The chill of the evening air bites at Oleksandr’s skin, yet he feels nothing but the warmth of his father’s blood, sticky and thick on his hands. He stares down at them, his fingers trembling as if the weight of the act had rendered them foreign, detached. His breathing comes shallow, ragged, as though the enormity of the moment is pressing the air from his lungs.

  He had killed the only person left in the world who shared his blood, the man who had given him life. Oddvarr—his father, his enemy, his kin.

  Why did fate conspire to bring him to this moment? Why did he feel the same fury that had driven him to strike now turn inward, like a blade carving into his soul? For all his strength, all his skill and legend, he feels powerless, like a boy again, lost and afraid in a world that has taken so much from him.

  And now, he realizes, he has taken from himself, too.

  Oleksandr drops to his knees, the motion slow, deliberate, as though his body moves on instinct while his mind lingers in a haze. He wipes his bloodied hands against the snow, the stark whiteness stained crimson in jagged streaks. The cold bites at his skin, but he welcomes it, hoping it might numb the chaos roaring inside him.

  He rises, his movements stiff and uncertain, his gaze lifting skyward. The northern lights shimmer above, their ethereal hues of green and purple weaving across the heavens like celestial dancers. The sight stills him. He hasn’t seen the aurora since he and Thekkur left Siberia, those years of his youth so distant they feel like another lifetime. He stands there for a moment, the glow of the lights painting his face, a bittersweet ache swelling in his chest. Memories flood back. Thekkur’s laughter, the biting Siberian winds, and the nights they spent staring at the same sky. In his heart, he prays out an apology, not just to himself, but to Thekkur, for killing his father.

  His hand drifts to his side, unsheathing the heirloom sword Oddvarr had given him just hours before. The blade gleams faintly in the twilight, the intricate runic inscriptions catching the glow of the aurora. Oleksandr holds it aloft, studying the ancient carvings.

  The sword gleams faintly in the aurora's light, its runes standing out sharper than before, as though beckoning him to truly see them for the first time. This was not just a weapon. It was a legacy, passed through hands he would never know, through bloodlines he could only now begin to imagine. His father’s hands. His grandfather’s. His great-great-grandfather’s. For the first time in his life, he holds something that connects him to his bloodline, a tangible piece of the past he has always felt severed from.

  The realization roots him, quieting the storm inside. His thumb brushes over the runes again, and he leans closer, their angular patterns stirring a flicker of familiarity. He hadn’t thought to decipher them before, but now, their meaning seems almost urgent. Memories surface of his comrades in the Varangian Guard, men who taught him their language and the old ways of reading runes, lessons shared over firelight and ale.

  He whispers the words aloud, each syllable heavy with the weight of the inscription:

  "Blood of my blood, born of my hand,

  I pass this steel to thee, my son.

  Wield it well, for the wolf's blood runs thick,

  And in thee, the old spirit is reborn."

  The words settle over him like the aurora’s glow, bittersweet and warm, a reminder of all he’s lost and all he’s inherited. The phrase “the wolf’s blood runs thick” lingers in his mind, tying him not just to his father, but to an unbroken line of warriors and survivors.

  He closes his eyes, the runes now etched into his heart. For all Oddvarr’s sins, he had still passed this down. The sword feels heavier in his grasp, but not as a burden like it felt before—it is a responsibility. A bond.

  Oleksandr sheathes the sword with a deliberate motion, the satisfying click of metal grounding him. He exhales a deep breath, his resolve slowly returning like embers reigniting in his chest. There’s no time to drown in guilt or grief—his path is far from over, and the weight of unfinished work presses heavily on his shoulders.

  He strides purposefully toward the stables, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Inside, the horses snort softly, their breath curling in the cold air. He selects a sturdy, dark-coated steed, one with intelligent eyes and powerful legs. Gently, he places a hand on its neck, murmuring a soft reassurance as he saddles it.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Leading the animal out into the twilight, Oleksandr mounts in one smooth motion, gripping the reins tightly. With a sharp kick of his heel, he sets the horse into a gallop. The village lies ahead, eerily silent and cloaked in shadows. The streets are barren, as though the place itself is holding its breath. Most of the inhabitants are undoubtedly deep in the woods, reveling in Yule festivities.

  As Oleksandr rides through the desolate village, his thoughts grow heavier with each clop of the horse's hooves on the frozen ground.

  His mind drifts, unbidden, to the memories of Thekkur—the way his twin had been a part of him, like another half of his soul. When Thekkur died, the world had felt so empty, as though a great void had opened that no force could ever fill.

