The first rays of dawn filter through the window, bathing the room in golden light. Oleksandr stirs, waking with a start, his muscles tense for a brief moment before he realizes where he is. He sinks back into the softness beneath him, a feeling so alien after a year of harsh ground and cold nights. This bed, her bed—it is as much a sanctuary as she is. He lets out a slow breath, a quiet relief washing over him.

  Turning his head, he sees her near the window, draped in her house gown, the light catching her hair and haloing her in warmth. She's busying herself with little Thekkur, who gurgles happily in her arms, his tiny hands grasping at her gown with uncoordinated determination.

  The sound of the baby’s babbling brings a smile to Oleksandr’s face. For a moment, he simply watches, his heart swelling. The sight of her, the love of his life, and their son together is more beautiful than anything he has ever seen on any distant horizon. He stretches, the warnth of the bed still lingering on his skin as he slowly rises, rubbing the lingering remnants of sleep from his eyes. The sight of his family fills him with a deep peace, but duty calls, as it always does. He gets dressed and turns to Savka, still fussing over Thekkur, and speaks gently.

  "I should go find Ivan and Samorix," he says. "They must be waiting for me. I’d like you to meet them, my companions."

  Savka smiles warmly, a mix of pride and curiosity in her eyes. "I’d like that. I'll be right down..."

  He kisses her forehead and leaves the room, making his way through the castle to the courtyard. As he steps outside, the cool morning air hits his face, reminding him that he is home, no longer on that long, treacherous journey. His eyes sweep across the courtyard, and there they are—his companions, talking with a few of the castle guards.

  Samorix’s hearty laughter echoes through the stone walls, a booming sound that is unmistakable even from a distance. The Scottish man’s bearded face splits into a grin as he notices Oleksandr approaching, a flagon of ale in his hand. Ivan stands a little to the side, quieter, his sharp eyes scanning the courtyard while puffing his pipe.

  When Oleksandr reaches them, Samorix slaps him on the back with a friendly roar. "By God, lad, there ye are! We thought you’d gone and disappeared into the arms of some ghostly maiden!”

  Oleksandr chuckles, shaking his head. "No banshees here, Samorix. But I’m here... with more than I left with."

  Ivan’s eyes soften as he gives a respectful nod. "It’s good to see you, Oleksandr."

  "I’ve got a lot to catch you up on," Oleksandr says, his voice quieter now, his mind shifting to the news he is about to share. "There’s someone I want you to meet."

  As Oleksandr motions toward the castle door, Vidosavka appears in the threshold, holding Thekkur in her arms. The sight of her is enough to take even the seasoned warriors by surprise. Samorix’s eyes widen, his jaw dropping slightly as he lets out a hearty laugh.

  "By Thor’s bloody beard!" He bellows, shaking his head. "A bairn?! Lad, ye've been busy!"

  Ivan, his usual quiet demeanor cracking just a little, mutters a low "Blyat!" under his breath, his eyes shifting between Oleksandr, Savka, and the tiny bundle in her arms. He steps forward, raising an eyebrow. "You’ve certainly kept some secrets, Oleksandr."

  "Aye, it’s been a surprise to me as well," Oleksandr admits, looking fondly at Savka and Thekkur. "I never expected this, but... it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me."

  He turns back toward his companions with a grin, motioning to Samorix and Ivan. “Vidosavka, let me introduce you to my old captain, Samorix of the Highlands," Oleksandr says, his voice full of warmth. "And this here is Ivan of the Cossack clans, our brother-in-arms."

  Samorix gives a hearty bow, his booming voice echoing across the courtyard. "A pleasure, lass! I’ve heard plenty about ye, though I must admit, ye’ve done far better than I expected, lad," he says with a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

  Ivan gives a respectful nod, his hand on his chest, his gaze softening as he looks at Savka. "It’s an honor, my lady," he says quietly, his tone both warm and sincere. "Oleksandr speaks highly of you."

  Savka offers a gentle, polite smile, holding Thekkur closer to her chest as she curtsies gracefully. "The honor is mine," she replies, her voice soft and sincere. "I’m glad to finally meet the men who’ve been by his side."

