The forest whispered beneath Vilk’s boots.

  Each step took him deeper into shadow—a place where the world felt thin, fragile.

  As if reality itself could crack under the weight of what was unspoken.

  Sika walked beside him.

  Close enough to feel—warm, solid.

  But what pressed cold against the back of his neck had nothing to do with her.

  He could feel them.

  Jegor. Viktor.

  Not men anymore.

  Maybe they never had been.

  Now, they were echoes.

  Reflections of his will.

  Shadows drifting at the edges of his mind—weightless, hollow, suspended between being and not.

  Brat...

  The word came like a dry leaf skittering across stone.

  Not a voice.

  More a thought. Blurred. Distant.

  Jegor’s presence touched him faintly, like a whisper from the bottom of a well.

  No will. No direction.

  Only emptiness.

  Kde... my... szto my?

  Viktor this time—his thought trembling, unsure, teetering between dream and waking.

  Vilk narrowed his eyes.

  The air thickened.

  Even the forest seemed to hush, uneasy with these lingering ghosts.

  The brothers began to fade.

  Their outlines blurred, scattering like ash—but not gone.

  Not fully.

  He could still feel them—just beyond reach.

  – Vilk? – Sika’s voice broke the silence.

  She glanced at him, brow furrowed.

  – What’s with them? Why are they just… standing there?

  He took a breath, slow. His skin prickled under her gaze.

  – I don’t know, – he said at last. His voice sounded worn.

  – Feels like they’re part of me. But I’m not sure.

  Sika frowned.

  Then nodded—whether in understanding or resignation, he couldn’t say.

  – Then let them be useful, – she murmured. – If we’ve got bigger plans ahead… strong hands might come in handy.

  Vilk gave a single nod.

  He turned toward the shadows.

  Spoke—not aloud, but within.

  – Hide.

  I don’t know what you’ve become.

  I don’t even know what to call you.

  But disappear.

  Wait for your time.

  Stay close, but unseen.

  No reply.

  Only a silence like dying breath.

  Their presence thinned—but never vanished.

  They sank into the dark like smoke curling just beyond vision.

  He and Sika moved on, deeper through the forest’s tangle.

  Eventually, they reached the clearing.

  Janus’s bones lay where they had fallen—picked clean.

  Pale in the dim light.

  Grym had done what needed doing.

  The hound still licked blood from his muzzle, eyes fixed on what remained:

  A worthless life devoured.

  The tavern stood like a corpse left to rot.

  Death stained the threshold.

  The air hung heavy—thick with smoke and rot.

  The floorboards creaked underfoot, each step sighing like a funeral drum.

  Grym padded close.

  His eyes glowed with feral awareness.

  At the single upright table sat Jan Bia?oszewski—

  worn, bruised, but unbroken.

  He looked up as they entered.

  – You’re alive… – His voice carried that same proud resonance, steady even in pain.

  – I thought I’d seen the last of you.

  – You’re alive, – Vilk said in return.

  He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

  Jan lifted a trembling hand.

  – Alive... thanks to you.

  That debt is deep—as deep as the pit of hell.

  As heavy as a country betrayed.

  – Now’s not the time for debts, – Vilk answered.

  – We clean this up first.

  They got to work.

  No words.

  Only motion.

  Only the weight of bodies, the stink of death, the creak of burdened wood.

  The tavern soaked up the blood, greedy to remember.

  Later, by the fire, Jan drew a signet ring from his coat.

  A silver crest caught what light remained.

  – Go to Tarnów, – he said. – My estate will give you rest.

  I ride for Kraków—to account for what’s happened here.

  Show them this. It will open doors.

  Vilk took it in silence.

  – We’ll wait.

  Jan rested a hand on his shoulder.

  – You saved me.

  My honor won’t let me die before I repay it.

  Sika met Vilk’s gaze.

  A flicker of peace.

  Or something like it.

  – A little rest… we could use it.

  The road to Tarnów wound long and quiet.

  The forest gave way to open hills.

  The silence gentled.

