Oddvarr sits in his chair before a crackling fire. His fingers move with precision, running a whetstone along the edge of his dagger, the soft rasping sound filling the room. His eyes are dark, fixed on the blade, but his thoughts seem far away, lost in some heavy, unspoken memory. The firelight dances across his features, illuminating the hardness in his gaze, a man who has lived too long with regret, yet cannot escape it.

  The door crashes open with a violent slam, splintering against the frame, and Oddvarr's gaze snaps to the source of the sound, barely reacting in time as Oleksandr charges at him, fury blazing in his eyes, the heirloom sword raised high. With a quick reflex, Oddvarr leaps to his feet, brandishing his dagger. The sound of metal against metal rings out as he meets Oleksandr’s blow with a sharp parry, the impact sending a jolt up his arm.

  Oleksandr drives onward, his sword cutting through the air, a blur of steel and fury, but Oddvarr's movements are a study of fluidity. He ducks, twists, and parries, his dagger a blur of motion, seemingly untouched by his advanced age. Each of Oleksandr's strikes meets only air or the sharp edge of Oddvarr's blade, the clash of steel ringing out with every missed blow.

  "You have a lot of nerve, coming into my house like this," Oddvarr snarls, his voice low but edged with a strange respect, a recognition of the man before him. His eyes flicker with a mix of anger, disbelief, and something that aches at the core of him. Oleksandr’s sword moves with a brutal speed, each swing like a thunderclap of rage. His eyes blaze with fury, a berserker’s fire lighting up the storm of battle. The steel of their blades meets with a violent clash, the air humming with the intensity of their strikes. Sparks fly with each blow, and their faces are mere inches apart, sweat and blood mixing in the heat of the fight.

  Oddvarr, despite his age, fights with a surprising agility, his movements precise, graceful. He parries Oleksandr’s strikes with the dagger in his hand, his own eyes widening in excitement. The clash of metal rings out as their blades lock again, the moment stretching in silence before Oddvarr suddenly shifts, pushing Oleksandr back with the strength that belies his years. Oleksandr, his sword in mid-swing, twists his body to bring it down in a powerful arc, but Oddvarr catches it effortlessly on his dagger.

  “I knew, when I first saw that face,” Oddvarr grunts through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing as he stares into Oleksandr’s, eerie familiarity in his gaze. Their blades meet again, the sound of metal grinding against metal reverberating in the room. Oddvarr’s voice drops lower, filled with a strange reverence. “I knew those eyes.” He leans closer, his gaze darkening, and his words cut through the madness of their fight. “I knew the eyes I prayed for when I saw them.”

  Oddvarr's words shatter Oleksandr's fury, like he was plunged in ice water. He falters for a moment, his eyes widening in surprise, his blade slipping, causing Oddvarr to slash him in the chest. Oleksandr stumbles, losing his footing on a bearskin rug, and he falls back, slamming his head against a table, plunging into blackness.

  Oleksandr blinks, his vision swimming in a haze as he lies on the cobblestone street. The sky above is a brilliant expanse of blue, the sun warm on his skin. Seagulls wheel in the air, their cries echoing as they glide over the bustling Constantinople street. The distant toll of church bells rings out, blending with the chatter of voices and the creak of wooden carts.

  Thekkur’s figure looms over Oleksandr, his presence both reassuring and intense. His eyes, full of the same brotherly love and fierce protectiveness that Oleksandr has always known, lock onto him. Thekkur kneels beside him, his movements purposeful as he lifts the sword from the cobblestones and places it gently into Oleksandr’s hand, closing his fingers around the pommel. He grips his other hand, and with a heave, he pulls him to his feet.

  His vision clears, and he finds himself once more in the longhouse, the stone walls closing in. Oddvarr is kneeling beside him now, his face filled with an emotion Oleksandr cannot place. Oddvarr mutters quietly, almost to himself, as he helps Oleksandr to his feet, “my boy, my boy… it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His words seem soaked in regret, each one pulling at Oleksandr’s chest like a slow, aching thread.

  He carefully helps him to a chair nearby, guiding him gently down onto the seat. With surprising tenderness, he takes a rag and presses it firmly onto the cut on Oleksandr's chest, the cloth quickly becoming stained with blood. Oddvarr's face is a mix of concern and curiosity as he tends to Oleksandr's wound. After a moment, he pulls the rag away, satisfied that the bleeding has slowed. He then returns to his chair opposite Oleksandr, his sharp blue eyes studying his face with a strange intensity.