  Samorix steps closer, his keen eye flicking over the baby warmly. “And who’s this little pup, then?”

  “This is our son,” Oleksandr responds softly. “His name is Thekkur.” Samorix’s eye softens as he hears the name, and he gave a slow, understanding nod, reaching over to brush the baby's tiny hand. "Thekkur," he murmurs, his deep voice tinged with respect. "A fine name, lad. A great one.”

  Oleksandr steps into the king’s drawing room, the clinking sound of his belt and excessive jewelry recognizable to all who knew him. He bows deeply, his expression composed yet unreadable. The king, seated behind a heavy oaken table, regards him with a measured gaze before silently reaching for a carafe of wine. The soft clink of metal against glass fills the quiet chamber as he pours two cups, setting one before the returning warrior.

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  “Come, sit,” the king commands, his tone even, though the weight behind it is unmistakable. Oleksandr obeys, striding forward with the sure-footed confidence of a man who has faced death and returned. He lowers himself into the chair, gripping the cup in his calloused hands, the tension in his muscles evident beneath his cloak. Meeting the king’s eyes, he speaks without hesitation.

  “The mission was successful. Oddvarr is dead—slain by my hand.” His voice is steady, carrying the gravity of a task completed, yet something darker lingers beneath the words. “It was a long road. We tracked him through the slave markets of Estonia, into the heart of his stronghold in Norway. He was cunning—too cunning for his own good. But in the end, after his long years undefeated, I came out victorious.”

  Oleksandr rises to his feet, his movements deliberate. He unfastens his scabbard from his belt, carefully revealing the sword Oddvarr had bestowed upon him. The steel gleams under the flickering candlelight, its craftsmanship remarkable, yet unmistakable.

  “This... is the man’s heirloom blade,” he says, his voice measured as he unsheathes it. The weapon sings softly as it leaves its sheath, a relic of a bloodstained legacy. “I took it as proof.”

  The king’s eyes narrow, a flicker of surprise and recognition flashing across his face before he masks it. He leans forward, extending a hand and grasping the hilt with careful reverence. Turning the blade, he examines its edge, his fingers tracing the steel with a thoughtful touch.

  “A fine weapon,” he remarks, his voice neutral, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

  “Aye,” Oleksandr murmurs, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity.

  The king sets the sword down upon the table, but his gaze remains fixed on it for a lingering moment before shifting back to Oleksandr. There is something colder in his eyes now, something calculating. “So,” he says at last, his voice quiet yet firm, “you have accomplished what was asked of you. The wolf is dead, and you have brought me the proof.” Lifting his wine cup, the king swirls the dark liquid inside, his expression unreadable. He takes a slow sip, watching Oleksandr the entire time. “And yet, a wolf still wears your skin.” The king inhales through his nose, then exhales sharply. “You defied me, Oleksandr.”

  Oleksandr stands his ground, his stance confident yet respectful. “Aye.”

  “When I sent you away, my daughter wept for you. But more than that, she carried your child. Do you know what it is like, to learn that your only daughter, the light of your life, has been... bedded and left with child?” The king’s fingers tighten on the armrest of his chair. “You put her in danger. If you had died, she would have been left with nothing but scandal and a fatherless child. Do you understand that?”

  The words strike like a hammer. Oleksandr’s jaw tightens with the faintest flicker of shame behind his eyes. He bears the blow like a warrior—without retreat, but not without pain. “I had no choice in leaving,” he says. “You sent me on that mission yourself.”

  The king’s eyes darken. “Do not turn my own words on me, boy. You made your choice before I ever sent you away. You have damaged her, Oleksandr, and in doing so, you have caused me great disappointment.”

  “I did not intend to bring shame upon her,” Oleksandr says, his voice low but firm. “I never meant for any of this. But you sent me away on a mission, and in the course of it, life... happens.” The king’s goblet slams down upon the table with a sudden crack, wine sloshing over the rim. He pushes himself up, hands braced on the edge of the table as he leans forward like a storm breaking. His voice is no longer restrained.