  When they reached the estate, it stunned them.

  White walls.

  Orderly gardens.

  Sunlight spilling gold over tilled earth and trimmed hedges.

  – Didn’t expect this, – Sika whispered. – It’s… beautiful.

  – Strangely peaceful, – Vilk agreed.

  They settled in a side chamber.

  Servants—startled but obedient—did as Jan had ordered.

  Food.

  Warmth.

  Clean water.

  Vilk stripped off torn clothes and sank into a bath.

  Heat soaked into old pain, melting knots too long held.

  That evening, they sat on the terrace.

  The sun dipped low.

  No words.

  Just silence.

  Permission to exist.

  Only wind stirred the garden leaves.

  – It’s easy to anger someone here, – Vilk said, voice low.

  – Sometimes it just… happens. Rage breaks loose. No stopping it.

  Sika studied him.

  – You think that’s what happened back there?

  – Maybe. Maybe it was all bound to happen.

  – Are you angry with me? – she asked softly.

  He didn’t answer at once.

  Then:

  – No, Sika.

  This isn’t about anger.

  Sometimes things just… happen.

  And here, they happen more than anywhere else.

  That’s what I told you—we’re not like the rest of Europe.

  Forget what you learned in the West.

  Here, a man makes his own law…

  or dies by someone else’s.

  They sat together into the night.

  No plans.

  Just the quiet breath of survival.

  And for the first time in a long time, Vilk felt it:

  The faint, fragile sense of being human again.

  Morning spilled gold across the trees.

  Soft light.

  Stillness.

  The past felt far away.

  Vilk sat on a bench, bent over wood.

  In his hands—knife, steady and sure.

  Each stroke peeled away another layer.

  Each curl of wood a quiet relief.

  A shape emerged.

  Broad paws.

  Lowered head.

  Ears pricked forward.

  A dog—rough, but forming.

  Across the courtyard, Sika lay on a blanket, face turned to the sun.

  Peace softened her features. A faint smile touched her lips.

  For once, there was no darkness between them.

  Then—

  A rustle.

  – Sir...

  Vilk looked up.

  A boy.

  Maybe twelve. Fair-haired. Eyes too serious.

  He held a wooden singlestick

  —worn, familiar.

  – I’d like to try, – the boy said. – If you’ll allow it.

  Vilk studied him. The knife still in his hand.

  The boy didn’t waver.

  – Not a good idea, – Vilk muttered.

  But the boy stayed.

  – Please.

  Someday we’ll all have to fight.

  I’d rather learn now.

  From the blanket, Sika opened one eye.

  – Oh, let him. A little movement might do you good.

  Vilk sighed. Set down the knife. Rose.

  – Fine. But easy. This is practice.

  They faced each other in dappled sunlight.

  The boy moved well—guided by instinct, not training.

  Vilk met him lightly. Taught without words.

  At first it was slow. Almost dull.

  Then—

  Laughter.

  The boy’s laughter rang bright and pure.

  And Vilk—

  Vilk smiled.

  Just a flicker.

  A forgotten reflex.

  When it ended, the boy bowed and offered back the weapon.

  – Thank you, sir.

  – Remember this, young warrior—

  Fighting isn’t strength.

  It’s patience.

  The boy nodded.

  Then paused.

  Something in him changed.

  The courtyard air cooled.

  – Be careful, Vilk, – he said softly.

  His voice wasn’t a child’s.

  – There’s a darkness following you. It stirs behind your steps.

  Vilk froze.

  The boy turned to Sika.

  – And you—watch the house.

  It shelters you now… but it keeps its own secrets.

  Then he turned.

  And ran into the trees.

  Gone.

  Sika rose slowly, unsettled.

  – Strange boy… he knew your name.

  Vilk said nothing.

  He stared after the child, the words still echoing.

  Too old to be just warning.

  Something inside him trembled—quiet, not ready.

  The darkness he’d learned to live with?

  It felt a step closer now.

  They sat in silence.

  The light wrapped around them—calm, golden.

