Olekyr woke up at noon. For the first time in weeks, his mind felt incredible clarity and silence. The boy's crying no longer echoed there, the betrayed man no longer screamed. There was only silence—deep and even, like water in a well. And it was in this silence that he barely noticed the changes in his body.
Strength flowed through his veins, gathered in his bones, pulsed in his muscles. It didn't burn—it breathed. His hearing sharpened: servants whispered behind the door, guards laughed, squires complained. But louder than all was the quiet, steady breathing beside him.
Olekyr opened his eyes. Before him lay her—Yaroslava. Her long golden hair fell across her face, which seemed sculpted from marble. He looked at her but saw not the present—he saw future beauty, not yet revealed by teenage years. He remembered that evening when they crossed forbidden lines, when their bodies merged into one. He wanted to surrender to those emotions, to drink from her rosy lips.
But memory was stronger. He remembered the crunch, remembered her tender gaze at the moment his sword took her head. And he knew—he would never forget it.
His hand lay nearby, motionless. But his fingers found her hair on their own, slid through it like water, and stopped at her temple. Yaroslava stirred, as if awakening not from sleep, but from another world.
Her blue eyes, clear as winter sky, looked at him without a trace of fear. She was already awake and, without looking away, accepted his touch—warm, cautious, as if he feared disturbing something more than sleep. Her face was calm, and a barely noticeable smile lived in the corners of her lips.
They weren't ashamed or afraid—they simply didn't know what to say to each other. Or maybe they didn't want to. They wanted to dissolve in this moment, letting go of all worries.
But it couldn't last forever. A light knock at the door shattered the silence.
"Young lady, the mistress asked me to inform you that lunch will be soon, and she wants your presence," came a familiar voice.
Olekyr felt a strange nostalgia. He knew those intonations, hard to forget. It was Ladina—one of the few who saw him commit the slaughter and kill his own sister. She hadn't fled like others but stayed close, helped, cared, as if it were her duty. Together they buried everyone in the fortress, found his mother's remains, and paid their last respects.
He thought her insane—not because of her actions, but because she never feared him. She followed him but never let him forget—neither the deeds nor their cost. If he did something wrong, she told him immediately, regardless of consequences. Her bluntness, her silent presence—all of it kept him on the edge, preventing a final fall.
"Understood. Bring me a clean dress, and find something for Olekyr too," said Yaroslava.
"Of course," Ladina replied.
Olekyr easily caught the note of surprise in her voice—after all the years spent together.
Yaroslava, unashamed, rose from the bed as if the room were as warm as the blanket. She effortlessly noticed his gaze gliding over her body.
"You've changed," she said.
"You think so?"
"I know. I haven't forgotten how you used to be ashamed and run away when we went bathing together. Now you don't even blush."
A light laugh escaped his lips but quickly grew into genuine laughter. In a moment, Yaroslava laughed too.
Their moment was interrupted again by a knock.
"Young lady, it's me. May I come in?" called Ladina.
"Come in."
A dark-haired woman entered the room—a true beauty, but almost ordinary next to Yaroslava. Olekyr recognized her immediately, as one recognizes an old acquaintance: the same dark hair tied in a familiar bun, the same detached yet attentive gaze, charming face unmarred by scars or age. She wore the same uniform he remembered, only now without numerous patches—clean and whole. Ladina paused for a moment, sensing the unusual atmosphere, but said nothing, carefully hanging the outfits on the back of a chair as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance in the air.
Olekyr took the dark blue outfit from the hanger—simple, but with silver-embroidered sleeves—and, without waiting for words, turned his back to Ladina. She was momentarily confused, as she had never helped him with such things before, and if the opportunity arose, he always tried to manage alone. But her hands didn't hesitate: she stepped closer and began to help, moving confidently, precisely, without unnecessary words. Their interaction was so smooth it seemed they had done it thousands of times.
When they finished, Ladina held her gaze on Olekyr for a moment—with quiet curiosity. She didn't understand what exactly had changed but felt a closeness, some new understanding, a bond she couldn't explain. Yaroslava, equally surprised, watched silently, seeing for the first time such wordless, almost intimate harmony between them, filled more with memories than movements.
"Aren't you going to get dressed?" he tossed over his shoulder.
Yaroslava rolled her eyes, not intending to explain how shocking a thing she had witnessed today. She took from the hanger a dress—light, of fine fabric, adorned with embroidered patterns along the hem and sleeves—and began to dress. Ladina, still concerned, approached her too, helping fasten buttons and smooth the fabric. Their movements were coordinated, as always, and it was this that sparked Ladina's open curiosity: she paused her gaze on Olekyr again, as if trying to understand what had changed.
When they finished, Olekyr walked to the door. But before he could touch the latch, the door opened on its own.
