smile on his lips and his heart full of joy.

—I haven’t come to confess, father. I come as a friend.

Godwin looked cautiously at Hans, as if he feared the inevitable question he could not answer, for he still respected the seal of confession. “What has he told you? What does Henry think?”… He could only disappoint him in his search for answers.

—Lord Capon… come into the Sacristy, it’s very cold out here.

Hans followed the old priest up some narrow stairs, and they reached the sacristy immediately. That small hermitage wasn’t very large, barely four walls with a wooden staircase to a loft, but it was the ideal place to keep Godwin. The perfect excuse for it to be his personal chapel; no one would enter and no one would question the priest’s presence.

He wasn’t going to abandon him. Not after everything they had lived together.

—My Lord Capon… —Godwin began, fingers intertwined and trembling —I’ve already told you. I cannot tell you what Sir Henry…

—Truly, Godwin. There’s no need. —Hans’s face was relaxed and his voice calm —I see Henry every day. I know he sometimes has bad days… like any of us, right?

Godwin nodded, finally relaxing.

—But good days abound, —he continued —and that is thanks to you. —Godwin smiled and lowered his gaze, blushing —I know Henry usually comes to confess; I won’t hide that I’d like to know what you talk about… but I understand it’s sacred privacy. Thank you, truly, father.

Hans practically knelt before Godwin and kissed the back of his hand, showing the greatest respect possible.

Godwin remained motionless, perplexed, for he saw his help with the humility of someone who helps from the heart, seeking nothing in return. It was true, Henry came to see him often and told him how he improved each day, how he seemed to be climbing out of the pit he had fallen into and even how he was beginning to forgive himself. The day would soon come when guilt would no longer torment his heart.

—You shouldn’t thank me, Sir Hans. I’m the one grateful for the home you’ve given me. I know my presence here may…

—Nonsense. —Hans interrupted —No one in Rattay would dare question your presence.

The church door closing interrupted their conversation. Light, lively steps broke into the chapel, and Henry’s unmistakably deep voice echoed against the walls.

—Anyone here? Godwin?

Hans couldn’t help the smile forming on his face, as if Henry’s mere presence filled him with calm.

Hans peeked from the loft and answered.

—Coming down!

Henry’s smile was just as inevitable.

—Sir Hans! I find you at just the right time… we should ready the horses and head to the camp. It’s getting late.

—Yes, yes… I know. Give me a moment.

Godwin immediately noticed Hans’s change of attitude. From relaxed, almost worried… to the innocent, uncontrollable joy for the outing, for… the company.

Hans withdrew from the railing and returned to the conversation with Godwin, his heart so fast and happy he couldn’t hide it. Godwin had long known that the love those two young men felt went far beyond the duty of lord and knight.

He had seen them suffer, but he had also seen them laugh. Love… And now Hans sat before him with a smile he hadn’t seen in years, thanking him for helping Henry come out of his melancholy.

That, that also brought him happiness.

—Go to your knight, Lord Capon. If you make him wait too long, he’d be capable of tearing down these church walls to get to you. —he said with a light chuckle.

—I don’t doubt it, father. —Hans smiled and rose from the chair —Once again, thank you for your service.

He saluted him in farewell and went down the stairs, where Sir Henry of Pirkstein awaited him with hungry eyes. Though he didn’t know if it was for the day’s hunt… or for him.

Night was falling in the Sasau forest. The icy air cut the skin like sharp blades, eased only by the timid fire they had just lit.

The camp was exactly as they had left it last time, and that pleased them: it meant it was hidden well enough that no one had found it. Henry offered to gather firewood while Hans repaired the structure of the tent they would sleep in.

When Henry returned, he found the noble wrapped in a thick fur blanket, huddled in front of the pitiful flame struggling to survive. He was warming his hands with his own breath and couldn’t hold back a sharp cry when he saw Henry approaching with thick logs.

—For God’s sake, Henry! Did you go all the way to Rattay for the firewood? My backside is frozen!

With an indignant gesture, he snatched several logs from Henry’s arms and carefully brought them to the flame to help it grow. Henry set the wood aside and approached Hans with a smile on his lips. Hans felt the warmth of his breath on his neck when Henry whispered to him.

—That can be fixed. If you want, I can warm it up for you right now. —he said as he caressed Hans’s chest, moving his hand lower.

After a second of confusion, Hans couldn’t help laughing.

—My God, Henry… —he kept laughing and Henry pulled away with a soft kiss on his neck —First the fire, or we’ll freeze. I mean it.

Henry crouched by the fire and set the wood properly to stoke it. It surprised him that after so many years Hans still hadn’t learned to do it right. Or maybe he simply didn’t feel the need, knowing Henry would always be there with him.

That thought brought a mix of joy and nostalgia.

—It’s a beautiful night despite the cold. —Hans commented —Starry sky and not a cloud… a light breeze… we’d better not let the fire die these days or we’ll freeze at dawn.

—Days? —Henry asked, surprised —I thought you only wanted to spend one night here.

—Ah, nonsense… I’m the lord of these lands and I can dedicate myself to hunting as long as I please.

The fire grew stronger, and one of the logs fell. Henry set it back carefully, avoiding burning himself, with a strange warmth inside him. This was what it felt like to know no obligations or pretenses awaited them. The two of them alone in the forest, with the food they would hunt themselves.

However, he couldn’t help remembering that he had had this once before. And Hans was becoming more absent every day, full of duties, further from the things that made him happy.

—Precisely because you’re the lord of these lands… you have many obligations. Are you sure we shouldn’t return tomorrow? You’re always… busy. —he stressed the last words with a tone mixing accusation and sadness.

Hans realized Henry had lost his smile. That his gaze wanted to drift into the void again.

—I know. And I’m sorry. —he confessed as he laid his hand on Henry’s —I shouldn’t have neglected you, I shouldn’t have… distanced myself from what I want.

Henry caressed his hand with his fingertips, tending the fire as his smile bloomed again.

—I understood, Hans. I still do. You have many responsibilities, you shouldn’t waste your time with your knight while your people need you.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. For a moment, neither dared to speak at Hans’s lack of response, but eventually the noble broke the silence.

—It’s been a long time… since I’ve been happy, Henry.

The boy’s large blue eyes looked at him through the flames, understanding and quiet.

—Many times I dreamed of this, of getting lost in the forest… riding to faraway lands. I remembered all those good moments of freedom and when I woke up… the weight of reality was too strong to face it while looking you in the eye.

—Hans… don’t say that. We’ve had good moments.

—Of course, of course we have. —Hans stared into the flames, bewitched by their movement —But they weren’t enough, Hal. I want you. Only… you.

A hand caressed his cheek and lifted his face, forcing him to look away from the flames and focus on those blue eyes that reached his soul. He smiled, feeling him so close.

—I’ve always been yours, Hans. Come here.

He cradled him in his arms and they both curled under the blanket, beside the warmth of the fire. They kissed and touched, pressed their foreheads together as they laughed, and finally sank into a deep embrace.

—What if we stayed here forever? —Hans whispered at some point, with the cautious care of someone saying something forbidden.

—I think we’d leave the forest without game, because you’d have to feed me. —Henry joked.

He drew a smile from Hans, along with a sigh that relieved the weight of the words but couldn’t hide their sincerity.

The noble nestled closer, pressing his face against Henry’s chest, adjusting the blanket over his shoulders and feeling the heat radiating from him.

—Well, I’ve already taken you to Constantinople. How could I top that!? —Henry exclaimed with feigned despair —We could go to Naples… or Aragon! See the sea again and roll in the sand while the birds laugh at us.

—That… I would love. —he whispered with melancholy, knowing it was about impossible dreams —Maybe someday.

Seeing Hans so nostalgic, leaning on his chest like a child, filled him with a tenderness hard to describe. He only wanted to hold him with all his strength, feel him so close that they could never be separated. This was definitely all they needed.

His father had warned him.

Good wine, good people, and a good horse under your backside. That was all you needed to be happy.

And when he looked at Hans lying across him, holding him as if he didn’t want to let go, wrapped together under a blanket by the fire and under the starry sky… he felt those words in his heart.

The day had dawned clear and with it, the frost froze the fields. Jitka opened the window to feel the fresh air on her face, watching as a vast white mantle stretched to the horizon. The sun’s rays began to appear shyly in the distance, casting long shadows over the stone walls.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind, the reminder that her husband had spent the night under that frozen blanket, perhaps freezing to death, perhaps… She shook her head and smiled. Henry was with him. They had a camp. She was certain they had found a way to stay warm.

She went downstairs, leaving behind any unnecessary worries that might come to her mind, and headed to the dining room. There, Heinrich waited with a book on his lap and the hearth warming his back.

—Good morning, son. There will be no fencing lesson today either, how will you spend your time? —she asked as she sat at the table.

The boy looked at his mother, wondering whether her tone was accusatory or genuinely curious.

—Father… suggested that I could go to the chapel to study theology with Father Godwin.

Jitka merely smiled and nodded. That said far more about Hans than he himself realized.

When they finished breakfast, they went out to the courtyard to stretch their legs before heading to the chapel: Jitka had decided to accompany her son and take the chance to enjoy a walk on such a sunny, though cold, day.

The smell of freshly turned hay mixed with the strangely pleasant scent of damp earth left behind by the night frost.

Heinrich, the moment he saw the guards’ horses, slipped away from his mother and ran toward them with the ease of someone who had grown up among hooves, saddles, and the smell of leather. One of the guards gave him a smile and held out an apple so he could feed a speckled mare. The boy’s laughter, light and crystalline, mingled with the animal’s snort and the metallic jingle of the reins.

Jitka took a deep breath. The day promised to be peaceful. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun brush her face and the murmurs of the awakening castle surround her: distant footsteps, two maids commenting on the lack of bread in the kitchen, the sound of a heavy door closing, the soft flutter of a banner atop the tower.

But then, almost imperceptible at first, came a hoarse sound that made the air vibrate. A horn.

A single one. Long. Deep.

Jitka’s eyes flew open. The usual murmur of the courtyard froze. The guards tensed; one instinctively pulled his hand away from the horse Heinrich had been petting and placed the other on the hilt of his weapon.

A second horn sounded, this time clearer, more urgent. The echo bounced off the walls, seeming to multiply.

From the tower, the watchman’s voice cut through the air like lightning:

—Soldiers in the distance! They bear the shield of Sternberk!

The silence that followed lasted barely an instant, but it was enough for Jitka’s heart to tighten. The sunny day no longer seemed so bright. Captain Bernard ran down from the tower, and all the guards seemed to mobilize at the sound of the alarm.

—Heinrich! —the boy had frozen in the middle of the courtyard, unsure where to go —I want you to go to Godwin right now, and lock yourselves in there. No one can see that he is here, do you understand?

Her tone had become very serious and disciplined, which helped Heinrich stay focused. It was a clear, direct order. He clenched his fists and ran toward the chapel, casting a last glance over his shoulder as he moved away from his mother.

After the first moments of chaos, the soldiers took their positions in the walls, and Captain Bernard approached Lady Jitka with some straps of his armor still half-fastened, as if he had rushed out of his chambers.

—What is happening, Captain? —she attempted to hide the concern in her voice.

—My lady, Peter of Sternberk is approaching with light cavalry. That’s why he caught us off guard, the damned… —he muttered at the end, clenching his fists.

—We must parley, we still don’t know his intentions.

The posture and firmness of Lady Jitka filled the old Captain Bernard with an unusual confidence, making him feel strangely secure under her command.

—It will be done, my lady.

The captain left as quickly as he had appeared in the courtyard, and Jitka remained there, frozen, hiding the slight trembling of her hands beneath the layers of her dress. Hans was not here, no one could support her, so she had only her husband’s position left to defend.

He had risked everything to save Henry. He had sheltered Godwin, but kept him hidden from prying eyes… Surely, he bore a public mask that clashed with his most personal wishes. But she could only defend one of his faces.

After a good while, Bernard returned, this time fully armed and ready for battle. However, his expression did not seek conflict but a peaceful resolution.

—My lady, Sir Peter of Sternberk is approaching to speak with you. Shall I give the order to raise the portcullis?

After a few seconds in which she had to swallow her nerves, Jitka nodded.

—Just enough for Sir Peter to pass, Bernard. We want no surprises.

The sound of the heavy metal door echoed in the woman’s ears like the desperate cry of a dying animal. The entrance opened and Peter, leader of the newly arrived army, stepped inside with a hard stride, escorted by two of his captains.