  But under that peace…

  Something waited.

  Unspoken.

  Patient.

  A shadow biding its time.

  *

  Sika stretched lazily on the blanket, squinting up against the sunlight.

  Peace had its charm—but for her, it always gave way to restlessness a little too quickly.

  – Vilk… – she murmured, eyes half-lidded as she glanced his way. – It’s nice here, sure. But doesn’t anything happen in your Tarnów? Maybe we should go into town. I’d like to see… civilization. Opportunities. – That last word curled off her tongue like smoke, sly and amused.

  Vilk looked up from the piece of wood in his hands.

  A bird was taking shape beneath his knife. He stared at it for a moment, weighing whether to finish.

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  – Town’s a town, – he muttered. – People, filth, noise.

  But the glint in her eye gave him pause.

  He sighed, setting the carving and blade aside.

  – All right. I’ll let the staff know. They should be told we’ll be out for a bit.

  Sika rose with an easy grin.

  Vilk crossed the courtyard to one of the stablehands sweeping hay.

  – We’re riding into Tarnów for a few hours, – he said curtly. – If Jan returns before we’re back, tell him we’ll be here by evening.

  The boy gave a short bow.

  – Of course, my lord.

  Vilk nodded and returned to her. The horses were already saddled—rested, brushed, ready.

  A few minutes later, they were on the road.

  – Finally, – Sika muttered, settling into the saddle with a pleased sigh. – Let’s see what your townsfolk look like up close.

  Vilk didn’t reply, though a faint smile touched his mouth.

  He had a feeling this trip wouldn’t be as simple as it seemed.

  They left Jan’s estate behind, the road shining in the afternoon light.

  The journey was brief—the weather fair, the earth dry but still soft from recent rain.

  Sunlight filtered through the trees in ribbons of gold. They passed wagons heavy with grain, barefoot children chasing each other beside the road, old women carrying herbs in baskets lined with cloth.

  Sika took it all in like a sponge. Every sound, every scent.

  Vilk rode beside her, silent, but watched her now and then out of the corner of his eye.

  The gates of Tarnów came into view before long.

  The city greeted them with a wave of life—noise, scent, sweat.

  Bread baking. Horses straining. The sharp edge of refuse.

  Crowds thickened around the stalls: peasants, merchants, tradesmen, wanderers.

  Laughter, bartering, curses.

  A kind of chaos only the living could make.

  – Gods... so many people, – Sika murmured, shaking her head. – It’s filthy. But it’s alive. Beautiful, in its own way.

  Vilk gave a thin smile.

  – Wait till you see it up close. The polish wears off fast.

  He led her through the beating heart of the town.

  The marketplace, where voices climbed over one another in a contest of price and pride.

  The wells, where gossip flowed thicker than water.

  The tavern corners, where merchants bartered through drink.

  Then Sika slowed.

  A woman stood alone in a narrow alley.

  She wore a deep green dress. Pale skin. Brown hair loose across her shoulders.

  Beautiful—yes. But broken.

  There was ruin in her posture, something collapsed inward.

  A quiet defeat Sika knew all too well.

  – Who’s that? – she asked softly.

  Vilk followed her gaze. The woman adjusted her gown, keeping her eyes averted from passing men.

  – Don’t know, – he murmured. – Never seen her before. Doesn’t look like life’s been kind.

  Sika nodded once.

  – No. She’s working on her own—and it’s not working. Women like that don’t last long without something behind them.

  Vilk watched a moment longer.

  She didn’t belong. Not really.

  Like someone shoved into the wrong life, trying to wear it like a proper coat.

  – Maybe she belongs with us, – Sika said, almost to herself. – If we’re going to build something real… we’ll need people. Especially the ones with nothing left to lose.

  Vilk didn’t answer.

  But the image lingered: green dress, hollow eyes, the shape of despair with a face.

  He turned only when Sika nudged her horse forward.

  The city swallowed them again.

  They stopped at a fruit stall where a woman in a bright kerchief sold apples and plums.