On the threshold stood Myroslava. Olekyr recognized her immediately. Dark hair that smelled of lungwort—a tender spring flower that blooms in coolness and retains its scent even in the shade of stone walls. Dark eyes that once watched his first steps. And incredible, almost magical beauty that had been her downfall.
She wasn't bright but deep. Her beauty had weight—calm, confident, almost commanding. High cheekbones, a clear line of lips, a gaze that could both warm and keep at a distance. She wore simple but impeccably fitted clothing, and even in this everyday attire, she looked as if she belonged to another, higher sphere.
For a moment, Olekyr lost himself. What he felt was hard to describe in words: endless, almost painful joy. Everything he had built within himself these days—coldness, hardness, detachment—crumbled. The one who a moment ago seemed a man trapped in a child's body was now no better than a little boy.
He rushed to her, hugged her as if afraid to let go, grabbed her waist, and cried—suddenly, defenselessly, like a long-forgotten boy. Myroslava, confused but soft in her reaction, began to calm him, stroking his back. Ladina, not understanding but feeling the weight of the moment, also tried to help.
Only Yaroslava stood aside with a tender, almost sad smile. Her hand involuntarily reached for her neck—a light, almost imperceptible movement holding the memory of what had once happened between them.
Several moments passed before Olekyr pulled himself together again. He took a deep breath, as if trying to draw into his lungs not just air but the calm his mother radiated. His face was flushed, his words fragmented and unclear, but sincerity resonated in them.
He took Myroslava's hand—firmly, as if afraid she would disappear if he let go—and, without looking back, led her through the corridors. The stone walls echoed their steps, and behind them rang Yaroslava's bright, slightly mocking laughter, dissolving in the castle's cold air.
Ahead, lunch awaited them. And though the hall already smelled of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spicy herbs, Olekyr sensed another aroma—thick, almost tangible tension. He knew: everyone would gather at the table, and every glance would weigh more than any word.
Olekyr stepped out of the room into the corridors—so familiar, so nostalgic.
Here he is, barefoot, running after Yaroslava with the other kids, laughing and trying to catch up… and here he is hacking Mstyslav and his boys to pieces, laughter turning to screams.
Here he hears the loud, ringing voice of a servant calling them to lunch, and he and Yaroslava race to see who reaches the hall first… and here that same servant screams in horror, hands pressed to her mouth, seeing his sword in action. And the fortress comes alive—not with children's noise, but with alarmed cries.
Here he hides in the corridor behind the backs of patrol guards, playing "war" with a wooden sword… and here that patrol is cut down by a real blade, the last one on his knees begging for mercy—but his sword cannot be stopped.
Here he runs out to the crossroads, following Yaroslava's bright laughter as she hides behind a column… and here he, like a wolf, prowls among bodies, seeking those still breathing.
Here he grabs the hem of her dress near the wizards showing children little illusions—birds of light, flowers of sparks… and here he wipes his sword on one wizard's robe, continuing his bloody path.
Here he meets an old guardsman who picks him up, tosses him in the air, and he laughs, clinging to his helmet… and here he smashes that helmet against the wall, the body falling at others' feet.
Here he stops by the window to watch horses playing in the yard, and Yaroslava pulls him onward… and here he looks out that same window and sees only scattered bodies and broken spears below.
Here he and Yaroslava sneak into the kitchen to steal a pastry, laughing as they run… and here he passes that same kitchen and sees the cook lying in a corner with a slit throat.
Here they enter the great hall: Velymir, as always, stands waiting next to Myroslava, servants bustling to set out dishes… and here she, with the fortress's defenders, stands before the gates, waiting for him with weapons in hand.
Here he stands enchanted before the gates, his older brother mocking him, pushing him toward the hall… and here he breaks the gates with that brother's body, who falls broken on the stone.
Here he is captivated by the hall's grandeur, candlelight, children's laughter, smell of fresh bread… and here the dim hall, women and children huddled against the wall, clutching each other.
Here he hesitates to take a step, and Yaroslava pulls his hand toward the table… and here he stands hesitating, and Yaroslava's spell flies from behind him.
Here her bright smile and tender gaze as she pours him mead… and here her frozen tender smile and glassy gaze on the severed head he holds in his hands.
…And suddenly—the present. The stone underfoot is cold and damp, the smell of smoke and metal brings him back to reality. He stands before the heavy gates, fist clenched so tightly his nails dig into his palm. Breathing is heavy but evens out. Shoulders straighten. Gaze hardens.
Myroslava stands beside him, her dark eyes studying his face carefully. She says nothing, but a slight tilt of her head and a soft, almost imperceptible touch to his shoulder speak louder than words.
Yaroslava, slightly behind, catches his gaze and smiles faintly—not mockingly, but with quiet support.
"You can do it," she says softly, so only he can hear. "I'm here."
He feels his heart still beating to the rhythm of the past, but his hands obey the present. A step forward—and he is here again, in this moment, ready to open the gates and enter.