The bards sang, and the world listened. From crumbling taverns in the Carpathians to the golden halls of Venetian courts, their songs caught wind and soared — tales of a yellow-haired barbarian who rose from chains to wear a crown not of birthright, but of valor. The Flaxen Reaper, they called him, Battle-Chaser, Prince of No Nation, the giant of a man who outran empires and outraged kings, only to win a kingdom with a sword in one hand and love in the other. He, the ex-slave turned prince. She, the veiled She-Raven, bride of mystery and grace. And their son — the small flame destined to inherit a legacy already trembling with legend. In the alleyways of the oppressed, his name was hope. In the songs of farmers and freedmen, it was triumph. In the whispers of soldiers and exiles, it was a banner lifted high. Children played at being this prince in dusty streets, waving sticks like swords and swearing oaths beneath the wide sky. And across the Balkans, throughout the east, and far into the western kingdoms, the tale spread like wildfire in spring. A new myth for a new age. The world had not seen the last of him. No — it had only just begun to speak his name...

  Under the shadow of the royal banner, Oleksandr did not rest on laurels or linger in luxury. Crowned not by blood, but by merit, he took the mantle of Prince Consort with the same fury and focus that had once driven him through coliseums and battlefields. As Marshal of Montenegro, he became the architect of a new age.

  They called him The Tiger General — for his ferocity in battle, for the patience in his hunt, and the raw, regal power he exuded in war councils and courtrooms alike. No longer did armies consist solely of nobles with polished steel — under Oleksandr’s vision, the common folk took up arms, the farmer marched beside the knight, and the streets rang with the sound of new training. From muddy villages and mountain passes, he raised a warrior class forged in sweat, blood, and shared destiny. Merit replaced lineage. Skill outweighed birthright. And when the borders once fraught with chaos settled beneath his eye, he turned sword into ink, spear into olive branch. His campaigns were followed by embassies. His victories became alliances. Gold poured in not just from tribute, but from trade — silks from the east, spices from the south, iron from the north — all woven into a network of strength and prosperity.

  Under his diplomacy, Montenegro became more than a battered, shadowed kingdom hiding in the mountains—it became a beacon. A land where the lowborn could rise. Where warriors became statesmen, and slaves became legends. and, it became an aggressor.

  Five years after their wedding, the beloved King Dragoje passed into the next world, taken by a fever that not even the most skilled healers could cure. In the wake of his death, a heartbroken Vidosavka ascended the throne as Queen Regent, with Oleksandr at her side as consort. Yet the land was still restless, still bleeding from the wounds of war, and the crown sat uneasy upon her gentle brow. Their eldest son, the rightful heir, was but a small child, and while the She-Raven was wise and beloved, she was no warrior queen.

  So with her blessing — and under the fervent roar of the army that loved him like a father — Oleksandr made his claim. Vidosavka, his queen and the regent of the realm, gave him her full support. Not just out of love, but out of wisdom. She knew well that it was already he who commanded the kingdom’s armies, who met with the diplomats, who turned the gears of state in the king’s name. In all but title, he already ruled. And more than that, he was her consort, the father of the king’s grandson — the heir to the throne. To them, as a family, it made sense. It was right. It was inevitable. To the rest of the realm, it was a storm.

  It stirred the pot of nobility — a former slave, a foreigner, a barbarian by birth — now reaching for the throne of Montenegro? Whispers turned to curses in candlelit corridors, to secret meetings in stone-walled villas. Old blood, proud and cold, balked at the thought of kneeling to a man born without a name. But Oleksandr did not wait for the whispers to grow teeth.

  The usurpation was swift, silent as a dagger in the night. Some called it a soft coup, but there was nothing gentle about it. It was a purge. A reckoning. Within days, the halls of dissenting lords were emptied. Their banners torn from the rafters. Their estates seized or burnt. Some were exiled, their names struck from the court ledgers like they never existed. Others simply vanished — throats slit in the dark, or found floating face-down in riverbeds, their wealth absorbed into the crown’s coffers. The nobility learned quickly: loyalty was rewarded, disobedience was annihilated and replaced.

  Titles were not enough to protect anyone. Bloodline meant nothing to the Bloodless King.