  Sika ran her fingers over the fruit, smiled faintly.

  They bought a few. The old woman blessed them both.

  As they led their horses through the streets, Sika asked:

  – Vilk… where’s the other house?

  – The what?

  – You know. The other house.

  He raised a brow.

  – You mean the brothel?

  Her grin turned sly.

  – Got to see the competition, don’t I? I want to know how to do it better.

  Vilk exhaled, half-laughing.

  – Don’t expect anything pleasant.

  He led her through narrower streets.

  Cobble turned to packed mud.

  The buildings sagged under their own weight.

  The brothel stood like something forgotten—grimy windows, curtains stained to near-black.

  A warped door hung half open, coughing up air thick with sweat and cheap perfume.

  A few drunks lingered outside, laughing at nothing.

  A woman by the door—painted lips, hollow eyes—stood in a dress meant for a younger version of herself. Her smile was more flinch than welcome.

  Sika stared.

  – This is the competition?

  Her voice was low, disgusted.

  – I thought towns were supposed to be more... refined.

  – Tarnów’s no Kraków, – Vilk replied. – And this place is barely holding.

  – We’ll do it better, – Sika said. Her voice sharpened. Became iron.

  – Much better. No one’s coming back here once they’ve seen ours.

  Vilk said nothing.

  But for the first time in a long while, he believed something could actually change.

  They turned away.

  Still, the woman in green haunted her thoughts.

  At a stall draped in dyed fabrics, Vilk paused.

  – You need something better than those rags, – he said, his tone halfway between gruffness and care.

  Sika frowned, but followed.

  The merchant, a plump matron with the voice of a festival bell, spread her wares.

  – Something sturdy, – Sika said. – I’ll be working in it.

  The woman offered her a heavy cloth in deep red, nearly burgundy.

  – Strong, washes well—and lovely on someone shaped like you, dear.

  Sika brushed her fingers across the fabric.

  Nodded once.

  – Good. We’ll take it.

  Vilk, meanwhile, picked up a lighter red cloth, embroidered in faint gold.

  – And this, – he said, offering it. – For when you’re not working. You’ll need something that shows who you are.

  She looked skeptical. Then softened.

  – All right. But only because it’s pretty.

  They paid. Loaded the cloth into saddlebags.

  As they rode from the city, Sika looked at him sideways.

  – I never thought I’d say this, Vilk… but I like your soft heart. Even when you try to hide it.

  He barked a laugh—short, real.

  – Don’t get carried away. It’s just cloth.

  – Not just cloth, – she murmured. Her eyes turned toward the horizon.

  Toward the manor rising again in the distance.

  – It’s more than that.

  The sun dipped lower.

  Copper light gilded the fields. Roofs glowed like burnished bronze.

  Sika rode contentedly, bundles by her side.

  The simple red dress.

  Leather aprons. Work shirts. Trousers.

  Nothing grand.

  But all hers.

  – Now I’m ready, – she said. – Maybe your world isn’t so strange after all.

  Vilk gave a small smile.

  – Don’t get used to it. Tarnów’s a village. Wait till you see Kraków.

  – One thing at a time, – she said, lifting her face to the light.

  – First we stand. Then we rise. Then... we take the world.

  Vilk chuckled.

  And for once—didn’t argue.

  The ride back was slow.

  Fields glowed. The air smelled of grass and ash and coming rain.

  As they rode into the courtyard, something stirred inside him—quiet. Unfamiliar.

  Not dread.

  Not rage.

  Something smaller.

  Stronger.

  A dangerous thing.

  Belonging.

  – We’re home, – he said under his breath.

  Sika heard.

  Smiled softly.

  – Yes.

  We’re home.

  **

  The following days passed in calm.

  Wounds—of flesh and soul—began to heal, slowly, without ceremony.

  The manor became a place of quiet rhythm: warm meals, deep sleep, the scent of fresh linen, the creak of floorboards at dusk.

  Even laughter returned now and then—brief, unexpected.

  Not joy, perhaps, but something close enough to pass for it.