—Lady Jitka. —he greeted with a bow far too short— I am surprised to find you receiving us alone. I thought Lord Capon might explain his strange friendships, now that he seems intent on interrupting the executions of enemies…

Sir Peter left the sentence hanging, half-smiling, as if he knew the woman would not be able to give an exemplary answer, already feeling victorious in that verbal skirmish.

—Lord Capon is attending matters proper to his rank. —she replied calmly— And while he is away, I speak in his name.

Peter frowned at the firmness and confidence of her words.

—In his name… or in defense of that Henry? I do not understand why Lord Capon risks his honor for a boy who carries Kobyla’s blood. It is a provocation.

Lady Jitka raised her gaze, long and sharp as a spear.

—Is killing a boy who has committed no crime a provocation? Sir Peter, blood does not make someone guilty before their time. The law itself makes it clear: Henry does not bear the name Kobyla, he has no rights or claims, no title, no inheritance. He is not a member of that house, neither by name nor by law.

—But he carries his blood. He remained in charge of the family and… —he insisted.

—If we stain our hands with the blood of a young man only because of who his father was, what difference would there be between us and those we pretend to call traitors? What moral authority would remain in these lands… or in yours?

Silence hung for a few moments. Peter’s captains exchanged uneasy glances. Jitka took a step toward him, but without aggression: firm and steady.

—I must remind you that this Henry you speak of is Sir Henry of Pirkstein! —she raised her voice so that all could hear without any doubt— And while he is under our protection, he will serve Lord Capon and Rattay… and by extension, all who have sworn loyalty to their lord.

The courtyard fell into a heavy silence, which would only break when Sir Peter accepted or rejected that humiliating defeat. No one dared question Lady Jitka, for all knew she was right.

Peter of Sternberk cast a quick glance at the garrison guarding the courtyard. Not a single soldier seemed to waver under the woman’s orders, so any attempt to undermine her authority would be useless. Even counterproductive.

The nobleman smiled and completely shifted his demeanor, as if the previous conversation had been only a test… or a failed act of provocation.

—Of course, my lady. If Lord Capon decides to fight for the good name of his knights, it only shows his great sense of honor. —the mood in the courtyard seemed to ease upon hearing, at last, words of goodwill— But I fear I am not here for that trivial matter, but for something much more important.

—You may speak plainly, my lord. —insisted Jitka.

—The day has come for the signed pact to be carried out. —his tone hardened abruptly, though it no longer showed threat but demand— A large group of Hussites has been seen heading from Sezimovo Ústí toward Prague, a mobilization to negotiate their demands with the King.

A murmur began spreading through the walls. The soldiers whispered among themselves, surprised and at the same time concerned. Lady Jitka was aware of the commotion, but before she could respond, Sir Peter continued speaking.

—I have gathered my garrison as quickly as possible and, as expected, I come to request Rattay’s assistance. If Lord Capon is still our ally…

Those words bothered Jitka. No one should publicly question her husband’s loyalties. Not like this.

—Rattay stands firm in the pact, Sir Peter. You should not doubt it unless you wish to provoke an affront to Lord Capon.

—Oh! It is not my intention, my lady. Please, accept my apologies and inform the lord as soon as possible. There is no time to lose, we are preparing to intercept the mobilization and we expect reinforcements from Rattay. —he bowed briefly and took his leave— My lady.

Sir Peter signaled to his captains and they moved quickly toward the portcullis to return to their men. When the metal gate lowered behind them again, and she saw them fade into the horizon, Jitka finally breathed out.

She remained thinking about everything they had discussed and what it all implied, and Bernard’s light touch on her shoulder was the only thing that seemed to bring her back to reality.

—My lady, what are your orders?

Jitka took a deep breath and looked around her. The archers were prepared on the battlements; a single order from her would be enough to ensure Sir Peter would never threaten them again. But that was not what was going to happen.

—Captain Bernard. —the man stepped in front of her and awaited her instruction— We must find Lord Capon at once. This conflict is inevitable.

Chapter Text

The hand was so cold that, upon waking, Hans took a few seconds to recognize it as his own. Only when he noticed the uncomfortable position did he realize he had slept with his arm trapped behind his body. He moved cautiously, as if his muscles were numb with ice, and the tent fabric crunched softly when his fingers brushed against it.

The frost had shown no mercy that night, and the canvas was stiff, almost translucent beneath the first rays of sunlight. Ice crystals seemed ready to cut at the slightest touch, and Hans curled up beneath the fur blanket, trying to coax the blood back into his frozen hand.

—AH! —Henry shouted with a violent jolt— What are you doing? Get your hand away!

Hans had laid his icy fingers on Henry’s bare arse, provoking a mischievous laugh from the former and anger from the latter.

The two of them lay curled together and naked beneath the blanket, drawn in close to preserve the warmth. Hans’s chest rested against Henry’s back, and their bodies fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle, ideal, flawless.

Hans brought his face a little closer to Henry’s neck and breathed in his scent, burying his nose in his companion’s brown hair, and almost instinctively moved his hand across his chest to caress him, to pull him even closer. But the contact of warm skin against those frozen fingers made Henry shudder.

—Hans! I swear I’ll stab you!

The brief protest made Hans laugh, and he finally withdrew his hand, keeping it at a safe distance, at least until it reached the same temperature.

He pressed closer to his man, and Henry shifted his arse slightly to settle more comfortably. After a deep sigh, he drifted back to sleep.

But Hans was already awake, and his mind refused to follow. Why would it want to? Everything he wanted was right there in front of him, and he felt strangely light and… happy. The warm light slowly grew stronger, illuminating Henry’s face. Hans lifted himself slightly to look at him more closely.

He didn’t seem to be having nightmares. His expression reflected a deep rest and even hinted at a faint smile. Could it be possible? Could Henry truly feel happiness again?

He couldn’t help it. As if drawn by an invisible force, he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Henry’s cheek. So light and tender that Henry didn’t wake, merely letting his smile deepen.

The man’s scent filled his senses, quickening his heartbeat and making him breathe deeply. He felt himself harden between his legs without meaning to, unable to help it, as every inch of Henry’s skin drove him out of his mind.

He began to caress him again, this time with his hand already warm. He moved down across his chest to his arse, where he lingered, fondling him while kissing his neck.

Henry shuddered as he felt Hans’s breath beneath his ear, and he immediately sensed what he was after.

—For God’s sake, Hans… it’s still too early. Go back to sleep.

Henry being grumpy was nothing new. Hans wasn’t about to give up.

—Oh, come on… don’t you want to start the day properly? Or did you already have enough last night…?

He slipped his hand playfully between Henry’s thighs, searching for something worth touching.

—Seriously, I’ll stab you. You’re never satisfied!

—It’s your fault for being so good! —he protested, teasingly, in a childish tone.

Hans caressed him again, seeking a response that never came. For a moment, he thought Henry might truly be annoyed, or that his lack of interest meant he simply wasn’t in the mood… but he had merely fallen back asleep. He even seemed on the verge of snoring.

—You’re such a sleepyhead. —he whispered into his ear, making Henry murmur in his sleep.

He then lay back, eyes wide open, feeling Henry’s warmth at his side and the chill of the morning on the other. Birds were beginning to stir, filling the shelter’s silence with song.

A light breeze rose, making the trees whistle, and its melody slipped through the poorly sealed seams of the tent. He didn’t mind the cold air; he even welcomed the chill on his face while taking comfort in the warmth trapped beneath the blanket.

He became mesmerized by the steady rhythm of Henry’s breathing as the sounds of the forest filled his mind with calm. It was perfect. He felt so light that, for a moment, he had the sensation that if he closed his eyes, he could dissolve into that instant without leaving a trace.

Henry’s chest rose and fell with an almost soothing regularity, as if marking the secret rhythm of dawn. Each exhale seemed to push his worries a little farther away. Outside, a branch cracked under the weight of something unseen, and the distant call of a magpie blended with the murmur of the wind. Everything followed its course, oblivious to them, and yet he felt part of that silent order.

But something seemed out of place in that symphony of natural sounds.

A distant howl, perhaps a wolf, but… so early in the morning? Hans held his breath, trying not to make a sound, not even with his own movement.

They weren’t wolves. They were dogs. And amid the distant barking and howling, he clearly heard his name: Capon. Several men were calling out for Lord Capon.

—Henry! —he shouted as he quickly threw off the blanket and began pulling on his woolen hose— Get up, quickly!

Henry protested, murmuring, or perhaps cursing Hans’s physical integrity, but reached for the blanket and tried to curl up again.

—What… what are you doing? Go back to sleep… —he replied, eyes closed, his mind still far from reality.

—HENRY! —Hans shouted louder, tossing Henry’s boots at him.

The young man finally woke with an angry expression, but it changed completely when he saw the urgency on Hans’s face.

—What’s happening?

—Dogs are approaching. I think they’re looking for us. Hurry! If they find us naked, we’ll have a problem!

Henry seemed to react then and began dressing quickly, though Hans was practically finished already. He stepped out of the tent, still tying his shoes, to buy them more time.

The cold struck his face and the muscles that, only moments before, had been relaxed and warm. He grabbed his bow and arrows and prepared for a possible threat, gripping the wood until the trembling left his hands.

In the distance, hounds appeared between the trees, barking eagerly and wagging their tails, oblivious to the urgency they carried. Behind them, two men advanced clumsily through the undergrowth, dressed in hunting gear, calling out in all directions.

—Lord Capon! —one shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth— My lord!

—Over here! Lord Capon! —the other replied, his voice strained with effort.

When they were close enough, Hans recognized them without difficulty: Pesek, the huntsman of Rattay, and his son, covered in mud and leaves, exhaustion etched into their faces.

—At last we’ve found you, my lord! —Pesek exclaimed, bowing his head with effort— We’ve scoured the forest without rest since yesterday… Lady Jitka, she has…

Hans relaxed his shoulders and raised a hand, imposing calm.

—Slowly, Pesek. Breathe. —he said firmly— There’s no use collapsing now. Tell me what’s happening, and do it calmly.

—Lady Jitka has summoned the garrison, my lord. All available men are gathering in Rattay. —he swallowed— The order was clear: find you as soon as possible. That’s why they turned to those of us who know the forest.

Hans did not reply immediately.

—Has she given any explanation? —he finally asked, his voice low.

—Sir Peter of Sternberk is calling Rattay to prepare for an imminent attack. —Pesek shook his head— My lord… you must return at once.

The silence that followed was dense, as if even the forest had held its breath.

At that moment, hurried movement sounded behind him. Quick, clumsy footsteps, followed by the rustle of ill-fastened cloth. Henry emerged from between the trees, his doublet poorly buttoned, his hair still tousled, clearly dressed in haste.

—What’s going on? —he asked, looking from the hunters to Hans— I heard voices… is something happening in Rattay?

Hans turned toward him.

For a moment, Henry said nothing. It was enough to see his face to understand everything passing through his mind, from the tension in his jaw to his effort not to frown.

The calm of the night, the forest, the illusion of safety… everything collapsed in silence, a silence so thick it could be felt.

The chamber was closed, lit by a low fire. Hans stood rigid, his gaze fixed on some indistinct point on the wall as Jitka’s words hung in the air. Henry stood behind her, leaning by the window with an unusual calm.

—I couldn’t wait. —Jitka said— Sir Peter was very clear about his intentions. I don’t know what decision you’ll make, but I felt it was right to call the men to arms, even if only to buy time.

Hans nodded slowly but did not respond. His thoughts seemed far from that room.

—Are you listening to me? —she insisted, with a hint of reproach.

Hans blinked and came back to himself.

—Yes. —he finally looked at her— I’m listening. And you did well. Thank you for acting so quickly.

The answer disarmed her. Jitka inclined her head, accepting the gesture.

—Then… should I withdraw? Heinrich must be anxious.

—Yes. Go to him. —Hans replied.

When the door closed behind her, the silence returned, very different from the forest’s. More contained, heavier, filled with emotions he had not felt beneath the frost-covered canvas.

Henry was still there, arms crossed, waiting for orders. His expression was serene, almost unconcerned. Too much so.

Hans glanced at him.

—You’re disturbingly calm.

Henry shrugged.

—There’s no point in getting worked up too early. —he said— Whatever happens, we’ll face it.

Hans clenched his jaw. Of course Henry would follow him blindly wherever he had to go, but how could he ask him to stay safe in Rattay? After everything that had happened, the mere thought of forcing Henry back onto the battlefield made his heart tighten.

—I… I’d like you to stay here. —he suggested, dragging each word out as if it hurt.

—Why?

His face remained serene, like someone asking a question without expecting an answer, or perhaps already knowing it.