  And so, he sat the throne. Not by birthright, nor divine favor, but by sheer will. By steel, by strategy, and by a terrifying clarity of purpose. Some called it a usurpation. Others called it a cleansing.

  Though there were grumbles among the aristocracy, most bent the knee in time. Even those who found his rise unnatural could not deny the results. Under Oleksandr, order returned to the land. The coffers filled. The borders held. Roads were cleared of brigands, the courts no longer stagnated with indecision, and the iron-fisted rule of a warrior-king began to turn chaos into clockwork. The once-fractured nobility became sharpened instruments — no longer a chattering class, but a council of commanders. The cogs of the machine settled into place, and loyalty grew. Noble houses, once aloof and proud, now raised their sons to serve in the army, to study war, to emulate the king who had risen from chains to crown.

  The Ottomans fumed.

  The man they once hunted through forest and ravine — the flaxen-haired scourge of their empire — had risen to the highest seat of power. He was no longer a vagabond rebel, no longer a lone sword to be broken. He was a banner under which thousands marched. A throne from which their most cunning enemy now watched the horizon with cold, blue eyes.

  The Sultan called him a devil crowned in stolen gold. The people called him savior. His enemies? They called him a nightmare made flesh.

  But the world would come to know him by one name:

  Oleksandr, The White Tiger of the East!

  His war council became the iron spine of his reign — a gathering of the fiercest warriors and shrewdest nobles in the land. Men who once fought against one another now stood shoulder to shoulder under his banner, unified in cause and sharpened by war. Montenegro's army grew vast, a phalanx of veterans, knights, and hardened peasantry. But more than blades and banners, it was the navy that marked the dawn of his true imperial reach.

  Oleksandr, ever the tactician, brokered maritime alliances with naval powers across the Adriatic and Mediterranean. The coastal nations, seeing in him both a bulwark against Ottoman domination and a lucrative partner, lent ships and arms to his cause. Italian merchants from Venice, enticed by the promise of new trade routes and protected harbors, flooded his coffers with coin and materiel. Gold and iron flowed freely into Montenegro, and with them came influence — and fear.

  But there was another move, one deeper in blood and memory. He had not forgotten his roots in the East, as a Varangian Guard beneath the banners of Byzantium. Nor had he forgotten his blood-right in the cold fjords of the North. His father — the warlord Oddvarr — once ruled the feared Skarnj?l tribe of Norway, sea wolves and raiders who answered to no throne but their own. And so, with crown on head and purpose in hand, Oleksandr sailed north once more. He stood before the heathen sons of the ice and made his claim:

  He was Oddvarr's firstborn son, blood of the line.

  He bore the heirloom sword, the chieftain’s blade of engraved steel.

  And he was the one who had slain Oddvarr — as only a worthy heir could.

  The Skarnj?l remembered him. Tales of the flaxen reaper had reached even their frost-bitten shores. They remembered the name Oleksandr — the ghost of their slain chief returned in the flesh. Warriors who had tested him, doubted him, challenged his mettle… and found him unshakable. And so he gave them an offer: Leave the barren ice, take to the sunlit shores of the south. Fight for me, and I will give you land, wealth, and glory. Be feared once more, not as reavers without country, but as the mailed fist of a king.

  Many answered. They swore fealty to the flaxen heir of Oddvarr not out of fear or obligation, but out of reverence. To them, Oleksandr was not merely a king — he was the fire reborn in the bloodline of wolves. Those that followed him south became the bedrock of a new, brutal naval force, tempered by ice and flame. They christened themselves The Sea-Wolves, a brotherhood of ironclad raiders and seaborne knights, whose black-sailed longships bore the crest of the White Tiger. Where they sailed, the seas turned red and the coastlines burned. Their tactics were swift and merciless, honed from both northern raiding and southern discipline — and their reputation spread like oil over water. Whispers passed from tavern to throne room: The ghosts of Byzantium have returned. It was as if the Varangian Guard had been resurrected — only now, they bent the knee to no emperor, but to a king of their own blood.