  Now, riding under the pale light of the northern sky, he feels a familiar twinge of that same emptiness, a hollowness that claws at his chest. Only moments ago, he'd discovered the truth of his bloodline, and in the same breath, he'd severed the last tie to it. Oddvarr, his father—the man who had inflicted so much pain, yet who had also looked at him with pride, with such love—was gone. He tries to steel himself, but reality gnaws at his resolve.

  I’m all that’s left.

  The weight of that thought is almost unbearable. He had a twin—a brother who had shared his every joy and sorrow—dead. A mother he never knew, gone before he could even speak her name. Half-siblings he never met, snuffed out before he ever knew they existed. Grandparents who were nothing more than distant echoes of memory, long since dust.

  And now, his father.

  Oddvarr had been cruel, monstrous in so many ways, but he had also been kin. Blood of his blood. Now that bloodline rests solely on Oleksandr’s shoulders, and it’s a hauntingly lonely truth to bear. There is no one left. No brothers, no parents, no cousins or uncles… The great tree of his lineage has been felled, leaving only him—a single branch, swaying alone in the cold, desolate Northern winds.

  But yet, amidst the sorrow, a fragile hope glimmers. In this cold, barren wasteland, where even the sun fears to linger, it’s easy to lose sight of where he comes from.

  But Oleksandr remembers. Montenegro. His new, chosen home. The place where his heart resides.

  There, his love waits for him, her warmth and light offering a reprieve from the shadows that cling to him. With her, there is the hope of a bloodline not cursed by sorrow. Children born not to chains and grief, but to a world where they might know the warmth and love of family. Children who will grow up knowing who made them, who prays for them, and who would fight the very heavens for their sake.

  And not just blood. There is his chosen family. His brothers. Samorix and Ivan. The unyielding bonds of loyalty and camaraderie forged through shared struggles and triumphs. They are as much his kin as any blood could be, and they are waiting for him now, prisoners in a barn not far from here. His grip on the reins tightens, and his resolve hardens. The emptiness in his chest doesn’t fade, but it shifts, making room for determination. Oddvarr may be gone, and his bloodline all but extinguished, but Oleksandr is not a man to let darkness consume him. Not this time.

  The barn looms closer, its silhouette stark against the icy expanse. Oleksandr's eyes narrow, his focus locking on the two men stationed at its entrance. Every muscle in his body coils, ready to unleash a fury like that of a pouncing Siberian Tiger. He urges the horse into a final burst of speed, its hooves pounding against the frozen ground. When he’s close enough, he leaps, a blur of motion, launching himself from the saddle with all the momentum of the gallop.

  The guards don’t have time to react. One moment they’re standing in the frigid night, the next, a human battering ram slams into them. Oleksandr’s body hits with a force they could never prepare for.

  The impact sends all three of them crashing into the barn doors, the aged wood splintering under the sheer force. The doors burst apart with a deafening crack, shards flying inward as the guards are hurled through the wreckage. They hit the ground hard, groaning in pain, their weapons scattered uselessly around them.

  Oleksandr lands on his feet in the debris, his breath misting in the cold air. His eyes are sharp, scanning the barn interior even as his body radiates raw, unrelenting energy. He steps over the fallen guards without a second glance, his focus already on the task ahead.

  The crash reverberates through the barn like a thunderclap, startling Samorix and Ivan from their restless state. They spring up, wide-eyed, as the wreckage settles and Oleksandr strides in, his silhouette framed by the fractured doors and the cold glow of the northern lights behind him.

  “Holy shit, Sasha!” Samorix exclaims.

  Ivan gapes for a moment before grinning, his shock giving way to admiration. “What in the hell did you just do?”

  “No time,” Oleksandr snaps, his tone urgent, the cold mist of his breath swirling as he speaks. “Quick, put on your furs. We have to get out of here. Now!”

  Samorix and Ivan exchange a glance but don’t hesitate. They move swiftly, grabbing their furs and fastening them over their shoulders.

  The barn’s horses, sensing the urgency, stamp their hooves in the cold air. Samorix and Ivan work quickly to untether them, their movements efficient despite the frigid chill. In moments, the three men mount the sturdy beasts, their breaths mingling with the steam rising from the horses’ flanks. Without another word, they ride out into the tundra, the icy wind biting at their faces but carrying the undeniable taste of freedom. The vast, white expanse stretches before them, the snow crunching beneath the horses’ hooves as they gallop southward, toward the promise of warmth, and toward whatever fate awaits them beyond the frozen wasteland.