He looked him in the eyes and had to hold back his response. Almost instinctively, he wanted to ask him to take care of his family. It was the logical answer, the one he truly meant.

Though the last time Henry had been left in charge of his family, things had not ended well.

He forced himself to push that thought away, to accept that all that pain had not been his fault, nor Henry’s, and Henry seemed to share that same feeling.

—Do you really think I’d stay here while you go into battle?

He stepped closer to Hans, slowly, letting the weight of his words settle. He rested his left hand on his sword, and with the other he caressed Hans’s cheek. A gesture far too gentle, laden with understanding and shared concern.

—I would never let you leave without me. We’re together until the end.

—But Henry… how can I ask you to fight alongside your father’s enemies? The same ones who would smile if they saw you fall… —his voice broke— The ones who take pleasure in watching us attack those we love.

Henry then took hold of Hans’s neck and tightened his grip, bringing their foreheads together, syncing their breaths. Though Hans’s words were true, Henry knew he had to appear resolute and show him that, no matter what happened, no matter what he did, he would always stand by his side.

—This alliance was my fault, but thanks to it Rattay also lives in peace. War is a nasty business… we save our families at the cost of ending others. —Hans pulled back and looked at him, broken by his words— Wherever you go, I’ll go. I don’t care if you march against the Hussites, Prague, or straight into hell itself. I’ll follow you. And that is a promise.

—Until the end? —Hans repeated after a pause, almost in a whisper.

Henry did not answer at once. His fingers tightened more firmly at the back of Hans’s neck, as if trying to anchor him to that moment. When he spoke, it was with a calm that left no room for doubt.

—As far as it takes. —he said— Until there’s nothing left to face, or nothing left to lose.

Hans closed his eyes for a second. That certainty was, at once, a comfort and a condemnation.

—Then promise me one thing. —he asked— If the time comes… if everything turns too dark…

Henry rested his forehead against his.

—I won’t leave you alone. —he interrupted— Not in battle, not afterward. Not even when the world forces us to live a life built on lies.

He opened his eyes and looked straight at him, with a serene, almost unyielding determination.

—Until the end. —he repeated— With you.

The silence that followed was no longer oppressive. It was the silence of a decision made, irrevocable, condemning them to an uncertain future where the only certainty was that they would be together, until the end.

Chapter Text

The Vltava valley was covered by a low, damp fog that clung to the bare trees like a shroud. It was a cold afternoon, when snowflakes were beginning to take shape, timidly staining the ground. The road descending toward Živohoště bore recent tracks of carts, bare feet, boots, animals… The Hussite pilgrims had passed through there at dawn.

From a rise in the terrain, Peter of Sternberk watched in silence. At his side, the dismounted knights waited for orders, impatient, scanning the horizon from afar.

In the distance, at last, they saw the banners of Leipa fluttering.

It was not the main force, but without a doubt the hundred men he brought with him would help secure victory. Hans Capon rode atop his imposing stallion, which they had protected with plates as if it were one of his knights. His yellow tabard gleamed like the sun dissolving the fog, with the two crossed arrows of Leipa centered proudly on his chest.

Behind him followed Sir Henry of Pirkstein, bearing the same colors and shields as his lord. Peter smiled to himself; deep down, he had expected that boy to wear some symbol of Skalitz, Dvorce, or any other mark of Kobyla… but his presence left no room for doubt. Whoever saw him could see nothing but a loyal knight of Leipa.

—Sir Peter! —Hans greeted him with a nod— I see everything is already prepared.

Many soldiers wore different colors, but all the small and mid-ranking noble houses had united under a single banner to support the alliance. Knights of Konopiště, men of Rattay, minor lords of the Posázaví… Not all shared the same faith or the same fervor, but that day they marched together under the call of duty.

Hans leaned a little farther over the rise, watching a multitude advance through the valley. He counted them by the hundreds, perhaps even thousands, but it was not their number that made him feel heavy as stone.

Those people were not soldiers.

Peasants, miners, craftsmen… common folk with improvised spears, axes, and sickles, whatever they had at hand. Some protected their heads with crude padded coifs, others wore old brigandines or reinforced doublets… And all of them seemed convinced that God walked among them.

Sir Peter noticed the change in Sir Hans’s expression and did not hesitate to try to convince him that they would emerge victorious that afternoon.

—Do not worry so much, Lord Capon! —he paused when he realized his voice sounded too mocking— They may be thousands, but they are only peasants without training or experience.

“Only peasants…” Peter’s words echoed in his mind, stinging with a sense of insult, though he himself did not know why.

He watched all those people in sober silence, knowing he was about to witness a massacre. Worse still: not only would he take part in it, Henry would follow him.

He felt his presence behind him. He knew those blue eyes were watching him from his back, and he did not dare turn around and return his gaze. He was afraid of meeting a truth he could not face.

He blinked several times to rid himself of the uncomfortable sting beginning to moisten his eyelids, and urged Sir Peter on. All the men were assembled; there was no reason to delay the inevitable.

—Sir Peter, my troops are ready. Shall we give the order?

Peter of Sternberk cast one last look at the horizon, ready to trample all those dots that fled like ants. He drew a breath, raised his sword, and his men began to form ranks.

—I have arranged everything for a frontal attack. I need your knights coming down the road to surprise them from the rear.

Hans nodded and drew his sword. When he turned to issue the orders, he saw Henry exactly as he had imagined him: motionless, blue eyes fixed on him, trying to hide the trembling of his hands. He drew his sword to follow him, but looks always told the truth. Neither of them wanted to be there.

Hans said nothing more. He raised his sword and brought it down in a sharp gesture.

—Archers at will! Close formation! —he shouted— Cavalry with me, down the road!

The men answered with the harsh sound of steel and the clatter of hooves against stone. The horses backed away and began to descend the road at a steady pace, before the snow could properly settle.

Sternberk’s ranks poured down the slope like a dark, unstoppable tide; shields aligned, spears angled, swords raised as they advanced with firm steps. Peter charged at the front, feeling the incline quicken both his pace and his pulse. Below, in the valley, the figures stopped looking like ants when they realized too late what was bearing down on them.

The impact was brutal. Peter crashed into the first enemy line and the world narrowed to screams, splintered wood, and flesh giving way beneath iron. The ordered advance shattered in mere seconds. Then, from the rear, thunder erupted: Hans broke in with the cavalry, tearing through already broken ranks and sowing panic. The valley filled with mud, blood, and howls; no one knew where the blows came from anymore, only that they came from everywhere.

Henry tried to avoid those who carried no weapons, but the cavalry charge was indiscriminate: all yielded beneath the powerful trampling and shoves of the animals.

Once the charge was over, they found themselves surrounded by those who still refused to surrender, who swung their weapons until the world went black. The horses were useless now; they dismounted and trusted their fine equipment and formation to fight their way out.

Hans and Henry advanced shoulder to shoulder, barely looking at each other, covering one another by pure instinct. Their bodies moved like a perfect dance, each strike and thrust naturally synchronized. Every step secured their advance and, with it, their own survival.

The snow kept falling over their armor, ever thicker, trying to settle over the mud constantly churned beneath their feet.

Fewer screams could be heard now, and there was less movement. Hans advanced almost blindly until he stumbled over something lying on the ground: a long pennant, barely visible beneath the mud.

He froze when he recognized the banner of Leipa spread over the body of a soldier, beside his horse. As if everything around him faded away, he knelt to pick it up. The man’s face was unfamiliar; someone utterly anonymous who had answered his call only to end stiff in the mud of a valley that would soon be forgotten.

He searched for Henry, gripping the cloth tightly between his fingers.

He was not far, though he had stepped aside to face two men who had surrounded him. He had managed to wrench the axe from the first, and the second lay on the ground as Henry ran him through with his sword. The disarmed man could have fled, could have run without looking back, but instead he retrieved his fallen companion’s weapon.

He attacked Henry, even knowing he would not pierce that gleaming armor, and like someone whose fate is already written, he fell to the ground.

Hans saw the boy fall, and saw Henry’s hands tremble slightly. It was the first time he had seen him react like that after killing someone, perhaps because this time it was neither bandits nor opposing soldiers.

This was something else.

It was a slaughter he knew he had dragged him into, and yet, despite all the trauma it carried, Henry was still there, at his side. No matter how much his heart ached, no matter how many tears he held back… he would always be there for him.

Hans saw it.

He saw the pain and the endurance.

And something broke inside him.

The world slowly returned. First the distant sound of clashing metal, the screams fading, as if there were fewer and fewer people around him. The last light of dusk disappearing behind the hill. Hans drew a deep breath, forcing himself to look past Henry, past that suspended instant he could not afford.

Then he heard it.

The unmistakable rumble of a multitude approaching. The neighing of thousands of horses. War drums sounding in the distance, carrying hope for some and surprise for others.

Through the valley fog and falling snow, a dark line began to take shape, advancing with steady steps, unfamiliar standards waving above the spears. They came from every direction, and this time they were not peasants. Armed men clad in heavy and light armor, swords and guisarmes… Reinforcements had finally arrived.

A voice shouted behind him.

—Retreat! Retreat!

Hans looked forward again. The cavalry charge was approaching, his men were still scattered, and Sternberk’s troops were withdrawing in haste. They had no choice; it was too late to flee.

He clenched his teeth and raised his sword.

—Here! —he shouted to his men— Hold here!

They tried to form something resembling a line, shields held without strength, spearmen scattered without solid formation. It was useless, but no one fell back. The first rider tore through them like a gale, and those who followed crashed into them brutally.

Chaos once again claimed the valley, which was slowly sinking into gloom.

Hans dodged the blow of a horse as he desperately searched for Henry. He had lost sight of him in the fury of battle, and urgency demanded he find him. Around him, the remaining men fought on, the enemy still mounted on their beasts, some battling in the mud.

Before Hans could react after his dodge, he felt a sharp impact in his leg. A bolt fired from horseback pierced him through the back of the knee and burst out near the kneecap, sending the armor plate flying as if it were nothing. His leg gave way instantly, and a strangled cry escaped his throat.

He fell to his knees… and then another horse struck him. The rider delivered a quick, almost mechanical slash that opened his abdomen and hurled him to the ground. The sky spun, snow mixed with mud, and Hans lay still, breathing in ragged gasps.

Henry had seen everything while fighting for his own life. The instant Hans fell burned into his mind with a violence worse than any blow.

—Hans! —a desperate thrust let him rush closer— My God, Hans!

He cradled his head as his chest rose and fell unevenly. His beautiful golden hair was smeared with mud, and the snowflakes melted against his face, as futile as the life before him.

—Henry… —he coughed from the effort, and a few drops of blood splattered Henry’s breastplate.

It shattered him.

The pain was not only in his heart: it was a brutal void that crushed his chest, climbed his throat, and stole his breath. As if something essential were being torn from him, fully aware that he could not live without it.

—Don’t talk… —Henry said, his voice breaking, bending over him as if his own body could shield him— I’ve got you. I’ve got you… please, stay with me.

He crawled to a fallen soldier and took the coif, using it to press against Capon’s wound. When he pushed it into the cut in the gambeson, he breathed a sigh of relief on seeing it was not bleeding too badly and that at most a couple of ribs had been broken.

The leg looked worse. The bolt had pierced it clean through, and there was no way he could put weight on it, but they had to find a way out or both would end up dead.

—Come on, Hans! —he shouted as he tried to lift him— We have to get out of here.

Henry never saw the blow coming.

Something heavy struck his head with absurd force. The impact rang inside the helm, and then there was no sound at all, save the wake of a rider continuing on his path. Henry fell sideways, Hans slipping from his arms as the snow received his face. The charge continued, horses and men passing over and around them, without stopping.

It took Hans a few seconds to understand what had happened. The blow had torn Henry’s helm away, and now both of them lay on the ground, so still it was impossible to tell whether they were alive or dead. Every breath was an effort, and any attempt to move an inconceivable thought.

—Henry? —he whispered with what little strength he had left.

There was no answer.

He reached out and brushed his face with his fingertips. It was visibly swollen, especially around the eyes and temples. The eyelids, so inflamed, barely revealed the dull white beneath them.

—Henry! —he tried again, his voice breaking— Henry… say something. A-anything…

His last words vanished into the small cloud of vapor left by Hans’s breath in the frozen air. Night had almost fallen; he could barely see Henry, and his troops seemed to have disappeared. Never in his life had he felt so alone as in that moment.

He tried to call for help, but from whom? From those who had tried to crush them? He could not sit up. He could not shout. He could only watch the flakes drift slowly down, one after another, while he waited for the inevitable.