  “You think this is just life happening? You rut with my daughter like a dog in heat, and now you stand there speaking of duty and fate? You shamed her! You defiled her, you damned dirty savage! I trusted you to guard her, not to crawl into her bed like some mongrel!” He jabs a finger toward Oleksandr, trembling with fury. “You think honor will wipe away what you’ve done? You are a beast, Oleksandr, no better than the wolves you slay. If you were not the father of her child—if you had not returned with Oddvarr’s head—you would be in chains.” There's a long pause as the men stare at eachother, the king seething in fury, but with a grief that simmers beneath the surface. He leans forward, his voice dangerously soft.

  “Life happens,” he repeats bitterly. “But there is no turning back now, is there? What is done is done, and my daughter is with child. Your child. And so, you will be bound to her, and bound to me. But mark this, Oleksandr—you do not get to waltz back into my kingdom as if nothing has changed. You have earned my respect, yes, but you have also earned my ire.”

  Oleksandr feels the sting of those words, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. Still, he stands resolute. “I will make things right, Your Majesty,” he says, meeting the king’s gaze with sincerity. “I will raise the child, protect him, and serve you as I swore. I will prove myself worthy of your trust again, in time.”

  The king studies him for a long, tense moment. Finally, he leans back in his throne, exhaling a deep breath.

  “You are fortunate, Oleksandr,” the king says quietly, his tone hard. “That you are still standing here, and that you return as a man capable of such feats. You are a soldier of honor. But my daughter... she is more than just a child to me. She is my heart, and you will never understand the pain it caused me to learn of what you had done.”

  Oleksandr nods, choosing his words carefully. “She informed me you had concealed the matter.”

  The king’s eyes narrow, his lips pressing into a thin line as he studies Oleksandr. His voice is low, tinged with bitterness.

  “She told you, did she?” The king pauses, his gaze hardening. “Yes, I covered it up. What was I supposed to do? Announce to the court that my daughter, the jewel of my house, had been dishonored by her guard dog? A bastard child, the heir to the throne? The scandal would have torn this kingdom apart. I did what was necessary to protect her and the line. Not to excuse your behavior.”

  Oleksandr stands still, his chest tight with the weight of the king’s words, but he keeps his gaze steady. “I understand,” he says quietly. “But I never intended for any of it to unfold that way. My duty was to protect her, and I failed in that, Your Majesty.”

  The king’s expression softens, if only slightly, though the anger still simmers beneath the surface.

  “You have your chance to make amends now,” the king replies. “But know this, Oleksandr: actions have consequences. You may have returned with proof of your success, but this matter... it is far from settled. You will prove your loyalty to me and to my daughter, and most importantly, to this kingdom. I will not have you take her as some plaything, only to discard her when it suits you.”

  Oleksandr’s gaze remains firm, though his voice carries a hint of resolve as he speaks. “I never intended to dishonor her or the kingdom, my king. I love her. I will prove myself, not with words, but with my actions. I’ll raise the boy right, for my own duty towards my family. I owe you that much... and more.”

  The king sits back, his expression softening, though the weight of their conversation still hangs heavily in the air. He gives a resigned sigh, as though conceding to the inevitability of what has transpired.

  “I will make arrangements for the wedding,” he says, his tone heavy. “The union is now set. You will be bound to her—just as you are bound to your duty to this kingdom.”

  Oleksandr nods, acknowledging the king’s decision. He bows low in respect, his hands still clenched around the hilt of the sword that had been Oddvarr’s. As he turns to leave, he hears the king’s voice again, a touch softer now.

  “Before you go… I’ve seen many things in my years, fought many battles, but I have to admit… nothing has touched my heart like that little one of yours. Thekkur is a lovely child. He’s a boy to be proud of, and I can see it in your eyes… you’ll raise him well.”

  Oleksandr turns back toward the king, something deep within him stirring at the unexpected words. His face softens, a rare emotion flickering in his eyes. “I’ll make sure of it, my king.” He gives a final bow, more respectful than ever before, before leaving the room, his heart a little lighter, his mind clearer.