  They were loyal to their king unto death, and they wielded a weapon that struck fear into the hearts of enemy and ally alike: Greek fire. The alchemical terror of the old empire — liquid flame that clung to flesh, that burned on water, that could not be doused by sand or steel. Oleksandr, one of the last living men to learn its arcane secret during his years in Byzantium, had memorized the formula and buried it deep within his guarded soul. He guarded the secret like a dragon hoards gold — feeding it to no scroll, entrusting it to no servant. Only his eldest son, the boy who would one day wear his crown, was taught the sacred art. Together, father and son trained a select few: flame-keepers sworn to silence, black-robed alchemists who brewed the fire in remote keeps far from prying eyes.

  When the Sea-Wolves sailed, they brought more than steel — they brought the wrath of fallen empires. Their ships were outfitted with dragon-headed siphons, spitting jets of fire that lit enemy fleets like torches adrift in the dark. Cities fell not by siege, but by immolation. To many, they were demons. To others, they were legends made flesh. But for all his conquest, it was not gold nor dominion that Oleksandr held dearest. It was his bloodline — his children, his family. Though king to thousands, marshal of armies, and master of fire and steel, when he returned from the forge of war, he was simply 'papa' — a man who cradled his youngest to sleep at night.

  The Tiger and the Raven seemed to be blessed with fertility, as the queen bore him a new child almost every spring. Their firstborn, Thekkur, and his siblings — Finn, Luftar, Kostandina, Ruslan, Oleksandr, Dragoje, Mikhail, and Vladislav — grew in the warmth of a home where love and loyalty were forged as strongly as any sword. Though her royal duties often kept her busy, Savka made sure her children felt the steady presence of a mother who, though bound by duty, never let that replace her devotion to their well-being. And through it all, Oleksandr was a constant, unwavering force at her side. He delivered each of their children with his own hands, never trusting anyone else to usher his blood into the world. Fiercely protective and almost militant in his care, he made it known that her comfort and desires were law while she carried their children—none dared question it. He ensured she never wanted for warmth, food, or peace of mind, advocating for her with the same passion he carried into battle. Their children were not just born into royalty, but into a love that was fiercely guarded.

  Part of the reason they had so many children wasn’t just born from the passion and appetite he felt for his queen — though that flame burned hot and enduring — but also from something deeper, something solemn. In the quiet places of his heart, he saw his large family as a tribute, a form of compensation for the children his late brother never had the chance to bring into the world. Thekkur, who had died too young, whose bloodline ended with a spear— Oleksandr carried that wound like a brand upon his soul. Each time he held a newborn son or daughter in his arms, he felt as though he was giving life to something his brother had been denied.

  In the early years, when the infants could only coo and gurgle in their mother’s arms, Oleksandr watched over them with a quiet intensity. The bustling court, filled with nobles and soldiers, would often fall silent when he took one of his children in his arms. His large hands, which had once gripped weapons and shields, now held tiny, trusting souls. But as the children grew, so too did Oleksandr’s role in their lives. He was not one to let them be raised by maids and wet nurses as so many royal children were. The royal court was full of tutors and educators, but Oleksandr was determined that his children would be more than just heirs to a throne — they would be warriors, leaders, strategists, just like him.

  The instant they could walk and talk, Oleksandr took each of his sons under his wing. He was there, in the courtyard, teaching them how to wield a sword, how to ride a horse, how to think like a general. He spared no effort in grooming them for greatness. Each child was taught not just in the ways of battle, but in the ways of diplomacy and statecraft. He would often take them aside and share with them his vision for the future of Montenegro — a kingdom that would not only survive but thrive under their leadership. Oleksandr’s ambitions were not simply for the land he ruled, but for his children, ensuring that the legacy he had built would continue long after he was gone.

  There was a fire in his eyes when he spoke to them, a fire that would ignite their own passions. He would say, “One day, the weight of this throne will rest on your shoulders, and when it does, you must be ready. A king does not wait for the world to bow before him. He bends it to his will.”