”Is this the end?”

He turned his gaze back to Henry. He looked empty, abandoned, like a body life had already forsaken… save for one tiny detail: the plate on his shoulder fogged faintly each time he exhaled. He was still breathing. Barely. Held by a thread so fragile it seemed about to snap.

Night finally reached the valley and covered them both like a silent mantle, leaving them there, motionless, among the snow and the dead.

Hans had plenty of time to think, more than he ever imagined. The pain in his body could not compare to the pain in his heart, the void he felt knowing Henry would die there with him. And yet, strangely, he felt peace, a sinister calm that perhaps told him the moment had come.

He did not dwell on all he regretted. He drifted through his most beautiful memories, those in which, by chance, Henry was always there. Henry kissing him for the first time, Henry holding their son in his arms, Henry taking his hand… Henry was always his first thought in the morning and the last before sleep.

"So be it."

And of course, his final thought had to be Henry. Even if it hurt, even if it clutched at his insides and refused to let go.

He saw his men retreat toward Kutná Hora, small shadows fading into the fog without looking back. He also saw the enemy break ranks and abandon the valley, confident that night would finish the work they no longer needed to do. No one searched for bodies in the dark. No one stopped for two motionless forms among so many others.

And there Hans remained, watching as they left him behind.

The cold began to creep in. First in his hands, then his feet, then everything he could still feel. The pain grew distant, as if it no longer belonged to him. It became harder and harder to keep his eyes open, but he forced one last look at Henry. The vapor still faintly clouded the plate on his shoulder. He was still breathing.

—Don’t… fall… asleep… —Hans murmured, unsure whether he was speaking to Henry or to himself.

The snow kept falling, patient, covering wounds, weapons, and faces alike. The valley fell silent, broken only by two uneven breaths clinging to the night. And as the darkness finally closed over them, Hans allowed himself to think that perhaps all that suffering was worth enduring… if it meant he could remain a little longer beside Henry.

One by one, the groans and cries of the wounded faded away. The night grew thick, sealed, as black as a wolf’s mouth. Not even the moon deigned to light the valley.

Hope dissipated the same way the last snowflakes did when they touched the ground: melting into a white shroud that covered the battlefield, hid the bodies, and erased faces marked by terror and pain.

Hans closed his eyes, clinging to the idea that one of his men would return for them. That they would notice his absence and refuse to lose their lord. That they would not let them vanish without trying.

But no one would find them until the next day.

Chapter Text

The snow had not stopped falling over the past few days. The fields were covered by a white blanket that was beginning to harden. The clouds that covered the sky were starting to weaken and would soon give way to slanted rays of sunlight, which would undoubtedly reflect on the ice like a spring morning.

But the cold left no room for doubt: that time was still far away. For now, the only thing they could do was tend the hearth fire and wait… wait for someone to bring news.

Lady Jitka paced restlessly through her chamber, her worry impossible to hide. With every passing minute, she felt those four walls closing in on her, suffocating her in a prison she could not escape.

“I hate winter”

Though it was not the bad weather that troubled her. Weeks had passed. Many weeks without news.

With nothing else to occupy her thoughts, she decided she could bear it no longer and that she would at least step out into the courtyard to let the fresh air renew her spirits. She hurried down the corridor, as though the need to open the main door were the most urgent matter of the moment.

She could already feel the chill from outside when Captain Bernard stepped into her path.

—My lady. —he greeted her courteously— He has not yet returned.

Lady Jitka startled in surprise, but quickly regained her composure.

—I know, Captain. I only need some air.

—Oh!… —he felt terribly uncomfortable at having misunderstood her intentions— Then please allow me to open the door for you.

Jitka nodded, and Bernard escorted her into the courtyard.

The breeze was still sharp, and the cold clawed at her face, but she took a deep breath of icy air that burned her throat and yet filled her with calm. The sound of the wind stirring the tree branches, the horses neighing in boredom in the stables… and the clash of swords?

Jitka opened her eyes and realized that Heinrich was training alone in the courtyard. He swung his sword against a suit of armor, searching for weak points, attacking just as his uncle had taught him.

How much Heinrich had grown in such a short time. He no longer looked like a child, but rather a very young man beginning to develop the qualities expected of him. His back had broadened, and his hair had darkened slightly, though it still retained the blond inherited from his father.

Jitka found herself hypnotized as she watched him. It was like observing a younger version of Hans, so full of strength and enthusiasm. She imagined what her husband must have been like at that age. Surely she would have fallen deeply in love with him, the foolish and naïve young woman she once was.

Everyone had changed. Now she was a respected lady, the Lady of Rattay, and in her husband’s absence, all obeyed her orders without doubt in their eyes.

All that pride vanished when she remembered why she had to rule. Because she was alone.

The troops who had accompanied Hans had returned in dribs and drabs; some claiming they had won, others explaining that the reinforcements brought from Nový Knín had forced them to retreat. But where was her lord? Where was Hans… and Henry?

No one knew.

Once again, the information was confused. Very few claimed to have seen him fall. Most said they knew nothing, yet his body had not been recovered among the dead. There were no ransom demands either. Sir Peter of Sternberk had returned to his fortress and knew nothing of Capon.

Jitka began to despair, and no better idea came to her than to send Godwin.

—You did it once before, didn’t you? Please, tell me you can find him. —she asked one morning, just after the last soldier of Rattay crossed the walls.

—That was different, my lady. I…

—We know where he was last seen. For God’s sake, Godwin, if anyone can find them, it is you.

The old priest had weary eyes and a body worn with age, but he could not deny such a request from the lady who had taken him in. He would always be indebted to the Capons, and perhaps going to recover his body was the least he could do.

He was a veteran. He knew how these stories ended. If no one had found his body and no one had demanded a ransom after so many weeks, it could only mean that he had been buried alongside the rest of the fallen.

Sometimes no distinction was made; sometimes they could not even tell the shattered face of a noble from that of the commoner who had died beside him. And if Henry had not returned either, he was certain he had fallen with Capon. Those two would never be separated.

But how could he say no?

—Of course, Lady Jitka. I will depart this very afternoon.

And since then, weeks had passed.

The young boy continued training as if the cold did not trouble him, standing stoic against the wind that struggled to deflect his sword. But now his muscles were stronger than before. He took his stance, lunged, and struck down the straw dummy.

Jitka smiled without meaning to.

The sight of her son growing healthy and strong seemed to push away her dark thoughts, if only for a moment. She watched him filled with pride, knowing that whatever might happen, one day he would become a great man.

That was when Bernard interrupted her once more.

—My lady, a rider approaches. He bears no colors.

There was no need to say more. Her heart knew perfectly well who it was.

—Open the gates at once. —she urged.

Without questioning her order, Captain Bernard turned and ran toward the gate. The sound of hooves shattered the stillness of the courtyard as the old rider passed through the entrance.

Jitka looked up. A rider covered in snow and exhaustion returned her a satisfied smile, his lips split by the cold, his face burned by the same. He came alone, but his horse carried large bundles at its sides.

—Godwin! What has happened? What is it that…? —her throat tightened, and she could not finish her question.

Godwin had not brought only bundles. The steel of two swords gleamed at the side of the animal, half hidden by the load it carried. A shiver ran down Jitka’s spine, her hand trembling as she tried to uncover the swords. But she had to do it. She needed to be sure that they were not…

Her legs shook when she saw the unmistakable Leipa shield Henry had engraved on Hans’s sword. She did not need to look at the pommel of the other blade to know to whom it belonged.

She looked at Godwin with a strange, heavy feeling in her chest, and he, without saying a word, nodded.

They had seated him before the hearth and brought him mulled wine. Godwin quickly regained his color, and his limbs slowly recovered their feeling. Silence settled in that small room where Jitka and Heinrich waited patiently for the old man to speak. Without pressing him, without breaking into tears, yet with an impatient expectation.

—I have brought several letters, as well as the last will of Lord Capon.

—Last will? —she asked, startled. Did that mean he…?

—Yes. —he paused— He was still alive when I found him.

He glanced sideways at young Heinrich, who stood frozen before the fire. Clearly, he was trying to hold himself together, feigning a composure he had not yet mastered.

—Tell me everything, Godwin. I beg you.

Godwin nodded slowly. His hands, still reddened by the cold, sank into the satchel slung over his shoulder. From it he drew a small bundle of parchments tied with a dark cord, sealed with wax already cracked.

—These are the letters —he said in a grave voice— And this… —he separated one of them, thicker, with an intact seal— is the last will of Lord Capon.

He handed them to the young lord, except for the letter that had been sealed for Jitka alone.

—When I arrived, —he continued, as Heinrich carefully read the letters— there was barely any trace of the battle left. Those still cleaning the field told me where to go, first to Nový Knín, then through different villages of Posázaví… until I finally found them.

—“Them”? —Jitka interrupted— Was Henry with him?

Godwin swallowed, forcing the words to keep coming.

—Yes, my lady. But… he was already dead when I arrived. —he finished in a whisper, as though afraid to say it aloud.

Jitka understood. Her son seemed absorbed in his reading, so she adjusted her posture in the chair and kept listening.

—Lord Capon was gravely wounded, but he held on for several days before my departure. I wrote his will, and he himself sealed it with his ring. He asked me to bring it as soon as possible, though I had to wait a while for the roads to become passable. When spring begins, we will be able to return for them and bury them here.

Jitka’s hands trembled, and her voice broke.

—No… it cannot be. Hans…

Godwin knelt before her and took her hands.

—My lady, I recommend that you read the letter. Lord Capon trusted you more than anyone.

Jitka tried to undo the knot in her throat by swallowing hard. She took the letter addressed to her and broke the wax seal with the utmost care, as though her fragility were reflected in that insignificant act.

My beloved wife,

I have no words to express all the gratitude I feel for the life you have given me, nor for the calm you knew how to offer me even when I myself could not find it. You have been far more than a wife. You were my companion in the darkest moments of my life, the pillar I clung to in order to move forward when the world seemed determined to make me surrender.

You built a refuge not only for me, but for all those around you who cherish you. Your courage, trust, and wisdom have been essential in sustaining everything we have lived through, and everything you will continue to uphold.

I trust you more than I have ever known how to say aloud. I trust your judgment, your resolve, and your ability to bear what is to come. Take care of Heinrich. Teach him not only how to rule, but how to listen. Teach him that sometimes the best decision is not to wield the sword, but to know when to set it aside. If one day he doubts himself, tell him that his parents believed in him even before the world demanded that he be strong.

There are many things I regret; I know I could have been a better husband and a better father, but I also know that I gave the best of myself to the very limit of my strength. For all this, I ask your forgiveness and pray that you will pray for my soul.

I depart in peace, knowing that what was once our home rests under your judgment and care, knowing that thanks to you, there will be a future. You will always hold a very special place in my heart, my dear Jitka.

Forever yours,

Hans

Jitka held back a tear, though the emptiness in her chest continued to grow. She quickly looked at Heinrich, fearing the boy had broken down, but instead he continued reading the parchment with wide, astonished eyes.

When he noticed his mother watching him, he cleared his throat and finally spoke.

—It seems Father… has stopped supporting the Catholics…

—What!? —her tone surprised even herself— I mean… what does the letter say, my son?

The boy lifted the parchment and read it all again, aloud.

In the name of the Lord, amen.

Let all who see this letter know that I, Hans Capon of Pirkstein, lord of Rattay upon the Sázava, considering the state of the Kingdom of Bohemia and the dangers born of discord, do hereby declare and publicly confess that, from the day of this writing, I do not wish in any way to oppose the community of the faithful gathered in the city of Prague, nor those who wish to receive the sacrament of the Eucharist under both kinds.

Rather, I give and pledge my word that, insofar as it depends on me, I will support them with my favor and aid, seeking public peace and avoiding scandal, and I will not raise arms against them unless compelled by right and manifest judgment.

And because I do all this according to my conscience and for the salvation of my soul, I ask that this letter be granted public validity.

In testimony whereof, my seal has been affixed hereto…

The document was neither long nor grandiose, yet it rendered the room speechless. A vow of peace, written in proper Latin, sealed with the mark of Pirkstein. It spoke not of revolution, only of conscience and of never again taking up arms. Clearly, he had changed sides.

“In the end, he did it…”

The thought struck her like a hammer removing a flawed nail. It was strange to feel joy return to her heart when everything around her seemed to be falling apart, but she was proud that Hans had finally decided what he wanted.

Now it was up to them to continue his legacy.