  Oleksandr holds the cloth to his chest, still reeling from the blow to his head. His gaze flickers up to Oddvarr, weak and disoriented.

  "Oddvarr..." he groans, his voice strained. "Why... Why did you bring me here?"

  Oddvarr exhales, a deep, almost resigned sigh, as he folds his hands in his lap. For a moment, he regards Oleksandr in silence, his sharp gaze softening with something like regret.

  "Well," he begins, his voice low and measured, "I suppose it’s only fair that you hear the truth now." He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing as he gathers his thoughts. "I heard stories of you, of the paths you've carved through this world. A warrior of legend, they say. A Varangian guard, a lone hunter in the wilderness of men, feared by the Ottomans, hated by the foes you left behind. They speak of you like some shadow, a beast that devours armies without a second thought, a man who has known no defeat, no equal." Oddvarr leans back in his chair, his intense blue eyes never leaving Oleksandr's face as he speaks, his voice steady and measured, yet tinged with a quiet satisfaction.

  "I have a lot of connections," he says, his gaze sharp. "I keep my ear to the ground. And let me tell you, I've been watching you for some time, boy." A small, almost amused smile curls at the corners of his lips. "I must admit, I was impressed. You’ve become a legend, haven’t you? A battle chaser—appearing out of nowhere, like a storm on the horizon, bringing destruction and hope in equal measure. Feared by the Ottomans, adored by those you helped. They say you would show up at the most desperate of times, at the heart of battle, always on the side of those who stand against the Turks. For free, no coin or favor, just for the fight, the bloodshed... and the war itself." He pauses, his eyes gleaming with a kind of admiration. "They say your presence turns the tide of battle. That your arrival is an omen, a herald of victory. But also, an omen of war, because wherever you go, conflict follows. You’re like a shadow that rides with the flames of the battlefield, a man born of blood and steel."

  Oddvarr reaches down and pours some wine into a small pewter goblet, then offers it to Oleksandr. "Have a drink, lad. It will help." His voice is almost gentle, as if he is speaking to his own son. Oleksandr takes the goblet with a weary nod, the wine a welcome distraction from the aching pain in his chest. He sips at it, the strong liquid stinging his parched throat. After a moment, he sets the goblet down and looks at Oddvarr, his gaze wary.

  Oddvarr watches him carefully. His voice lowers, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret with the very walls around them.

  "You want to know why I brought you here?" He says, his tone soft but deliberate. "I have a proposition for you. One I believe you'll find... very interesting." Oleksandr, his brow furrowing in confusion, raises his head slightly, despite the lingering fog from the head injury. His gaze sharpens as he tries to make sense of Oddvarr’s words, forcing himself to focus.

  "What kind of proposition?" He asks, his voice rough. Oddvarr leans forward, his eyes gleaming in the firelight, a glint of something unreadable in them. He speaks with a quiet intensity, as if every word carries weight.

  "I've heard of your reputation," Oddvarr murmurs, his voice almost conspiratorial. "Your strength, your skill in battle, and—" he pauses, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "your ruthlessness." He watches Oleksandr closely, studying his face for any sign of recognition, any change in his expression. Then, his voice drops lower, and for a brief moment, there’s something almost vulnerable in his gaze. "I’m old, Oleksandr. I’ve spent my life building this empire, and yet... it will end with me. There’s no one left, no sons to take my place. I’ve got nothing but the blood of my past weighing me down." His voice thickens, his words soft but laden with the weight of years. "I want you, Oleksandr," Oddvarr continues, his eyes never leaving his face. "I want you as my heir." Oleksandr’s eyes widen in shock, disbelief written across his face.

  “Your... heir?” His voice cracks slightly, caught somewhere between surprise and confusion. He straightens in his chair, the sharp pain in his chest momentarily forgotten, the sudden weight of Oddvarr's words settling heavily in his mind.

  Oddvarr’s gaze softens, as if contemplating something buried deep within him. He looks at Oleksandr with a reverence that is almost unsettling. "You're..." He pauses, his voice lowering, the words coming out with a quiet weight. "Your fury, your strength... you surpass even the likes of me." His lips curl into something like a small, sorrowful smile. "It's... not just that, though." He leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed intently on Oleksandr. "At the very least, I want you here, with me. By my side."