  And so, under the watchful eye of their father and the loving care of their mother, Oleksandr’s children prospered. They grew healthy, wise, and loyal — heirs not just to a throne, but to the spirit of their father, a spirit that would carry them through the challenges that lay ahead, and through the storms that would surely come. Oleksandr’s sons grew strong under his watchful eye, each one embodying the same warrior spirit that burned within him. From a young age, they knew that their path would be one of discipline, honor, and hard-earned greatness. There was no room for weakness in the house of the White Tiger, and he ensured that his cubs learned that lesson early.

  Each day began with the clang of swords on steel and the whiz of arrows through the air. His sons, eager to follow in his footsteps, eagerly took to their training, pushing themselves to the limit. Oleksandr taught them more than just technique; he instilled in them a mentality, a way of thinking that was necessary for survival — both on the battlefield and in the halls of power. His voice rang out, steady and commanding, as he guided them through the endless drills, teaching them the art of war, but also the delicate dance of diplomacy.

  But it wasn’t all business. Oleksandr knew the value of play — of the rough-and-tumble, the wrestling and sparring that came naturally to them. He encouraged it, watching as his sons clashed like young lions, each one vying to prove himself the strongest, the smartest, the fastest. Thekkur, his firstborn and heir, was a natural leader. He fought with a fierce determination, his every movement echoing the strength of his father. Oleksandr pushed him the hardest, knowing that Thekkur would one day bear the weight of the kingdom upon his shoulders.

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  Yet, despite his intensity as a teacher, Oleksandr was not a distant, unfeeling father. He was present, always. He would pick them up after a fall, wipe away the dirt, and tell them with a proud smile, “That’s a warrior’s scar. Wear it like a crown.” He would walk with them through the gardens, teaching them the history of their people, of battles won and lost, of kings and traitors, of empires built and destroyed. His mind, sharp as any blade, was a wealth of knowledge, and he poured it into his sons with an unwavering dedication.

  “Strength is not just in the arm, but in the mind, my sons,” he would say, his eyes gleaming with the fire of a man who had fought to survive, to rise above his circumstances. “A king must know how to wield a sword, but he must also know how to wield a kingdom. Never let your mind grow soft, for that is the greatest battle you will ever face.”

  His sons took to their studies with the same vigor they applied to their swordplay. Thekkur, always at the forefront, would often challenge his brothers to debates on history, strategy, and philosophy, his sharp intellect matching his physical prowess. Even the younger boys, who were still learning to form their thoughts into words, would listen in awe to their older brother’s speeches, eager to emulate him.

  The family was a tight-knit unit, bound by more than just blood. They were a living, breathing example of Oleksandr’s belief in unity, in strength through loyalty. His sons grew sturdy and tall, their bodies honed by hours of training and their minds sharp from the endless study sessions. They were the product of their father’s blood, sweat, and wisdom — a new generation of warriors, and more than that, a new generation of leaders.

  The boys often sparred not just with one another, but with their father, who never held back. Oleksandr believed that to be the best, one had to face the best, and no one could push his sons harder than he could. After each sparring match, he would provide them with critiques, pushing them to do better, to be better. The competition between them was fierce, but it was always tempered with love and respect. They knew that their father’s expectations came from a place of care, from a desire to see them rise above all obstacles and a hope to see them surpass even the likes of him.

  Oleksandr never let the weight of gold crowns dull the edge of his sons’ spirits. Though they bore titles and noble blood, his children were carved from harder stone than most royalty. He had seen firsthand the rot that crept into the courts of kings — soft-handed nobles too proud to lift a blade, too dainty to saddle their own horses. Pampered boys in velvet robes who had never drawn blood nor sweat, who flinched at the sight of a blister or the cry of a hungry man. That would never be the fate of his sons. He would not allow it.

  From an early age, he instilled in them a disdain for idle luxury. He made them shovel dung with the servants, shoulder sacks of grain, and haul water from wells. They learned to clean their own weapons, mend their own tunics, and start their own fires. These were not punishments, but lessons — rites of humility, earned through sweat. It was a matter of honor, a way to remain tethered to the earth they would one day rule. He often said, “A man who forgets how to work with his hands will never lead with his heart.” That truth had been beaten into his own back in the pits, and he passed it down with pride.