  Vilk and Sika let themselves breathe.

  Let the tension bleed out of their bones.

  And then—

  The stillness broke.

  Hoofbeats.

  Distant at first, then louder.

  Measured. Heavy. Certain.

  Jan returned as the sun sank toward the horizon, the sky painted in strokes of amber and bruised rose.

  He rode alone. Dust clung to him like ash. And though the road had clearly worn him down, there was something upright—almost defiant—in the way he dismounted and straightened his coat.

  Sika glanced over once, then returned to helping a maid carry buckets to the kitchens.

  Vilk stepped forward, slow and wordless.

  Jan shook the dust from his collar.

  – How was the road? – Vilk asked.

  – Long. And unkind. – Jan’s voice carried weariness, but also a strange calm.

  – But the matter in Kraków is settled. Quietly. No names spoken. No inquiries made.

  He allowed a small smile.

  – Perhaps it’s for the best.

  Vilk gave a slow nod.

  – You look lighter. Like a man who left something behind.

  – Perhaps I did, – Jan murmured. – Come. Let’s eat. Food first. Answers after.

  They gathered in the great hall.

  The long oak table stretched from one wall to the next, scarred and stained, older than any of them. Candles flickered alongside oil lamps, throwing restless shadows across stone.

  Outside, the wind passed through the gardens like a whisper trying not to be heard.

  Jan looked up from his plate, eyes tired but warm.

  – My friends, – he said slowly, his tone steady. – I owe you my life. What happened in that tavern... I will not forget. Repaying such a debt is no easy task. But I intend to try.

  Vilk stared into the flame of a candle.

  – We’re not here for repayment. I did what had to be done.

  Sika’s mouth curved slightly.

  – Still. Your help would mean something. We’ve been thinking about staying. Opening a place. A tavern... or something with teeth.

  Jan paused, spoon halfway to his lips. He studied them both.

  – A tavern, hm. Tarnów has its share. But there’s always room for courage.

  He leaned back, pipe between fingers, thinking.

  – Though the city council’s been restless. They want to regulate pleasure houses. Say they’re too close to the market. Tarnów’s not Kraków. They still pretend respectability matters.

  Sika shrugged.

  – All we need is a roof and a crowd. Let them gossip. A zamtuz suits us just fine.

  Jan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  – There is an old manor. Outside Tarnów. Abandoned. Half-rotten. Said to be cursed. The council would pay to be rid of it. Remote, but close enough to draw traffic. Locals whisper of ghosts. Blood on the stones. A tragedy, they say.

  – Then maybe it’s meant for us, – Vilk murmured.

  – Perhaps, – Jan said. Then he gave Vilk a longer look.

  – You spoke of other paths. You still mean to offer yourself for the post?

  Vilk nodded.

  – Executioner. If there’s no better way to serve.

  Jan’s gaze grew heavy.

  – Tarnów’s had no hangman. They bring one from Biecz—it costs. But know this: the post brands a man. Forever.

  Vilk’s jaw tightened.

  – I’ve already been branded. If this gives me purpose, I’ll take it.

  The fire snapped quietly between them. Sika and Vilk exchanged a look—brief, but solid.

  – It’s a hard road, – Jan said softly. – I hoped for better.

  You, Vilk… you carry yourself like a man of blood. And you, Sika… you could run a gentler trade.

  Sika chuckled, low and dry.

  – That world never wanted us. My companion chose his path long ago.

  The dark follows him.

  And we’ve stopped running.

  Jan exhaled slowly. Filled his cup again.

  – The city needs a steady hand. There’s law, but no one left to carry it out. Still...

  do you know what that life will cost you?

  Vilk didn’t flinch.

  – I’ve lived in shadow for years. I kill. I’ve killed.

  If this makes it mean something—no, I’m not sorry.

  Jan looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

  – Grim. But necessary. I’ll speak to the council.

  He paused. His fingers drummed once on the table.

  – You could still choose another way, you know.