Godwin approached the table where Captain Bernard himself had placed all the bundles from his horse. He took both swords in one hand and the Leipa shield in the other. He offered them all to Heinrich, who stared at the fine steel still reflecting the hearth fire. They were still sharp, proof of the incredible skill of his uncle, who, despite being knighted, had never ceased to be a magnificent blacksmith.

For a moment, he felt his legs falter.

—Excuse me… —he murmured as he gripped the weapons tightly and left the room.

Jitka and Godwin exchanged glances once more, as though they fully understood the boy’s suffering without needing to say a word.

Godwin bent again to the satchel. This time he did not remove letters, but all the boys’ belongings.

First, a neatly folded garment: Hans’s clothes, now cleaned of blood but worn by the journey. Then Henry’s clothes, with the Pirkstein emblem scratched and dulled. Finally, Hans’s ring bearing the seal of Leipa. He placed everything carefully upon the table.

—Everything he carried with him —he said softly— Everything that remained.

Jitka ran her hand over the clothes, caressing them, trying to recall what her husband’s presence felt like. The colors, the small dagger he always kept hidden, his ring… “Only one?”

—Godwin… is this everything? Is nothing missing?

Godwin raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

—No, my lady. Everything is there.

Jitka rummaged through the clothes again. She picked up the satchel and checked it herself, confirming there was nothing left inside. It was very strange; two objects of incalculable value were missing, absent from both of their belongings.

—Did Lord Capon give orders to be buried with… something?

The old man furrowed his brow, thinking.

—No, my lady… Nothing. We covered his body with a linen shroud and nothing more.

Jitka nodded slowly.

—I understand. —she said at last— You have done well, Godwin. The journey must have been long and exhausting.

She straightened and adopted the serene tone of one who always wears a mask in public.

—Go and rest. I will order a room and something warm prepared for you. Tomorrow we will speak of the rest.

Godwin bowed his head.

—At your service, my lady.

The old man picked up the empty satchel, hesitated for a moment, and finally turned away. His steps faded down the corridor until the sound of the closing door confirmed that Jitka was alone.

Then she let out the breath she had been holding.

Her fingers returned to the ring bearing the seal of Leipa. She turned it slowly, as though weighing it. A slight curve appeared on her lips, fleeting, almost guilty for smiling instead of mourning the dead. A smile that was not meant to be joyful, yet said too much.

Everything on the table held great value, but economic, not sentimental.

A simple steel ring that not even the poorest peasant would dare to keep… was gone. And as if that were not enough, the old, worn wooden ring, worthless even as kindling, was missing as well.

How curious that only those simple and insignificant trinkets were missing. Scraps in anyone’s eyes, yet the greatest treasure Hans and Henry had kept.

And yet, their absence spoke far louder than any letter heavy with words, than any sword hung upon a wall. It screamed the decision Capon had made, one that must have taken him a long time to reach.

She pressed the seal of Leipa between her hands and kissed it, as a mixture of joy and nostalgia confused her heart.

—Hans… —she whispered to the ring, as though the metal could hear her— Wherever you are, under whatever name you have chosen to bear… may the world be kinder to you than it was here.

She placed the ring gently upon the table, as though it were something fragile that required soft hands and an imperceptible touch. As though Hans’s very soul had materialized in the reflection of the metal.

And for the first time since she had become Lady Jitka of Rattay, she allowed herself to wish him something simple, something no title or inheritance could grant.

That he be happy.

The cold did not matter, nor the wind or the snow. Heinrich needed to reach Pirkstein, and after wrapping himself up and running, he managed to arrive. The guards received him in surprise, offering him a warm blanket before he fell ill.

The boy refused. He had plans of his own.

He climbed to what had once been his father’s and uncle’s chamber, the one that had remained untouched ever since. The same paintings, the same chandelier… even the furniture seemed unchanged, had it not been renewed after his uncle Henry’s fit of rage.

He lit the fire when he felt his hands go numb. The cold was a lesser punishment compared to the pressure in his chest, suffocating him, begging to escape in the form of tears.

He shed his cloak and set aside the bundle he had brought with him. From it, with almost reverent care, he drew the swords and the shield. The steel seemed to shine even brighter in that room, as though the memories themselves were illuminating it and bringing it back to life.

He searched for the place with care. He measured the wall again and again, rubbed away the soot gathered from the fireplace, and wiped the dust with his sleeve. When he lifted the first sword, his arms trembled, not from the weight, but from what it meant. He placed it at an angle, firm, as if awaiting company. The second descended on the opposite side, and together they crossed with solemn precision. Finally, the shield, centered, commanding the whole.

He stepped back. Then another.

He smiled at how well it looked, knowing his parents could be proud of that small tribute. He had not forgotten the promise he made to Henry: “I will take care of them.”

And now, it seemed the time had come to fulfill it.

There was anguish in his heart, but also the weight of the responsibility he had inherited and that he himself had placed upon his shoulders.

The room was no longer merely a cold, forgotten space, waiting for new occupants. It had become a silent altar, a promise made of will and memories. There had been no Latin spoken nor verses learned through hollow courtesies; only the clumsy and sincere gesture of a boy trying to live up to those who were no longer there.

Heinrich sat on the bed with his legs crossed. He rested his elbows on his knees and lifted his gaze to the wall. The swords seemed to shine brighter than ever. Together and displayed where they had always belonged, sheltered by the shield that had bound them.

—I will make you proud —he murmured— I swear it.

He remained there for a long while, unmoving, contemplating his small work, as the wind battered the walls of Pirkstein, as something new and heavy began to take root within him.

Chapter Text

The cold had settled inside him with the same tenacity with which a tree’s roots cling to the earth: deep and firm. He felt awake, yet little of what he sensed around him seemed real.

The sound of the fire crackling in a corner, the warmth of its flames vaguely trying to reach him… The storm crashing against the window. Something soft beneath his back?

Little by little, his limbs began to awaken. He felt a strange tingling in his fingers and, when he decided to move them, they responded. It was as though awareness of his own body were returning in parts, slow and weary.

The ringing in his ears faded and the sounds of the room suddenly seemed to multiply. The crackling was no longer gentle: it was a symphony of snaps and crunches that reminded him far too much of his enemies’ broken bones. Snow battered the window with such force that it sounded like the thunder of cavalry charging against them.

He brought his hands to his ears in a gesture of self-protection, trying to silence the voices that wanted to torment him.

His mind had returned to the battlefield.

Too many screams, too much despair. He remembered standing and, in the very next instant, the world had shifted position. His leg hurt, his whole body hurt… but Henry had gone to help him.

—HENRY!

Hans woke with a sudden shout, startling those around him. His heart was pounding frantically, almost sickeningly, and his breathing came in ragged bursts as if he had run for miles.

He blinked several times to clear his vision, confused, trying to remember where he was. This was definitely not the battlefield.

—Easy, sir. —a blurred figure whispered beside him— Lie down, you need to rest.

The man’s deep, calming voice pushed him back onto the bed, a movement that made him more aware of his own body.

His throat and skin burned despite the chills wracking him. He brought a hand to his face and felt it rough, dry; his lips split, as if he had gone days without drinking… and he had.

The man carefully brought a waterskin to his lips, and Hans tried to drink, but the muscles in his neck still seemed asleep. After a few short swallows, he choked, and the coughing made him shudder with pain.

—Where… where am I? —the words scraped along his throat like coarse sandpaper.

No one answered.

The hands of the man who had forced him to lie down disappeared for a moment, only to return with a damp cloth placed on his forehead. The relief was almost immediate; it was strange how something cool could soothe the cold inside him, easing the tremors.

He did not want to sleep, but he felt so exhausted that his eyes could not stay open. Don’t fall asleep… His last words echoed in his head like a prayer that had gone unanswered.

—I see you’re still alive.

Another voice woke him. How much time had passed? The snow seemed to have given up its attempt to invade the room, and the fire was almost extinguished.

Hans still felt unbearably tired, but at least his throat no longer burned. His hands no longer trembled, and his skin seemed to have returned to a normal temperature.

He opened his eyes like a slave emerging for the first time from Plato’s cave and could not help but smile at who stood before him. It was not a smile of happiness, but rather one of acceptance at the absurd.

—Žižka? —he murmured awkwardly.

The old soldier sat on the edge of the bed and replied as politely and gently as he could.

—At your service, sir Hans.

Hans took a deep breath… or tried to. Of course it was Žižka. Who else could have surprised them like that?

—Henry —he said at once, pushing himself up slightly before the pain forced him to stop— Where is Henry?

Žižka held him firmly by the shoulder.

—Don’t get up. —he ordered, not suggested— All in due time…

With no strength to resist, he yielded to Žižka’s pressure and lay back down, desperate, increasingly aware of what had happened.

—You were very lucky, Capon. Almost no one survived that freezing night in the mud… —he paused, studying his reaction— I admit Sternberk’s forces were more numerous than I expected, but judging by how you spurred your horse toward Kuttenberg, I assume you didn’t expect us to be so many either… am I wrong? —Capon did not answer— Do you know how many knights he commands?

Hans was still trying to piece together the fragments in his head, scattered like a puzzle, answering here and there, speaking without saying anything.

—…and what about the villages toward Jihlava? Have they also sworn loyalty to sir Peter?

Hans swallowed. His head hurt too much to think or try to be clever, but Žižka’s attempt was far too obvious.

—Are you interrogating me like a prisoner? —he asked, hoping to appeal to their old friendship— What comes next, torturing me?

Žižka could not help but smile. Nobles and their sense of being untouchable.

—Did you not come with a Catholic army to put an end to the pilgrims? Why should I treat you with courtesy, when you would be the first to resort to violence?

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, as if truths flowed silently, yet real. He remembered how badly Capon fared when it came to interrogating prisoners. Perhaps he had gone too far with his accusations, but he was too proud to apologize for them.

—Žižka, where is Henry? I won’t tell you anything until you tell me where he is.

That man had no need to torture, kill, or kidnap Hans. If he had wanted to harm him, he would not have saved his life, nor summoned the best physician west of Kuttenberg to treat him.

He knew Capon. Žižka had learned to isolate his feelings, though he could not help thinking that something good might come of this… or perhaps he clung to that idea to avoid accepting the opposite. That shared campaigns could not be erased from memory overnight. Not for him, nor for Hans.

He owed him an honest answer.

Žižka was not a man famed for eloquence, but he tried to deliver the news with as much sensitivity as he could muster. Even so, this time he chose each word carefully, as if they were fragile pieces.

—Hans, —he said at last, without raising his voice— Listen to me.

He waited for Capon to open his eyes fully, for the fever to grant him a moment of clarity.

—Henry did not survive his injuries.

He added nothing more. He let the silence do its work, heavy and final. The fire crackled as the last log split with a sharp sound, like a sentence.

Hans clenched his jaw.

It was strange. That could not be true. His heart would know; something told him Henry could not have died. No, he could not. He had still been breathing when… when…

The strain of the memory showed on Hans’s face. He refused to accept the news as true; he simply could not.

—That’s not possible, Žižka. He…

—We found him at your side. —he interrupted before Hans could cling to an impossible hope— Pale, motionless, with a shattered skull. He’s dead, Hans. The sooner you accept it, the better.

Hans stopped breathing for a moment. This must be how it felt if Henry was no longer in this world, because if he was gone, Hans did not want to remain in it either.

—I need to see him.

Žižka fell silent. That was not the answer he had expected.

—See him? I don’t think that’s…

—Žižka… —there was no need to raise his voice; his tone sounded threatening, even though the fever had consumed him— If you buried him in a mass grave, I swear that…

—There’s no need to swear anything, Capon. —he replied with the same defiant tone— I would never allow that. He’s in the morgue, along with…

—Bring him to me.

—What?

—I want to see him!

The young noble did everything he could to hide the tremor in his voice, to keep the tears from spilling from his eyes, to remain firm in his stance.

Žižka immediately understood that pain, hidden behind a mask of composure. He was under no obligation to yield to a prisoner’s requests, of course not, but something inside compelled him to do so. A strange sense of debt.

—All right… I’ll have him brought. —before he could protest, he pushed him back against the pillow— Rest. He’s not going anywhere.

The brief truce granted by the fever vanished at that moment. The discomfort returned violently: chills running down his spine, a heavy exhaustion crushing his chest, the sensation of being on the verge of collapse.

Henry crossed his mind one last time, not as a clear memory, but as a warm, insistent presence. He clung to that image with what little strength he had left, fearing that if he let it go, he would never find it again.

He wanted to answer, to say something more, but the words caught in his throat. The world faded before he could even think about it.

Hans woke with a start.