  His empathy for the common man, born of chains and scars, made him loathe class arrogance. He took his sons into the villages to eat with farmers, to speak with blacksmiths and woodsmen, to learn the true cost of labor. He wanted them to see the people not as servants of the crown, but as the lifeblood of the land. That the strength of the nation started in the people’s homes, and that as rulers, the common man must always be on their minds.

  Despite the harsh training and expectations, he left them room to be boys — wild, spirited, and free. They rode bareback across the hills, climbed cliff faces, and spent entire days tracking deer or fishing by hand in cold rivers. Their skin grew ruddy under the sun, their muscles hardened from a life spent outdoors. They learned how to live off the land, to build shelters from pine and stone, to skin and cook their own kills over open flame. Often, they would return to the castle bruised, scratched, and smelling of woodsmoke and sweat — but with grins stretched ear to ear.

  They were born in a palace, but they lived like wolf cubs.

  He watched them with a pride that swelled in his chest like a drumbeat. His boys were no strangers to dirt or blood. They were good with beasts, good with steel, and even better with a bow. They wrestled for fun, argued like soldiers, and respected strength above all else. They might wear crowns one day, but they would never forget where true power came from: the will to fight and the humility to serve.

  His daughter, Kostandina, was the light of his twilight years — and the arrow straight to his heart. Oleksandr had wept at the birth of each of his children, but something broke open inside him when he first held his daughter. She was so small, so impossibly delicate, that the warrior-king who had carved empires from blood and iron found himself trembling. In that moment, he swore a thousand oaths — to protect her, to guide her, to love her with a fierceness unmatched by any sword-arm or siege engine.

  Unlike her rowdy brothers, Kostandina preferred the serenity of the halls. She was not drawn to the clang of steel or the crack of bows, but to the rustle of parchment and the whisper of ink. Her skin remained pale, untouched by the sun and wind, and though he often begged her to join him outside more often, he never forced her. She was different — and he cherished that difference like a secret jewel. She was brilliant. Even as a child, she devoured books faster than the scribes could copy them. She mastered languages with eerie ease, held debates with her tutors, and studied the histories of ancient queens and forgotten empires with a passion that rivaled her father’s love of battle. Her mind was keen, sharp as a dagger's edge — yet her presence was soft, her voice gentle, her gestures graceful. She had the cunning of a spymaster and the bearing of a priestess.

  In her, the steel of Oleksandr met the silk of Vidosavka.

  She was tall, nearly reaching Oleksandr’s shoulder by the time she was fifteen — her build lithe and poised like a dancer. Her hair fell in rich, mahogany waves down her back, often braided with gold thread by her mother’s hand. Her eyes, inherited from her father, were an icy blue that could unsettle diplomats and soften hardened men. Beauty was hers in abundance — but it was her intelligence that stirred awe in those who met her.

  She loved to embroider with her mother, speaking softly as her fingers moved like clockwork over silk. But when she chose to join her father and brothers on horseback, she rode with grace and speed that reminded Oleksandr of a falcon in flight. He delighted in those moments, for though she was born of quieter things, she still had fire in her blood. To the world, she was a princess. To Oleksandr, she was his little star, his little darling.

  His sons were as if God had carved them from his own flesh—tall, broad-shouldered, with pale hair that fell like lions’ manes and eyes the same blue of frozen rivers. They bore the look of warriors even in their youth, with backs straight and jaws set, their presence alone enough to command respect long before their voices had deepened. By fifteen, they moved with the ease and confidence of grown men; by twenty, they outshone most seasoned veterans. Each one was a reflection of their father’s might and discipline, but none more than his firstborn. Thekkur was the image of Oleksandr reborn, a doppelganger in both form and fire. He moved like his father, fought like him, thought like him. Every time Oleksandr turned his head and caught sight of him in the courtyard—drilling the younger brothers, leading the charge in mock skirmishes, roaring with laughter by the fire—his heart would seize with a strange pain. For not only did Thekkur resemble him, he also bore the name and face of his uncle.