  Oleksandr can hardly believe what he hears, the words hanging in the air like a heavy, foreign weight. The offer is completely unexpected, yet there's something about Oddvarr’s presence that makes it hard to dismiss outright. He studies the older man’s eyes, searching for any trace of manipulation or deceit, but all he finds is an admiration that borders on reverence, and a longing that seems almost tender, like a love he’s carried in silence for far too long. The intensity of it unsettles him.

  Oleksandr’s pulse quickens, his breath catching as Oddvarr's words hang in the air. He leans in further, his eyes narrowing, seeking the truth behind them. "Who am I to you?" He demands, his voice quieter now, laced with a mix of confusion and need for clarity.

  Oddvarr holds his gaze, unmoving, his eyes filled with something more ancient than the weight of time. He breathes deeply, as though summoning the courage to reveal a truth that has festered in the silence for far too long. "After countless battles, after treasures plundered, and kingdoms built... when I saw you, for the first time, I realized something." He pauses, as if the words are too sacred to speak quickly. "My hands... they've always been empty." He leans forward, his voice lowering to a near whisper, trembling with pride. "But you, Oleksandr, my Golden boy... you are the greatest gift I have ever known. The one thing I never thought I would possess. Don’t you see? You are my treasure, my pride and joy. The gods themselves gave you to me, a gift I could never have imagined, yet always dreamed of."

  Oleksandr’s chest tightens as he meets Oddvarr’s gaze, the weight of the revelation settling heavily on him. He opens his mouth, but the words seem to struggle to break free, as if they, too, are burdened by the truth. Finally, he speaks, his voice steady but firm.

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  "I cannot accept your proposal, Oddvarr." His words hang in the air like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through the charged silence between them. Oddvarr's face hardens, and he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. The deep, tender longing that had been there moments before now gives way to a sharp edge of disappointment, though he does not let it show fully.

  "May I ask," he begins, his tone gruff and controlled, "why?" His eyes bore into Oleksandr, searching for an answer he’s not sure he’s ready to hear, but needs nonetheless. Oleksandr’s words strike like a hammer.

  “I suppose this part of my ‘legend’ never reached you. I know the taste of chains, of broken lives.” Oleksandr’s voice is cold, sharp. He lifts his chin, his gaze unwavering as he meets Oddvarr’s eyes. “My brother and I, we were born as slaves, in Siberia.” He pauses, letting the weight of those words sink in. “How could you ask me, a man who had his whole childhood, the first fifteen years of his life...” Oleksandr clenches his fist, the knuckles white. “...Stolen from him by slavery, to run your slaver empire? How could I, after all I've seen, after all that was stolen from me, join the very thing that crushed my soul into DUST? ” The words seem to hang in the air, heavy and damning. Oddvarr, for the first time, looks taken aback. he opens his mouth to speak but he's quiet for a few moments, digesting the information. He looks down for a moment, as if in contemplation, before looking back up at Oleksandr.

  "You truly are like a lion in wolf's clothing." He finally says. "I had heard you reigned from Siberia... born to a slave mother, is that right?"

  "Yes, that is correct." Oddvarr leans in, his face stoic, yet his eyes betray a hint of longing.

  "Your mother... Where is she?"

  “She’s gone. I never knew her. She died in Siberia. After giving birth to me and my brother.”

  Oddvarr’s expression remains largely unchanged, but there’s a slight tremor in his hands as they rest on the armrests of his chair. His eyes, sharp and steely just moments before, soften with a sorrow he cannot fully conceal. The weight of Oleksandr’s words hangs in the air, and for the first time, there’s a crack in his mask. He nods slowly, his voice barely a whisper, heavy with regret.

  “Ah,” he murmurs, the sound thick with something more than just realization. “So I’ve been chasing a ghost.” There’s a fleeting moment where his gaze drifts, lost in thought, and his shoulders sag imperceptibly, an unspoken mourning that he tries, but fails, to hide. He leans back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the fire, as if seeking some solace in its flames. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, tinged with a bitter reflection. "The fates," he murmurs, shaking his head slightly, "They have a twisted sense of humor, don't they?"

  Oleksandr's brow furrows, his patience thinning as his anger simmers just beneath the surface. "What are you saying, old man? Spit it out."

  "Ruslana," he says reverently, like a prayer. He pauses, his voice cracking ever so slightly. "I loved her." His admission lingers, thick with a kind of sorrow that neither man is prepared for. Oleksandr's eyes widen, the sound of her name whispered on his lips sending a shock through his very soul.