He could not say how much time had passed, but something was different. He was no longer alone. The air around him vibrated with whispers: overlapping voices, restrained, as if everyone spoke at once without daring to raise their tone.

—…he’s still breathing…

—…he shouldn’t have woken up…

—…are you sure? I don’t think so…

—…look at his chest… —the voices paused for a moment— Yes! Do you see it?

He blinked, disoriented, while the murmurs continued to float around him, laden with a tension that even in his feverish state he could recognize.

A crowd gathered before him, surrounding a bed that was not his.

He tried to sit up and, with the effort, one of his arms faltered and he lost his balance just enough to draw their attention. When they turned, they revealed a young man lying there, his head bandaged, the hollows beneath his eyes black as coal.

Hans blinked again, unable to recognize who it was, trying to make the fog clouding his vision finally disperse.

—Hen… Henry?

His heart wished it were him with all its strength, even knowing it was an unattainable dream. He was dead, that was what they had told him. Then why did he feel an invisible force compelling him to move closer as if his life depended on it?

The people looked at one another, unsure how to react or what to say. Hans, wrapped in his desperation, hurried to get up and reach him, but his leg gave way at once. That bolt had destroyed his knee, yet the pain seemed not to matter.

He dragged himself pitifully while they tried to lift him by the arms and return him to his bed. He refused; he had to see with his own eyes that the man was Henry and that he was still breathing.

—Sir Hans, please… You mustn’t do this! —they shouted as he kicked against them.

—Let go of me! I need to…

—Enough! —Žižka’s voice rang harshly through the room— Leave us.

The struggle ceased, and the hands withdrew from Hans almost at once, leaving the young man alone, panting in the middle of the room.

A hand far gentler than he was used to helped him up.

Žižka said nothing; he simply guided Hans to the bed and sat him down carefully. That tenderness felt so strange that he felt detached from his own body, but he soon forgot himself when he saw Capon’s face light up.

The young noble could no longer hide his tears; he raised a hand to caress the face, to prove to himself that it was real.

—Henry… —he whispered in a broken voice, his soul in pieces— Are you… are you all right?

His hands trembled more than his voice, yet they did not release that weak, gaunt face. Henry did not answer, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest showed that he was still breathing.

Relief struck him with brutal force, as if the weight he had carried his entire life had fallen away at once. Hans let out a stifled sob, one he could not contain, one he did not even try to stop. He rested his forehead against Henry’s, closed his eyes for a moment, as if afraid that if he opened them, everything would vanish.

But when he looked at him again, this time with clear sight, reality struck him just as violently.

The pale face, the cracked lips, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. His fragile head below, as if it were broken.

His hands still clung to Henry’s face, trembling uncontrollably, as an unbearable pressure rose from his stomach to his throat.

—I… I thought that… —he tried to say, but the words were lost before they were born.

The anger came next, sudden and overflowing, mingling with grief until they became indistinguishable. His eyes burned, his head, his chest. A moan escaped his throat, followed by another, until he could no longer silence it. He straightened abruptly, breathing erratically.

—I… I can’t… —he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, as air still refused to reach him— I can’t lose you… not again…

The tears fell unchecked when Žižka finally placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture full of meaning and closeness.

—How…?

Capon needed to know. He needed to know why they had declared Henry dead, even if, seeing his condition, it did not seem unreasonable. It looked as though life might slip from him at any moment.

—It’s been a true miracle. The doctor says we actually saved him by leaving him outside, in contact with the snow.

—What… what? —Žižka’s words did nothing to clear his confusion.

—Just as cold cloths reduce swelling and lower fever… he says the cold may have helped purge the humors gathered in his head.

Both men watched Henry in silence, as if waiting for something, as if they truly had witnessed a miracle that was certainly not seen every day.

The first sign was so slight that Hans thought he had imagined it.

An almost imperceptible movement in Henry’s chest, different from the previous steady rhythm. Then a deeper breath, as if drawing air suddenly took more effort. Hans leaned in at once, holding his own breath, eyes fixed on his face.

—Henry… —he whispered, hope renewed.

The eyelashes trembled. They quivered just enough to make Hans’s heart leap painfully. A tiny movement tightened the cracked lips, followed by a faint furrowing of the brow, as if life were trying to push its way out of the darkness.

Henry blinked clumsily, as if the words reached him muffled, distorted. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt too heavy, as if stuck shut. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but his reaction was to brush it away at once. He was frightened and confused. Did they want to kill him? Why couldn’t he see anything? Where was he?

A low moan escaped him, heavy with helplessness.

A spasm ran through his jaw and he clenched his teeth, letting out a sharper cry as he did. His hand lifted again, this time with a little more strength, but the fingers closed on empty air before falling back down, exhausted.

—Shh… —Hans leaned in closer, holding back tears— You don’t have to say anything. Breathe. That’s all.

Henry’s chest rose and fell irregularly. Each attempt to draw breath seemed to take an excessive effort, as if his body were slowly remembering how to function.

He knew something was wrong.

A new sound rose from his throat, more desperate, broken, yet clear enough to show that he had not yet left this world.

—Hans…?

A single word was enough to pierce Hans’s heart like a true arrow.

—Easy… —a familiar voice whispered near him— Don’t move. You’re safe.

Henry moaned again, confused. His brow furrowed more deeply, and a hand lifted clumsily, barely a few inches.

—You’ll be all right. Rest…

Hans. Without a doubt, it was Hans’s voice.

His breathing calmed at once, and the memories of the battle seemed to fade away. Only that moment existed: the firm grip of Hans’s hand on his, his gentle voice echoing in his ears… and the certainty that both were alive, together.

Hans had not even noticed that Žižka had left them alone. At another time in his life he would have worried about having shown too much affection toward Henry, might even have thought that Žižka would speak ill of them, but none of that mattered now. Nothing around him seemed to matter.

He held Henry’s hand tightly, anchoring him to this world so he would not leave it again; and yet it was he who felt in need of the support he had always considered at his side. The support that now lay dying on a bed.

Many thoughts passed through Hans’s mind, but one thing was clear: he was tired of seeing Henry on the brink of death.

How many times had he feared for his life? How many times had he tended his wounds, praying none would poison his blood? It had always been like this, that constant tug of war with death, that gamble he would one day lose.

But this time it was different. It had not been a bandit attack, it had not been the result of circumstances beyond his control… No. This time he had sent him to his death.

For having signed that treaty.

For having followed Peter of Sternberk.

For having made a decision.

The days passed extremely slowly and quietly, as if trying to grant time a truce so their battered bodies could heal.

Hans’s fever faded after a few days, and the swelling on Henry’s face gradually went down until he was finally able to open his eyes. It was still hard for him to focus, and speaking took an extreme effort, but little by little the pink color returned to his cheeks.

Žižka appeared again on an afternoon that promised to be calm, when rays of sunlight slipped shyly through the window. No more storm, no more wind, only the comforting touch of the sun on his face, as gentle and warm as a caress.

—How are you feeling? —he cast a brief glance at Henry, who slept peacefully in his bed.

—I can’t complain. You’ve treated us far better than one might expect.

Žižka could not help letting out a laugh.

—We’re not demons, Capon. Though I admit… —he paused, hesitating— I admit I wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble if it weren’t you.

The confession fell heavily in the room, but it was sincere. Hans appreciated that gesture more than one might imagine.

The two men met each other’s eyes in a fleeting exchange, almost by chance, as if they were sharing the same memories they had lived through. Žižka smiled, feeling foolish.

—Someone has come to see you. —he blurted out.

—What? Have you already asked for a ransom so soon?

Žižka laughed properly this time.

—It’s not that, Capon… It simply seems that someone cares about you.

As if summoned by those words, an old man entered through the door with open arms and a smile on his face. The very same rays of sunlight seemed to welcome him with a halo of divinity.

—Gentlemen! —the priest exclaimed.

—Godwin! —Hans paused, clearing his vision to convince himself he was not being deceived— What are you doing here?

—Rescuing you, of course. Are we going to start making a habit of it?

Žižka held back a smile. He valued Godwin’s company more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. He chose to leave them alone and withdrew in silence.

Godwin took a couple more steps forward… and then he clearly saw Henry’s condition.

The smile slowly vanished from his face. His arms, still open, gradually lowered until they hung motionless at his sides. Henry lay asleep, his head bandaged, his skin far too pale even for someone who had seen death up close.

—Oh… —he murmured, approaching cautiously, as if afraid to disturb something fragile— Holy God…

He knelt beside the cot without making a sound. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

—I’ve seen wounds like this before. —he said aloud, making sure Hans could hear him clearly— Blows that should have killed a man… and yet left him clinging to this world through sheer stubbornness.

He clasped his hands and began to pray. It was not a solemn or grand prayer, but a simple one, almost intimate. One last plea for the recovery of a young man who had already suffered too much.

When he finished, he crossed himself slowly and took a deep breath.

—There is hope. —he said at last, with calm conviction— I’ve seen men rise from their beds after worse.

Then he noticed the silence.

Hans remained motionless, his face impassive, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the walls, as if his thoughts had held him captive for far too long.

Godwin watched him for a few seconds before speaking.

—Sir Hans… —he said gently— What is it?

There was no response.

—Is it Henry? —he insisted— I understand, son, but…

—No —Capon interrupted, without looking at him— … it’s not just Henry.

He slowly turned his head toward the priest. His eyes were tired, the gaze of an old man in a young body.

—I’ve had too much time to think. —he continued— And the more I think, the clearer it becomes.

Godwin frowned, careful not to interrupt.

—I thought I had made the right decision. The loyal and noble one. —Hans said— But I’ve realized that it was actually the easy decision, the… cowardly one. —He let out a brief, humorless laugh— What foolishness.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

—Henry is there because of me. And he’s not the only one. I thought I was protecting Rattay, but it was only an illusion. The belief that if I did what was right, my conscience would weigh less, even knowing I was acting against my own desires…

He lowered his gaze for the first time. Godwin remained silent.

—And the worst part isn’t that I’m afraid I was wrong. —he added— It’s that I dragged the people I love along with me… against their own principles.

The silence that followed was dense, uncomfortable.

Godwin did not answer at once, letting the words settle. He rose slowly and stepped closer, without imposing himself.

—What you’re feeling —he said at last— is regret adorned with guilt, Hans. It’s the weight of having made a decision and dealing with its consequences.

Hans smiled, this time with a glimmer in his eyes that restored his hope.

—I’ve made a decision, Godwin. —he swallowed and sighed in relief— Bring paper and quill.

The snow was once again striking the windows with force. Žižka and Godwin enjoyed the warmth of the fire and good beer, reminiscing about times when they had fought and bled together. On the table, deliberately kept away from splashes of spilled ale, lay a parchment.

Their words seemed to float in the air, softened by laughter and the clashing of mugs, growing ever more frequent and intense. Žižka drained what remained in his mug, though his face was already beginning to flush.

—I never thought I’d see the day of an alliance with Leipa. —he said as he refilled another mug.

—Neither did I —Godwin replied with a deep laugh, raising his mug— If someone had told me that a few years ago, I’d have spat in his face.

They clashed their mugs forcefully, spilling some beer onto the table.

—But here we are. —Godwin continued— Old, half broken… and still breathing.

—And drinking. —Žižka added with a crooked smile— Don’t ask for more miracles.

They laughed again. The fire crackled, stirred by a gust of wind that made the windows groan. For a while they spoke of past battles, of men who were no longer there, of scars that ached more in bad weather. Godwin gestured wildly as he told his stories, exaggerating blows and feats, and Žižka nodded along, carried by nostalgia.

It was Žižka who lowered his voice first.

—What you told me about Prague… —he ventured, without lifting his mug— … is certainly disturbing. Trying to hang the boy…

Godwin slowly shook his head.

—The sins of the father…

Žižka froze, the mug halfway to his lips.

—His father was a good man.

—I know. —Godwin let out a breath through his nose— I saw what was left of him, Žižka… I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

Silence crept in between them, heavy. Žižka set the mug down on the table more carefully than usual.

—Too much weight for so few years. —Žižka said at last, quietly.

Godwin nodded.

—They don’t separate for a moment. I swear those two seem to seek misfortune as if it were a magnet. —he added, trying to lighten the mood.

Žižka’s expression changed as Godwin recounted Hans and Henry’s adventures. It hardened, not with anger, but with something more complex. By the time Godwin finished, the fire had dwindled to embers and the beer tasted less sweet.

He looked at the parchment on the table without truly seeing it. His fingers drummed nervously against his leg, as if following a thought he was not yet ready to voice.

—Sometimes, —he added thoughtfully— you have to deceive the magnet of misfortune.