  – I’m done choosing, – Vilk said. – A roof. A meal. Enough.

  Jan leaned back. The fire caught his face in gold and smoke.

  – Then I’ll go to Tarnów at first light. I’ll speak for you.

  Tell them you’re willing. And that the lady requires a property. If they’re smart, they’ll listen.

  And if they pry... I’ll remind them who owes what.

  Vilk pushed his cup aside.

  – This isn’t about debt. Just survival.

  – You’re not running from anyone, are you?

  – Only from ourselves, – Vilk said quietly.

  A silence settled over them.

  Not heavy—just deep.

  They ate the rest of the meal in that hush. The fire, the wind, the shifting of old wood above.

  Jan rose after a time, straightening his coat.

  – Rest tonight. Both of you. Tomorrow, I’ll show you the manor. You’ll want to see it before you decide.

  And I’ll spend the night finding the right words for those council bastards.

  His voice dropped.

  – It’s no easy thing, speaking for those who walk in shadow. But I’ll try.

  He bowed his head once, then turned and left, his coat brushing the stone as the dark took him.

  Vilk and Sika sat a while longer.

  The candles burned low. The lamp flickered and hissed.

  Only the sound of wind and the deep ache of stillness remained.

  – He means well, – Sika murmured, her finger circling the rim of her cup. – But he doesn’t understand. There’s no going back for us.

  This isn’t darkness.

  It’s our shadow.

  And we know how to live in it.

  Vilk glanced her way. The candlelight caught in his eyes—faint, flat.

  – Maybe.

  But I still look for light.

  Not to be forgiven. Just... to make it count.

  Blood’s going to flow either way. I’d rather it belong to those who’ve earned it.

  Sika moved slightly. Her bare foot found the stone floor.

  Her posture changed—not soft, but sure.

  – That’s why this fits.

  We’re not lying to ourselves anymore.

  Her gaze met his—clear, strong, without apology.

  – I don’t want to run.

  I want to live by my rules.

  And if I’m being honest... I like it.

  Maybe more than I should.

  Vilk looked at her for a long time.

  Then nodded.

  – That’s why you’re still here. You don’t flinch.

  – Why flinch? – she said, smiling with something sharp beneath it.

  – It’s our game.

  Our rules.

  He didn’t argue.

  When darkness becomes part of you, there’s no use chasing light.

  You just learn how to see inside it.

  – Maybe you’re right, – Vilk said at last, his mouth tugging into a crooked smile.

  – Who’d ever understand us better than we do?

  A creak from the beams above. A whisper from the corridor.

  The night listened. But it did not intrude.

  – Let’s get some sleep, – Sika said, rising. She ran her fingers through her hair. – Tomorrow’s another mess waiting to happen. Maybe it’ll fall into place. Or apart.

  – Or apart, – Vilk echoed.

  They rose.

  A servant stepped from the shadows to light their way. The house dimmed behind them.

  In the pale wash of moonlight, they shared a glance.

  No promise.

  No vow.

  Only understanding.

  Then they parted—each disappearing into their room.

  Leaving the hall, the candle, and the night to whatever fragile peace remained.

  ***

  Morning came softly, veiled in mist.

  The manor sat quiet beneath a pale sky. Sunlight crept across the windows, casting slow-moving shadows on the floors and walls.

  Somewhere inside, life stirred: the scrape of broom bristles on wood, the clatter of bowls, the rhythmic thump of a cleaver striking fresh meat.

  The world was waking.

  Sika rose slowly, stretching beneath the linen like a cat in a sunbeam.

  She felt lighter than she had in weeks—still bruised, still wary, but breathing deeper.

  No fear clutched her chest. No tension snapped across her shoulders. Not for now.

  Vilk had been awake since before dawn.

  He always was.

  When she stepped into the courtyard, hair still damp from a quick wash, he was already waiting there—quiet, still, present.

  So was Jan.

  – Good morning, my friends, – Jan greeted, voice calm, manner easy. – I’ve business in Tarnów today. The council, the matter of the estate… and your position, Vilk.