  Calling out “Thekkur!” would often leave Oleksandr with a strange, hollow ache. It was like speaking to a ghost—his brother’s name tumbling from his lips and being answered by a boy who wore his younger face. There were moments when Oleksandr would stare too long, watching Thekkur train or smile or argue with his brothers, and be gripped by a fleeting illusion—that he had somehow stepped back in time, and his twin was once more by his side. Thekkur’s personality, too, was eerily familiar: bold, headstrong, fiercely loyal, with an almost reckless sense of honor and justice. He laughed loudly, loved deeply, and fought like a beast uncaged. Yet behind his fiery nature was a calculating mind, sharp and tactical—just as his namesake had once been. It was both a blessing and a torment. It brought him peace, and pain, in equal measure.

  Oleksandr had never truly recovered from the death of his brother. Even with the passage of years, even surrounded by the warmth of a family he had built with his own flesh and blood, the loss still pulsed in his soul like a phantom limb—an ache that time could not dull. At moments of stillness, when the halls were quiet and the hearths dimmed, he would feel it: that silent emptiness, that missing half of his being. Yet with each year, the love Oleksandr bore for his family grew until his heart seemed too full for sorrow alone. His sons, his daughter, his beloved Savka—they were balm and burden alike. The old wound never healed, but the scar no longer bled.

  On his eldest son’s twenty-second summer, Oleksandr led a bold campaign. At his side rode three of his sons—Thekkur, proud and fierce; Finn, quick and clever; and Luftar, grim-eyed and cold like a northern wind. They commanded a vast host, a force smaller than the enemy’s by far—outnumbered nearly seven to one. But in his years he know numbers meant little to nothing when he was involved.

  The White Tiger struck with the same cunning he once learned at the Battle of Albulena, where he had earned the favor of a nation and an invitation that lead him to the heart of a princess. That ambush—swift, devastating, surgically precise—became legend. Once more, he unleashed its ghost upon the field. The result was slaughter.

  The enemy, bloated with pride, had not expected to be struck from three angles at once. Fire rained from the cliffs above; arrows blackened the sky. Oleksandr’s sons, commanding flanking units, swept in with terrifying efficiency, cutting down commanders before the enemy lines could rally. What began as an ambush became a rout. And what was meant to be another march of conquest for the enemy ended in humiliation and ruin. They reclaimed the entire region—lost to foreign hands for two generations—and in doing so, carved their names into the song of history.

  That night, Oleksandr stood atop the blood-soaked hill beside his sons and watched the sun bleed across the fields. Victory was theirs. One that had not only reclaimed lost lands; It served its truest purpose as a final trial.

  For Oleksandr, the campaign had always been a test. A trial by fire to see whether his heir, Thekkur, could lead not just with strength, but with wisdom, patience, and instinct. And Thekkur had risen to the occasion with terrifying grace. He had commanded men with natural authority, devised strategies with cunning, and fought with the fury of his bloodline. Watching him in the heart of battle—his golden hair soaked in sweat and blood, his voice rising like a war horn—Oleksandr saw not just his son, but a king.

  The decision came easily after that.

  Oleksandr was a proud and mighty king, beloved by his people and feared by his enemies—but in truth, he had no desire for thrones. The throne was a tool, a weapon of its own sort, and he had wielded it well. But it had always been a temporary burden. A mantle he bore not for himself, but for the son he was grooming in silence, forging not just through words, but through war. He was a warrior, born of bloodshed and sorrow, shaped in the flame of battle. The crown had always been a burden carried for the sake of his people, for his family. But it was never meant to stay on his brow forever.

  That season, he laid it down with pride. Before a roaring crowd in the capital’s great hall, Oleksandr took the golden circlet of kingship and placed it on Thekkur’s head with his own hands. The old tiger stepped aside, not as one defeated or broken, but as one fulfilled.

  But Oleksandr did not fade into the twilight like so many monarchs before him. No. At fifty, he still strode like a demigod of old. Though the seasons had silvered his temples, his body was as strong as it had ever been—a colossus of flesh and muscle, carved by war, honed by purpose. His eyes still burned with that fierce blue light, his back was straight as a spear, and his sword arm had not dulled a single stroke. He was no tired old sovereign—he was a juggernaut in the flesh, still leading hunts, still training warriors, still riding out on dangerous campaigns. He had not aged into peace, only into deeper strength. Free from the burden of rule, Oleksandr became something else—something older than titles. An elder warlord. A living legend. A sire of may great kings and warriors, yet still a reaper on the battlefield.