Godwin watched him, squinting, half blinded by the alcohol.

—What do you mean?

The snow continued to strike the windows. Žižka stared into the fire in silence, as if the solution lay among the flames, burning slowly, waiting for the right moment.

Enough days had passed for the words of that letter to settle into Capon’s conscience. He felt strangely calm, light, as if having made that decision had lifted a weight he had been carrying for far too long.

He was not naïve, though. He knew there would be consequences. Sooner or later, the war would reach the gates of his legacy.

Henry stirred slightly, drawing Hans out of his thoughts for a moment. He smiled as he watched him open his eyes and those two blue pearls return his gaze.

The dark circles had almost completely disappeared, and his face was once again his own. His head was still tightly bandaged so that no bone would move more than it should, at least for a prudent while. His rosy cheeks flushed even more when he realized Hans was not looking away.

—What are you doing? You’re going to make me blush… —he protested in a whisper.

—I could never look away. —Hans replied— You’re far too beautiful.

It drew a laugh from Henry’s chest, and they both fell silent, listening to the rhythmic tapping of snow against the window. Their fingers were intertwined, faintly feeling the other’s pulse.

Everything remained calm, until Hans finally spoke.

—Henry, I… I’ve done something.

The young man fixed his eyes on him, not inquisitively, but with curiosity. Hans drew in breath, as if he needed all he could to confess.

—We’re not going to take up arms against Žižka. I’ve written a document to ratify my decision.

Hans held Henry’s gaze, waiting for the sharp question, the reproach, perhaps a mention of duties, of the family name, of everything he could never shed. He felt his pulse quicken beneath their intertwined fingers, his chest suddenly heavy.

Henry blinked slowly, as if those words confirmed something he had already sensed, and let out a light sigh.

—All right. —he said simply.

Hans went still.

—That’s it? —he asked, unable to hide his disbelief— Aren’t you going to… I don’t know… tell me it’s madness? That I’m irresponsible?

Henry shook his head gently, a tired smile forming on his lips.

—No. —he replied— I think it’s the right thing.

Hans did not answer at once. He let Henry’s words float in the air, becoming aware of what it all truly meant. The decision was made. And Henry supported him.

The peace he began to feel inevitably reminded him of moments when he had felt this way before. Calm, unburdened, as if tomorrow no longer mattered.

—I’ve… been thinking a lot lately about the two of us. —Henry remained silent, attentive— Do you remember our last night in the forest? When I told you we could stay there forever?

—Yes, I remember. —Henry replied, almost in a whisper.

Hans’s gaze drifted distractedly to the opposite wall, where their swords rested, leaning against one another. The metal reflected a muted gleam in the firelight, cold even from a distance.

—You’re an excellent blacksmith. You’ve never stopped being one. —he added, without looking away from the steel.

Henry also looked aside, watching the blades elegantly crossing. Two symbols that weighed more than they should.

—It’s just a piece of steel.

The confession caught Hans off guard. That sword for which half of Bohemia would have burned just to recover it… had just been reduced to what it truly was: a simple piece of steel. He smiled to himself, weary of the long road they had taken to reach this point.

—Yes. Just a piece of steel… —his glassy eyes turned to Henry— … that we’ll have to wield again.

—Perhaps, —he replied— because there’s no other choice.

Hans nodded slowly. He felt the weariness in his bones, one that had nothing to do with wounds or sleepless nights, but with years of bearing the weight of responsibility. He rested his forehead against Henry’s, closing his eyes.

—We should have stayed in the forest.

He smiled as he said it, knowing it was an impossible dream.

For a few moments, only the two of them existed, the shared warmth, the distant crackle of the fire, and the snow falling with almost pious constancy. Hans remembered the good mornings, not only those in the forest, but those when the sun warmed his face and Henry’s body held him as if afraid to let go.

—We could do it. —he whispered— Disappear.

Henry lifted his gaze, smiling, aware that the proposal was more a longing than something that could truly be done.

—Yes —Hans replied, with the same impossible yearning in his voice— We could…

—You could.

The voice came from the shadows, deep, without being raised.

They both turned at once.

Žižka stood by the door, arms crossed, his face hidden by the shadows. He did not seem upset. Nor surprised. Only… attentive. His eyes moved over the two young men, the bandages, the dark circles, the way they held each other as if they were the last anchor to the world.

—I didn’t mean to interrupt. —he continued— But I heard you.

The silence that followed was tense. Hans straightened instinctively, as if expecting a judgment that did not come.

Žižka sighed slowly.

—War does not forgive the weary. —he said— And you are. Far too much for your age.

He stepped a couple of paces closer.

—If you leave… —he let the sentence hang for a moment— you will have to leave everything behind.

Hans swallowed.

—What? —he asked.

Žižka looked at them both, one after the other.

—Isn’t that what you want? To disappear?

The fire crackled loudly, as if supporting the proposal. The young men exchanged looks, incredulous at first, but with a new hope rising in their hearts.

—You can die here. —he added— For the world. Godwin and I will make sure that is recorded. And then… —a brief pause— I can tell you where to flee. There is a place in the west we will never attack, where my dearest ones are…

Henry was the first to react. He did not release Hans’s hand, but his fingers tightened, gripping harder, as if afraid that the newly proposed future might vanish if he did not hold it firmly.

—Are you… serious? —he asked cautiously— Would you do that for us?

Žižka nodded once.

—The peace treaty is ambiguous enough for your son to have time. Time to grow… and to decide for himself.

Hans felt the immediate pull in his chest. His son’s name had not been spoken, but it was there, unavoidable. His gaze drifted for a moment, as if he could see him across the room, smaller than he remembered, too far away.

Henry also tensed. His fingers, still intertwined with Hans’s, tightened in an almost protective reflex.

—Heinrich… —Hans murmured, not finishing the thought.

There was guilt in his voice. Not for leaving, but for wanting to.

Žižka did not look away.

—He is surrounded by people who will know how to guide him. —Žižka continued— And when the time comes, he will choose what to do with his name. Not you.

Hans looked at Henry. In his eyes he saw no flight, only exhaustion. A deep, shared weariness, too deeply rooted in his body.

—Perhaps… —Hans began, hesitating— it’s time to think about us.

Žižka nodded slowly, as if he had been waiting for those words.

—That is what I am offering you. —he said— The decision is yours.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering paths, erasing tracks. Hans tightened his grip on Henry’s hand, feeling the initial vertigo slowly transform into something else.

Not certainty or hopeful illusion.

Something deeper.

Relief.

Chapter Text

The shadows still ruled the forest. It was early, early enough for a faint light to filter through the trees and make the birds sing at the top of their lungs. It was that precise moment when some sought shelter to sleep, while others prepared to face the new day.

The ground was soft and oozed water beneath his steps as he trod on the moss. It had rained during the night, and the flowers gleamed with their most intense colors amid a light morning mist that would soon evaporate. The air smelled of wet earth, of that damp and indistinct scent that he could not tell whether it came from the ground or from the trees. A squirrel, startled among the bushes of wild strawberries, dropped the fruit it was eating and hurried to seek refuge in the treetop.

Hans smiled at the sight of the small animal.

The strawberries were small, but he could not resist the temptation to pick the ripest ones and tuck them into his pouch for later. That small divine gift was always welcome.

Then he heard it.

The stag whose trail he had been following for hours, an animal that, judging by its tracks, promised to be enormous. He was not mistaken.

He crouched among the bushes and prepared the arrow.

The animal did not take long to appear before him. Though skittish, its proud bearing seemed to shout that it was far more important than he was. The prince of the forest. Its coat was dark, still damp from the rain, clinging to its body and outlining the muscles of its legs and back. It walked slowly, head held high, stopping every few steps to listen.

The antlers were wide and well formed, with several points on each side. They were not only large, but old: it showed in their thickness, in the marks from blows against trunks and branches. An animal that had survived more than one season.

Hans settled himself more comfortably among the bushes. He rested his bad knee on the ground, the one that always ached when the days were damp and the nights stormy. He raised the bow carefully so as not to stir the leaves. He nocked the arrow and drew slowly, feeling the pressure in his fingers.

The stag stepped into a small clearing. It sniffed the air. Its ears twitched constantly, alert to any sound. For a few seconds it seemed to hesitate, but at last it lowered its head to drink from the water pooled among the roots of a fallen tree.

It was the perfect distance.

Hans waited for the animal to turn sideways. He let out his breath slowly and released the arrow.

The impact was sharp and precise. The arrow struck straight into the heart and the stag collapsed lifeless to the ground, already dead by the time its antlers touched the earth.

Hans nearly let out a cry of joy, but the deep respect he felt for the animal held him back. He slung the bow over his shoulder and drew the knife from its sheath before approaching his trophy.

As he drew closer, he became increasingly aware of the animal’s true size. It was probably the largest deer he had seen in his entire life.

No need to hunt again until the delivery. But how am I going to...?

He examined the animal from every angle, trying to decide where it would be best to begin. He frowned, frustrated. Even if he butchered it completely, he did not have the strength or the means to transport it home. And if he left it there… he was certain the wolves would leave nothing but clean bones before he could return.

He remained standing, hand on his chin, waiting for a solution to fall from the sky.

And so it did.

The crack of branches behind him startled him, making him jump and clutch the knife. The wolves could not have arrived so soon.

Instead, he found a woman stifling a cry of surprise and her husband holding the reins of an old horse. On either side of the animal hung freshly cut pieces of bark, surely intended for resin extraction, though such activity was strictly regulated.

Hans looked at the bark, then at the couple. Both appeared submissive and kind.

—Oh, master hunter! Please, be merciful!

They knelt and begged, well aware of the infraction they had committed, though they did not imagine that this might be a case where one could look the other way. That horse, though old, could easily carry the deer lying on the ground.

—What is your name? —he demanded in an authoritative tone.

—Vashek, sir. My wife and I...

—Vashek, —he interrupted— I believe we could come to an agreement.

The sun was already rising on the horizon when they helped him hang the deer in the shed. Hans urged them to be more careful next time, as he would not overlook illegal logging again, though he did not scold them too harshly thanks to their help.

Vashek and his wife left the property in more of a hurry than they would care to admit, and Hans was left alone facing the animal’s body. It would not be easy to butcher it with elegance.

It took him less time than he would have thought, but he carefully examined his work and deemed it satisfactory. On one side, laid out on the table, he had placed various cuts of meat left over from the process. He smiled at the thought of the generous stew he would prepare for the following day.

He stepped out of the shed and the sun was already at its highest point, forcing him to raise an arm to shield his eyes. The water in the basin, drawn fresh from the well early that morning, was beginning to grow too warm; still, it drew a sigh of relief from him when he plunged his hands into it.

He washed himself calmly, first his fingers, then his forearms, letting the water gradually turn a paler shade of red. The sweat, the blood, and the metallic smell of work slowly faded away. He splashed water over his face and neck and, for a moment, closed his eyes, grateful for that brief sensation of cleanliness and silence.

When he was done, he emptied the basin behind the shed and the sun took care of drying his clothes in just a few minutes. The day continued on its unperturbed course. The hens pecked near their shelter, the wind gently stirred the leaves of the trees, and the constant hum of insects brightened the air. Hans took a deep breath and lifted his gaze toward the fields.

That was when he saw him. In the distance, bent over the garden, Henry worked the soil at a steady, almost mechanical pace. He lifted the hoe, let it fall, pushed the earth aside with his foot, and moved on, row after row. Even from there, Hans could recognize his way of moving, patient and focused, steady as the earth itself.

He adjusted his tunic and slicked his hair back with the help of a little water, then set off in his direction. The dirt path was warm beneath his boots, and each step kicked up a bit of dust. As he drew closer, the sound of metal striking earth became clearer, falling into rhythm with Henry’s breathing.

—You don’t stop even when the sun is blazing —said Hans when he arrived, resting for a moment against the garden fence.

Henry lifted his head, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and offered a tired half-smile.

—It’s when you have to work the hardest, or the weeds will rot my turnips.

Hans stood there, watching the sweat run over Henry’s muscles, sticking his shirt to his body. He felt the temptation to jump the fence and help him clear the weeds, but watching him was a far more entertaining task. And less tiring.

—Are you done for today? —Henry continued, taking a break to catch his breath— I wasn’t expecting you until dusk.

—Yes. —he swallowed as he looked at that slender body in such a position— You won’t believe the game I brought back. It’s enough to cover the entire quota the City Council asked of me.

—Really? —Henry’s eyes widened in surprise— That’s a lot of meat…

—I know.