  – It won’t take long. A few hours. You’re welcome to enjoy the house in my absence.

  – We won’t be in your way, – Vilk replied simply.

  – I’m glad to hear it. – Jan smiled faintly, adjusting his gloves. – I’ll return before noon. Then, if strength allows, we’ll go see that manor I mentioned.

  They exchanged farewells, quiet and brief.

  Jan rode off at a measured pace, his horse disappearing into the mist like something out of a dream.

  Sika lingered in the courtyard.

  The morning held a strange peace—cool air, soft light, the scent of wet stone and early blooms.

  Vilk found his bench beneath the great oak.

  There he sat, a fresh piece of wood in one hand, his carving knife in the other.

  He worked slowly, steadily. Not for speed or beauty. Just for rhythm.

  The act grounded him.

  Each stroke a breath.

  Each shaving a memory falling away.

  The branches stirred above him. The wind played through the leaves, knocking down droplets that landed cold on his skin.

  Then—

  A voice broke the silence.

  He turned.

  The boy was standing there again.

  Small. Still. Watching.

  The same one from days before.

  Same pale eyes. Same solemn mouth. Same singlestick

  in hand.

  – Sir, – the boy said evenly. – Would you care for another bout?

  Vilk looked at him a long moment.

  He set aside his carving and stood.

  – Since you insist... – he murmured, accepting the wooden weapon the boy offered.

  It fit in his grip without effort.

  Like it belonged there.

  He adjusted his stance, flexing his shoulders, testing balance.

  – What’s your name, boy?

  – Jaros?aw, – came the soft reply.

  They began.

  At first, it was a slow rhythm.

  Testing. Feeling.

  But Vilk soon realized—this wasn’t a game.

  The boy moved like water.

  Precise. Intentional. Unhurried, but sure.

  He struck with knowledge, not force.

  And Vilk had to focus.

  – Tell me, Jaros?aw... – he asked between parries – how do you know my name?

  The boy didn’t answer at once.

  Then, calm as before:

  – Lady Marza told me. She whispers things sometimes.

  The name stirred something behind Vilk’s ribs.

  He blocked the next strike, narrowed his eyes.

  – And what else does she whisper?

  Jaros?aw smiled, faintly. Almost teasing.

  – That one should always be careful with strawberries.

  Vilk blinked.

  – Strawberries?

  – Mm. – The boy moved again, quick and low. – They’re not ripe yet. Pull them too early, and they’ll only be sour.

  He pivoted and swung. Vilk had to step aside.

  The boy’s tone was playful—but underneath it, something hummed. Something old.

  Vilk pressed forward.

  The boy answered with a move he hadn’t expected—a devil’s quarte, elegant and rare.

  Vilk caught it just in time. His breath sharpened.

  The boy lowered his weapon.

  His expression shifted.

  Older. Still.

  – Thank you, Master Vilk, – he said quietly.

  – But remember… in the end, the light always comes.

  Vilk stopped moving.

  The words hit him differently. Not a lesson. Not a game.

  A thread pulled taut in his chest.

  – What did you say your name was?

  The boy turned away.

  – Jaros?aw, – he said again. Then vanished behind the hedges like a shadow returning to silence.

  Vilk stood in the damp grass, singlestick still in hand.

  Above, the oak branches whispered in the wind.

  Somewhere distant, a crow called.

  The air felt thicker somehow. The moment had shifted the light.

  He looked down.

  The carving he’d left behind still sat on the bench.

  A hawk, not yet finished. The wings were missing.

  He picked up the knife again. Tried to focus.

  But the words wouldn’t leave him:

  In the end… the light always comes.

  Was it a child’s dream?

  A warning?

  Or a truth that lived deeper than reason?

  The rest of the day unfolded quietly.

  Sika read beneath the eaves, lounging in a patch of sun.

  Vilk kept to himself.

  The memory of the boy lingered like a taste you can’t name.

  Then—

  Hoofbeats.

  Steady. Familiar.

  Jan returned.