  "Ruslana... You… knew my mother?"

  Oddvarr's gaze turns distant, his face softening with the weight of memory. "The Christian girl I told you about," he murmurs, almost as if speaking to himself. "Yes, I loved her..." His words hang in the air, laden with a bittersweet nostalgia. "After I sent her away, I prayed every day, hoping to see those eyes again. To make things right, to find some… redemption. But she was gone... And now, the fates... They sent me her eyes. They sent me you." Oleksandr's fist tightens, his knuckles turning white as his jaw sets in a hard line. The weight of Oddvarr's words presses down on him like a stone in his chest. His breath comes in shaky as the revelation swirls in his mind, too heavy, too impossible to process. He had never known his mother, let alone the details of her life. And now, to hear that the man sitting before him, this very slaver, had known her—had been in love with her—was too much to bear.

  "You..." Oleksandr's voice is strained, as if the words themselves are choking him. "You loved her?"

  "I could not believe it, when they sent me The Flaxen Reaper, bearer of the eyes of my lost love..." His gaze drifts to the fire, as if searching for something that isn't there. "They sent me... my son." The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of the truth hanging between them like a heavy fog, choking the room with its gravity.

  Oleksandr’s breath catches, the weight of the revelation slamming into him with the force of a hammer. His chest tightens, his heart stuttering as his mind grapples with the truth. The man before him—the slaver, the enigma, the wielder of cruel power—was his father. A part of him had always yearned for the connection, for a name and a face to anchor the fragmented image of kinship he had never known. Yet now, standing on the precipice of that discovery, the emotions raging within him are a chaotic storm: anger, grief, disbelief, and something dangerously close to yearning.

  "You..." Oleksandr's voice trembles, raw and low, as the words scrape out of him. "You're my... father."

  His gaze fixes on Oddvarr with new clarity, as if seeing him for the first time. The pieces fall into place with painful precision—the strong build, the sharp cheekbones, the set of his brow, the shape of his nose. It’s undeniable, unmistakable. Blood recognizes blood. And despite the anger twisting in his gut, despite the betrayal and confusion tearing at him, there is a faint, inexplicable flicker of belonging that roots him to the ground. Oddvarr doesn’t respond, not immediately. His silence stretches, heavy and laden, as his piercing eyes search Oleksandr’s face. For a fleeting moment, they are no longer warrior and slaver, no longer adversaries. They are something deeper, something more fragile: father and son.

  “I knew you were my boy, the second I saw you.”

  Oleksandr jolts upright. His heart races, pounding against his ribcage as if it seeks escape from the storm brewing within. That same strange, unexplainable sensation he’d felt at the market grips him again, an instinct that runs deeper than reason, primal and overpowering. He realises what is is now. Blood recognition. For the first time, his instinct isn’t to fight. Flight surges through him instead, foreign and unwelcome. His stomach knots, a vise tightening in his core. The room tilts as dizziness washes over him, and a queasy heaviness settles in his gut. He stumbles back a step, his eyes darting around the room, but there’s no escape from the truth that now looms over him.

  "Take it easy, son," he says, his voice gruff but soothing.

  "I... I need to get out of here..." Oleksandr mutters, his voice hoarse and unsteady. He glances around the longhouse, the walls suddenly seeming closer, the space suffocating. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he feels like a boy again—small, trapped, and terrified, powerless against the weight of what’s unfolding. Oddvarr watches him carefully, his sharp gaze softening at the wild, panicked look in Oleksandr’s eyes. He nods slowly, leaning back in his chair with an understanding that seems unnatural for a man of his nature.

  "Alright," he says, his voice calm and measured, as though he’s soothing a startled animal. "Go outside. Get some air. We’ll speak again when you're ready."

  "NO!" Oleksandr snarls, spinning back toward Oddvarr, the heirloom sword trembling in his grasp. His knuckles whiten around the hilt, the steel catching the firelight as if alive with fury. "You..." His voice cracks, caught between rage and heartbreak. Oddvarr freezes for a moment, his sharp blue eyes locking onto the blade. Slowly, he rises from his chair, his movements measured, his hands at his sides.

  "Lower the blade, son," Oddvarr says, his voice steady but layered with an almost fatherly authority mixed with an ache he can't entirely conceal. The words are soft, but there’s a warning in them.