He let the silence settle like a small torture before saying what they were both waiting to hear.

—Of course I saved some for us, idiot. How could I forget about you?

Henry’s eyes lit up. He smiled to the side and wiped the sweat from his brow again.

—Perfect, because I have something for you too…

—Oh really?

Henry planted the hoe into the ground and leaned on the handle, tilting his head with an expression that blended weariness and mischief.

—Nothing you can’t wait a little for. —he replied— But I’m not telling you if you stay there staring like some little lord.

Hans let out a brief snort of laughter and shook his head.

—Well, and here I thought I was going to get out of digging up turnips.

—Yes, those are tasks for commoners, not something for the Master Hunter. —Henry shot back, though his tone betrayed his smile.

Hans hesitated for barely a second before jumping the fence. He landed on the other side, kicking up a small swirl of dust, and rolled up his sleeves without a word. He took the spare hoe leaning against a post and began clearing weeds from the adjacent furrow, mimicking Henry’s rhythm.

—I suppose I can lend a hand. —he said, feigning indifference— That way you’ll finish sooner.

Henry chuckled to himself but did not object; at the end of the day, two working hands would finish the job faster. Still, he knew the aches that plagued Hans as if they were his own, and so he knew not to push him too hard or his knee would begin to protest.

At first he worked at a good pace, side by side, following Henry’s steps to the letter. But as the sun slowly began to sink in the sky, his movements grew slower, clumsier, until he started to feel a twinge where he shouldn’t.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and laughed to himself. He found it curious how, despite life at the castle being easier, he felt that this physical effort and way of life were far more comforting.

He set the hoe aside, just in time to avoid straining his leg too much and being unable to move for days.

—If Heinrich could see me! —he said, shaking his head in amusement— He’d think they truly swapped his father for someone else.

He continued chuckling lightly as he picked up the tool, but that remark left behind an uncomfortable silence, bringing to the surface a topic that was still difficult to mention.

Heinrich. They felt they had placed too much weight on his shoulders, that in some way they had abandoned him… but they had just as many reasons to think otherwise. Henry kept working the soil at the same pace, but before Hans left, he murmured in a low, almost melancholic voice.

—Do you think they’ve realized? —he paused— Do you think… they would forgive us if they knew what we did?

—Oh, without a doubt! —the confidence and speed of Hans’s reply surprised Henry— Jitka is the smartest woman I’ve ever known. I’m sure she’ll figure it out sooner or later, and well… I don’t think it’ll take her long to confess it to Heinrich.

That drew a smile straight from Henry’s heart.

—You really think so?

Hans returned the smile. Not a forced one, but one full of sincerity.

—Of course. I’m completely sure, Henry. —he stepped closer, trying to hide the discomfort in his knee, and rested his hand on Henry’s shoulder— One day we’ll go visit them.

Henry took his hand and gently kissed the back of it.

—Yes… we’ll go back someday. —he whispered more to himself than to anyone else— Now go get changed! —he suddenly raised his voice, regaining his cheer— I won’t be long finishing up here, and I want to give you that surprise before sunset.

Hans nodded, still wearing that confident smile that came to him whenever he spoke of the future, and walked away, making sure the fatigue did not show too much. Henry followed him with his gaze, lingering on every fold of his shirt, until his figure disappeared between the walls along the path.

When he turned back to his work, the silence felt almost pleasant. He resumed the task with renewed energy, as if hope had lightened his hands. The sun was slowly descending, painting the sky in golden and orange hues, and every time he lifted his head to wipe the sweat away, he thought of Hans and of the surprise that still awaited him.

Back at the house, Hans prepared for the small outing they had planned. He took a basket and packed some food and a couple of blankets in case the ground was still too damp when they arrived. He put out the fire, the resulting smoke filling the room and leaving behind a scent of burnt wood that clung to the walls.

Hans loved that smell.

It always made him feel sheltered, calm, as if he were truly at home, a home that had once felt so distant. Birds sang outside. A light breeze rattled the shutters and helped the smoke dissipate, and Hans sighed. One of those sighs that rise from deep within, that flood body and soul and soothe like a mother’s gentle words.

In a corner, Henry had left a clean linen shirt, surely to change into later. He couldn’t help himself: he stepped closer and softly brushed it with his fingers, as if Henry himself were beneath them. The touch was cool, comforting, so he picked it up and brought it closer. It smelled like Henry.

Hans buried his nose in the fabric and breathed in his scent, so sweet and intoxicating it nearly made him blush. He smiled without realizing it before neatly folding the shirt again, just before someone knocked at the door.

—Henry!? Are you home?

The woman called a couple more times before Hans went out to greet her.

—Good afternoon, Katherine. —he was glad to see a familiar face.

—Good afternoon, Hans! Sorry to bother you at this hour but… have you seen Henry? I need him.

The child holding the woman’s hand tugged lightly to get her attention. His mischievous smile contrasted with his mother’s seriousness, who, though cheerful, looked tired.

—Oh! The children went back to playing in the chicken coop and, well, who would’ve thought they’d fall all over it and wreck the place? —she complained in an ironic tone without taking her eyes off the boy.

She scolded the child with a look, but he only hid behind her skirt, never stopping his gaze from resting on Hans with those huge brown eyes.

—Well, you know, kids will be kids…

Katherine also scolded him with a look for downplaying her problem. She was far too busy tending the house and several small children to put up with Capon’s antics now. He raised his hands in apology.

—Henry is working the back field. I’ll tell him you came by.

—Thank you, Hans… —she let out a sigh that betrayed her exhaustion— I need him to straighten the nails as soon as possible; I don’t want the chickens wandering freely.

Hans smiled at the child hiding behind his mother. He had seen him before, always shy but just as curious about the unknown blond man. Hans slipped his hand into his pouch and pulled out the strawberries he had picked that morning, small and pink.

—Look what I have for you. Do you like them?

The child seemed to sink even deeper into Katherine’s skirt.

—Leszek… Hans asked you a question. You do like strawberries, don’t you?

She let go of his hand and practically pushed him forward. The boy took the strawberries without taking his eyes off Hans, amused and amazed.

—Yes… —he said shyly— Thank you.

Once he had the precious loot, he ran back behind Katherine and began eating them slowly, smiling with every bite. The adults smiled as well at the sight of his happiness each time he tasted the sweet and tart flavor of the strawberries.

—Thank you, Hans. I hope Henry can come tomorrow…

—Don’t worry, Katherine. If he can’t make it, I’ll help you myself. Do you need anything else?

Katherine’s eyes lit up; she never thought she would grow so fond of those two scoundrels.

—That’s all. Thank you! See you tomorrow!

They both walked off down the dirt path, leaving Hans with a strange feeling of joy and nostalgia.

Henry finished just as the light began to soften. He washed his hands in a hurry, shook out his clothes as best he could, and, without wasting time, returned to the house.

Hans was waiting for him, already changed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Henry went first to the cellar and filled a wineskin from the barrel at the very back, one Hans did not recognize. When he returned, he said nothing; he simply took Hans by the hand and led him out of the property. They climbed together along a narrow path that wound up the hill, surrounded by tall grass and the distant cooing of turtledoves. The effort was mild, but Henry slowed his pace, matching Hans’s rhythm without making it obvious.

When they reached the top, the world seemed to open before them. The sun was nearing the horizon, spreading its warm light over the fields and distant rooftops, and for a moment Henry thought there could be no better place in the world to be happy.

They sat on the grass, watching the city as it slowly prepared for the night. Hans took pieces of bread and cheese from his bag and placed them between them to share, and Henry offered him the wineskin.

—What is this? The beer isn’t ready yet. —he said as he mentally calculated how many months had passed since they prepared the barrels.

—Try it and you’ll see. It’s… something new. —he said, scratching the back of his neck with a half-smile.

Hans narrowed his eyes, making it clear he did not trust the mysterious liquid, but Henry looked so excited that he had no choice but to try it. At first it tasted sweet, with an intense, enveloping aroma; when it slid down his throat came the real burn, one that left behind a cloying yet intoxicating trail.

—Wow! This is really strong… —he felt a slight dizziness, as if the alcohol had already gone to his head— But it’s delicious. God, it really is.

He took another sip, and this time it did not burn his throat as much.

—It’s plum liquor. I couldn’t stand seeing so many overripe plums rotting on the ground, I wanted to do something with them, so… this came to mind.

Hans said it through laughter, leaning close enough to gently bump him with his shoulder. Henry had to take the wineskin away when he realized Hans had no intention of giving it back. Hans immediately protested, clinging to it a second too long and pulling an exaggerated pout, clearly rehearsed to soften him.

—Don’t even try —said Henry, still laughing.

And then it happened without warning. Before Hans could reply, Henry drew him in, as if the gesture had come of its own accord, and took his face in his hands. He kissed him with an intensity that made him forget the plum liquor entirely.

It felt so good, so peaceful… a kiss that was not a farewell, but simply a show of love without having to think about tomorrow.

They sought each other without hurry: hands caressing each other’s faces, fingers playing with fabric, deliberate touches that drew shy smiles. Henry buried his nose in Hans’s hair, breathing in his scent as if he wanted to memorize it, and Hans responded by resting his forehead against Henry’s neck, letting his laughter escape in soft little breaths. For a while there was only them, the murmur of the fields, and the comfortable certainty of being exactly where they were meant to be.

It was Henry who looked up first.

A small company was crossing the stone bridge, heading toward the city’s castle. They counted five knights, all bearing the colors and banners of the feudal lord, all elegantly clad in gleaming armor.

The peasants hurried out of their way with smiles, greeting them with respect. The cavalry, proud and upright, advanced with indifference and entered the castle, leaving behind a light cloud of dust.

The two young men watched the scene in silence, in a moment where words were unnecessary and memories spoke for themselves. The thunder of hooves on stone faded, and the birds sang again, as if nothing had disturbed their peace. Then Henry spoke.

—Do you miss it? —Hans turned his head sharply, surprised by the question— You were a Lord of vast lands, I suppose it’s normal that sometimes…

—Henry, —he interrupted him, his voice low and calm— do you want to know the truth?

At first Henry hesitated, but he swallowed his pride and nodded. Of course he wanted to know what was going through Capon’s mind.

—No. —Hans replied.

The denial fell abruptly, dry and heavy, like a stone on the earth.

—No? Never…? —Henry seemed surprised.

—No, Henry. —Hans held his gaze— I always thought there would be moments when I would miss it.

He paused briefly, as if checking one last time that it was still true.

—But there aren’t. I’m far too happy here, with you, to worry about what was left behind.

Henry lay back with his hands under his head, watching the orange-tinged sky. A long, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his chest when he closed his eyes and let the silence settle around that confession.

—And what about you? —Hans asked after a moment. He rested his head on Henry’s chest, and they both stared into nothing— Don’t you miss being a knight? Sir Henry of Pirkstein —he added with a laugh, with exaggerated solemnity.

Henry laughed with him, as if that name sounded more ridiculous than it ever truly had been.

—The truth is, no. I think I never really… got used to being a knight. —he admitted— It was a name too big for me.

—No name was ever too big for you. —Hans corrected him gently— I would have given you the whole world if you had asked.

Henry smiled and glanced at him from the corner of his eye, seeing his relaxed face against his chest, his calm breathing, his expression full of happiness.

—Martin was right —he murmured at last.

—Martin? —Hans lifted his head slightly, confused— What do you mean?

Henry did not answer immediately. He swallowed, fixed his gaze on the sky as it began to darken, and let a few more seconds pass, as if he needed time to feel those words.

Then, at last, he spoke.

—That one day I would realize this is truly what I want. A quiet life, beside the person I love… with no greater worries than waking up together every morning.

Henry exhaled slowly as he said it, as if putting it into words made it fully real. The sky was beginning to darken and the first stars timidly appeared, but he did not look away, afraid the spell might break.

—I understand. —Hans murmured after a moment— I wish he had told me… so I could say he was right too.

Hans lifted his head from the steady rise and fall of Henry’s chest and they held each other’s gaze, laden with a silence so meaningful they could almost hear it. Then Henry raised his hand and caressed Hans’s face, the simple wooden ring he never took off brushing against his skin.

—I love you.

Hans smiled, unhurried, and slid his hand to Henry’s fingers, intertwining them. Both rings touched in a nearly imperceptible gesture, as if fate itself knew they would never be apart, as if the natural order of things were contained in that contact. It was what had to be. There was nothing else.

—I love you too.

And there, beneath the stars of the Bohemian sky, they consummated their love once more. Without hiding, showing themselves just as they were. Two people who had found each other… and who would love each other forever.