  – How have you fared? – he called as he dismounted.

  – Well enough, – Vilk answered. – Your hospitality serves us better than we deserve.

  They ate outdoors—a simple meal of bread, cheese, roasted roots.

  The sun hung low.

  Vilk turned to Jan after a while.

  – That boy. Jaros?aw. Who is he?

  Jan paused.

  – Ah. That one.

  He looked over his shoulder, toward the garden paths.

  – Strange child. Stared at the sun too long once. Lost his sight. Blind now, mostly. But he sees more than most. I took him in. His mother worked here, years ago. He’s... special.

  – Special how?

  Jan chuckled softly.

  – People say he sees the world as it truly is. That when he closes his eyes, he dreams in prophecy. That the crown of the sun burns behind his lids.

  He waved a hand.

  – Folktalk. But the truth? The boy understands things no child should.

  And eyes aren’t always what you need to see.

  Vilk said nothing.

  He looked out across the hills, where the sun bled gold into the sky.

  And somewhere in the back of his mind, like a thread pulled taut—

  In the end… the light always comes.

  He didn’t know if it was a promise.

  Or a warning.

  But it stayed.

  Like fire that refused to die.

  ****

  The wind shifted as they rode away.

  Behind them, the manor stood still—its tall windows catching the last light, turning the ruin into something almost holy.

  Not redeemed, not cleansed—only seen. A thing no longer hidden.

  Vilk glanced back once. The colors from the stained glass still shimmered faintly, even from the road.

  Sika didn’t look back. She rode forward with the quiet conviction of someone who had already begun building something inside her mind.

  They returned to Jan’s estate as dusk thickened around them.

  The servants had prepared a modest supper.

  No one spoke much. No one needed to.

  Later that night, Vilk sat alone beneath the oak.

  The stars flickered behind a veil of drifting clouds.

  In his hand, the carving was finally taking form—a hawk now, wings unfurled, head turned sharply east.

  He did not finish it.

  Instead, he stared toward the forest.

  There was something there.

  A hush, heavier than before.

  Not a threat. Not a warning.

  Just… waiting.

  He didn’t move until Sika stepped into the moonlight beside him, wrapped in a worn shawl.

  — You think it’ll hold? — she asked, her voice barely above the rustle of leaves.

  Vilk didn’t answer right away.

  — It doesn’t need to, — he said finally. — We’ll make it.

  Sika nodded, then sank to sit beside him.

  They said nothing for a long while.

  Then:

  — I felt something in there, — she murmured. — In the manor. Like... like it was watching us. Judging.

  She hesitated.

  — And then it stopped. Like it decided to let us in.

  — Not let, — Vilk said. — Just... didn’t resist.

  Sika tilted her head, studying him in the dark.

  — You’re not afraid?

  Vilk shook his head once.

  — I’ve walked through worse things than stone and memory. If ghosts still haunt that place, they’ll learn to live with us. Or move aside.

  She gave a small smile.

  — Or join us.

  A silence settled again, deeper than before.

  Sika leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. Her warmth bled through the shawl.

  — I’ll make the taproom glow, — she said, eyes distant. — Candles, lanterns, lace curtains, a proper hearth. No more cold girls in green dresses waiting in alleyways.

  She breathed out.

  — There’ll be music. Laughter, if we’re lucky.

  — And blood, — Vilk added softly.

  — Maybe. But not for nothing. Never again for nothing.

  The stars glinted through breaks in the clouds, silver needles in black velvet.

  The wind sighed in the branches above them, as though the oak itself was listening.

  Sika’s voice came again, softer now.

  — You think it matters? That we try?

  Vilk looked up at the night sky.

  — No one else will. So yes... it matters.

  A beat passed. Then two.

  — Then I’ll try with you, — she whispered.

  Vilk didn’t move. But a breath left him that had been trapped for years.

  He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say anything at all.

  He just sat there beside her, with the carving in his hand, the stars overhead, and the feeling that—for once—the shadows around them might finally be still.

  Even just for a little while.