  "You... You took her," Oleksandr chokes, his voice cracking as the words spill out like a dam breaking. His chest heaves, his hand trembling as he keeps the blade extended, its point wavering but inching closer with every breath. "You took her from her home, you... you kept her as a prisoner. You… you hurt her." His voice breaks, the rage and sorrow twisting together, tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to fall.

  Oddvarr steps back slightly, his hands half-raised in a gesture of restraint. "Son, that's the past…" He begins, his tone cautious.

  Oddvarr moves slowly, deliberately, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. The scrape of steel against its sheath echoes in the tense stillness of the longhouse. Oleksandr doesn’t flinch or strike—he almost allows it, his teary eyes locked onto Oddvarr's with a mixture of rage, despair, and a strange, unspoken yearning. Oddvarr stands tall, his sword in hand, but he doesn’t raise it.

  The clash of steel fills the air as Oddvarr catches the blow with his own blade, sparks flying where metal meets metal. The impact reverberates through Oleksandr’s arms, but he doesn’t retreat; he presses forward, teeth bared, his voice trembling with rage.

  “You!” He growls, his sword pushing harder against Oddvarr’s. “You’re the reason... the reason my brother and I were born into chains! Born into suffering, into enslavement!” His voice cracks with the weight of the words, his chest heaving as he struggles to steady himself. Tears burn trails down his face, but his blade remains locked against Oddvarr’s.

  Oddvarr grits his teeth, his eyes flashing with something between sorrow and defiance. “Oleksandr—”

  “Don’t!” Oleksandr cuts him off, pulling back and striking again, his movements erratic but filled with raw power. Oddvarr deflects the blow, his grip firm, his posture steady as he parries each swing. But he doesn’t strike back.

  “You merchant of misery!” Oleksandr advances, the clash of swords against steel filling the room with a harsh metallic clamor. Their blades meet again and again, the force of their blows sending shivers up the blades. Each strike is infused with a mix of emotion - anger, sadness, and a sense of betrayal.

  “You... You’re the man who killed my mother!” His body trembles with the weight of the truth as he thrusts his sword forward, his eyes squeezed shut, unable to look at what he’s done but unable to stop it.

  The point of the blade strikes the log wall with a thud, and for a brief instant, everything is silent. Oleksandr’s hands, shaking with the force of his grief, release the sword. It doesn’t fall; it remains lodged deep in Oddvarr’s chest. The old man’s breath catches in his throat, and he stumbles, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth parted in a silent gasp. His hand reaches for his chest, as if trying to grasp hold of his own life, but it’s too late.

  Oddvarr’s sword slips from his grip, clattering to the stone floor below. He slides down the wall, his body weakening, his breath ragged as he slumps to the ground. His gaze never leaves Oleksandr, even as the blood begins to stain his tunic. His face, streaked with pain, holds an expression of regret. But beneath it, a quiet acceptance. The harshness of his past, the mistakes he made, all converge in that final moment, and his weary eyes, though dimming, hold an almost tender recognition. Oleksandr drops to his knees, the weight of the moment suffocating him. His shoulders shake as he clutches his arms tightly, his chest heaving with emotion. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, the words spilling out like they were never meant to be spoken, as if trying to undo the years of pain. “Father...”

  Oddvarr’s hand trembles as it rests on the back of Oleksandr’s head. His voice is weak, yet there’s a tenderness in it that echoes a lifetime of regret, longing, and love. “It’s… it’s okay, son…”

  Oleksandr takes his father’s sword and places it in his hand. Their fingers intertwine around the hilt, the blade cold, but the connection between them now somehow undeniable. The air is thick with the weight of the moment, and for a long, painful second, the world outside the room feels like it’s distant, as if it’s no longer real. Oddvarr’s gaze meets his, and in that fleeting moment, he sees it—his own face reflected in his son’s eyes.

  “You’ve done well, Oleksandr,” Oddvarr manages, his voice still heavy with the pride of a father. “You… My golden one.” His breath falters as if the words themselves are a blessing, a final gift, though his body betrays him. “I always knew it would end like this... that I would fall with iron in my hand, to someone stronger, better than me. I’m… so glad it was you, my son...”

  Tears stream down Oleksandr’s cheeks as he listens to his father's words. He closes his eyes for a moment, clenching his fathers hand around his sword as he whispers.

  "Forgive me, father..."