  He remained at the forefront of battle alongside his sons, not as king, but as their unyielding pillar—older now, yes, but no less fierce. He was their commander in war, their counsel in peace, and always their father first. No matter how tall they grew, no matter how many crowns or victories they earned, they were still his boys. And he treated them as such—with a love as powerful as his sword arm, fierce and unshakable. When they fell, he lifted them up; when they succeeded, he praised them with a proud heart. He was a hardened giant who still knew how to kneel beside a grandson with a wooden sword, or cradle a newborn with hands scarred by decades of battle.

  With the weight of rulership finally behind him, Oleksandr turned to the quiet passions long buried beneath blood and duty. He embraced his love for music—the old songs of his mother’s homeland, the haunting melodies of the steppe, the fierce rhythms of the North. He could often be found with a balalaika in his calloused hands or an accordion across his chest, his voice a rich baritone that once roared over the din of battle, now crooning lullabies to babes and stirring tunes for his kin in war camps.

  He played for his children, for his grandchildren, and always for her—his beloved Vidosavka.

  Time had not dulled her beauty in his eyes. She remained his sun and moon, the one softness he allowed in a life of iron. Their love had not withered—it had ripened, growing richer with age. On quiet evenings, she would stand at the window of their bedchamber as he sat on the balcony, silhouetted by the setting sun, playing old songs on his balalaika. The sound would drift through the halls, and those who heard it often paused, hearts stirred by the strange, almost sacred serenity of the moment. The warrior had become a poet. And she—his beloved Vidosavka—was more than his queen. She was the heart of the kingdom.

  To the people, she was revered as a mother. Not only to her nine children, but to the realm itself. Her wisdom tempered Oleksandr’s fire, and her grace soothed the wounds of war. She walked among her people not as a distant monarch, but as a presence of warmth and kindness. Villagers told tales of her holding the hands of sick children, of her walking barefoot into burned cottages to comfort widows after raids. She ruled with gentleness, with a voice that commanded not through fear but through love.

  To her children and grandchildren, she was the hearth they returned to—the soft voice that calmed stormy tempers, the gentle hands that brushed dirt from faces, and the soothing lullaby that echoed in their memories even as warriors grown. She knew each of them intimately, and though her brood was vast, none ever felt unseen.

  And to Oleksandr, she remained his greatest treasure. Even in old age, when the obsidian of her hair gave way to silver and her step grew slower, his eyes never strayed. He worshipped her in silence and in song, in every battle he fought to keep her safe, and every note he played when the wars were done. No matter how mighty his sons grew, or how vast the halls of their palace became, he always came home to her. She had been the balm for his rage, the light after his darkest hour, the woman who had taken in a broken beast of a man and turned him into a husband, a father, a king.

  He would watch her sometimes—the soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the silver threading through her hair—and feel a bittersweet ache, a reverent awe laced with sorrow. Time was a thief, and he knew their days were growing short. But then she would smile, and the years would melt away. He was young again, standing in that moonlit dream—the flower field, the wind, her laughter like music—when she seemed more nymph than woman.

  He knew he wouldn’t last much longer, and so he savored it all: every quiet morning in her arms, every gentle touch, every glance across the table, every new grandchild that bore the eyes of the woman he loved so fiercely. Every second he could steal from the hourglass.

  And yet, he was content. His heart was full.

  He was surrounded not just by a dynasty destined to shape the world, but by a family they had forged together through the mixing of their blood.

  Into his old age, he did not fear death. His body bore the weight of decades, and his bones ached with the echoes of battles long past—but his spirit was light. He knew that when God deemed his time complete, when the final ember of his mighty heart dimmed, he would not be alone in that crossing.

  He would be welcomed into the halls of his forefathers—not as a king, nor as a legend, but as a brother. Standing there, at the edge of the afterlife, would be a young, blonde-haired warrior, waiting for him with the face of his youth.

  And Oleksandr would smile, as he always did when the old dreams returned. Because in that place beyond the veil, where no pain lingered and no time pressed, he would ride again—beside his brother, beneath open skies.

  And all would be well.

  The End.